(I’m at home with my young son, who has just woken up from his nap and is happily playing with his toys. My phone rings.)

Me: “Hello?”

Telemarketer: “Hello, may I speak to [Son]?”

Me: *thinking she meant “about”* “Um, this is his father. What’s this in regards to?”

Telemarketer: “I need to speak to [Son], please. It’s quite important; is he there?”

Me: “Yes. But he’s also 14 months old. I seriously doubt you want to speak with him, at least until he’s capable of… you know… speaking.”

(I hang up, thinking that’s the end of it. However, shortly afterwards, my phone rings again.)

Me: “Hello?”

Telemarketer: “Hello. I don’t think you realise how important this call is to [Son]. It’s vital that I speak with him on this matter.”

Me: *figuring I can get rid of her quicker if I take the bait* “Okay. About what, exactly?”

Telemarketer: “That’s private, I’m afraid, sir. I need to discuss this with [Son] personally. Data protection, I’m sure you understand.”

Me: “Listen. My son is 14 months — as in one year and two months — old. I don’t know what you want, but I guarantee he won’t be interested. So, I’m going to go ahead and decline your generous offer on his behalf.” *hangs up*

(Ring, ring.)

Me: “All right, what?”

Telemarketer: “You know, if I were the police I could have you arrested.”

Me: “WHAT?!”

Telemarketer: *condescendingly* “If my call was a police matter, you could be arrested for obstruction of justice.”

Me: “Are you the police?”

Telemarketer: “I could be! As I said, this is a private matter between [Son] and me. I can’t discuss it with you.”

Me: “And as I said… You know what? I’ll pass you over to him.”

Telemarketer: *smugly* “A wise decision, sir.”

(I put the speaker on and pass the phone to my son, who holds it, staring in wonder.)

Son: “Ah?”

Telemarketer: “Good afternoon, Mr. [Son]. My name is [Telemarketer]. I’m calling on behalf of [Not the Police], and we have wonderful news! You have been selected to receive our exclusive offers that you won’t find…”

(My son giggles and babbles to himself as he turns my phone this way and that.)

Telemarketer: “I’m sorry, Mr. [Son]. I didn’t quite catch that; could you say that again?”

(My son then put the phone right up to his mouth and yelled, “AAAAAAAAHHHH!” down the line, louder than I’d ever heard him. I could make out the unmistakable sound of an earpiece being thrown onto a desk, followed by the muffled voice of the telemarketer shouting, “Good f***ing God!” before the call got dropped. My son guffawed and then went back to playing with his toys. We didn’t get any more calls from them again.)

(I am working in a popular supermarket’s call center’s canteen as a general assistant. One weekend, our general manager is working as the chef in the kitchen, and another general assistant is working, as well. I am busy deep-cleaning the vending machine in our canteen when I see a potential customer approach.)

Customer: “Will I be able to get myself a coffee?”

Me: “No, sorry. The machine is in the middle of a clean cycle.”

Customer: “Are you sure there is no way to for me to get one?”

Me: “Sure, in ten minutes.”

Customer: “Well, why does it need cleaning?”

(By this point, I’m through not treating her like she is stupid.)

Me: “Because this is full of harmful cleaning chemicals, and we wouldn’t want anyone with bits in their coffee.”

Customer: “Okay.”

(Then, she proceeds to walk towards the canteen and ducks under the shutter — which is half-closed, as we are not open yet — whilst the other general assistant is setting up down the bottom. I finish cleaning up and go down to the general manager.)

Me: “Seriously, she just tried to get a coffee when I was busy cleaning the machine. How stupid can people be?”

Manager: “I know, right?” *laughs*

(The weekend manager was really chill and would only laugh at stupid customers, like when another one burnt herself on her cup of soup after she filled it to the top in her greed, and spilled it.)

(I’m watching a children’s animated film with my mum. There is a bit where our heroes are trying to get back to their kingdom and the boy resorts to pretend-crying at the wizard so he will help them.)

Boy Character: *unintelligible crying*

Mum: “What did he say?”

Me: “‘Wahwuhsob.'”

Mum: “Ah, I thought so.”

My aunt has six children, two of which were twins. Sadly, one of the twins died as a baby due to cot death. This year is the remaining twin’s 30th birthday. She planned a big party for herself and invited her mum — my aunt — along.

Her mum told her she couldn’t make it because she was throwing a party for [Dead Twin]’s birthday.

Sadly, this isn’t the first time something like this has happened. I understand that you want to remember the child that you lost, but at the cost of ignoring the twin that lived?

(I’m 17 and I’ve just moved in with my grandparents so I can attend the college of my choice with a lot shorter commute than if I stayed living in London, where I was born. It’s 7:15 am, and I’m in the local supermarket to buy lunch for the day. I’m wearing black jeans and a purple polo neck shirt with my college name and course embroidered on it. I’m also wearing a black hoodie decorated with the logo of a Morris group I side with, I have a bright yellow cartoon bag on my shoulder, and I’m using my phone as I walk along the aisle. The shop employees wear smart trousers, and a blue shirt in a different material and style. I also grew up in South London, so I learned pretty quickly as a kid that I needed to be verbally aggressive to make up for my small size of 5’2″.)

Random Lady: *taps me on the shoulder* “Excuse me! Excuse me, boy!”

Me: “Hey, what are you doing? Get off me!”

Random Lady: “Don’t be so rude! Get off your phone and help me find the fresh vegetables.”

Me: “They’re right at the front of the shop; you had to walk past them to come here and attack me. Now, p*** off.”

Random Lady: “EXCUSE ME?! Where’s your manager? You’re so rude! How dare you be so rude?!”

Me: *turning properly so she can see my shirt* “What colour is my shirt?”

Random Lady: *stutters and blinks* “Uh, purple. Why? What’s that got to do with anything?”

Me: “Can you read, or are you illiterate as well as rude? What does my shirt say?”

Random Lady: “I— What? It says [College, Course].”

Me: “I don’t know what the f*** you think you’re doing, but I clearly don’t work here. I’ve been up all night working on coursework so I’ve had three hours sleep. I recently moved house, I’m trying to make new friends as all mine live two hours away, and it’s seven fifteen in the f****** morning. Don’t touch me again, and don’t ever treat an actual employee as rudely as you just treated me. Got it?”

Random Lady: *stares at me with her mouth open, looking like an oversized salmon, then nods*

Me: “Good. Now, f*** off.” *I go and pay for my food and massive energy drink*

(After paying, I headed to the bus station to wait for my bus, and as I got on, who should I see walking past but our dear [Random Lady]? She caught sight of me as I was standing in the door paying for my ticket, then scurried away, avoiding looking in my direction.)