(I am a 19-year-old female living with my girlfriend. My girlfriend has anxiety and can’t stand it when a man comes near her. Recently, my girlfriend got sick and was hospitalized. To celebrate her recovery and her arrival home, we order pizza. When the pizza arrives, I am on the phone with my dad asking him to bring something for tomorrow.)

Me: “Babe, can you get the door? I’m on the phone.”

(As she goes to the door, she sees it’s a guy. She whimpers and runs back into the kitchen where I’m standing.)

Girlfriend: “[My Name], it’s a man. I can’t do this.”

Me: “It’s okay, babe. I got it.”

(I hang up and go to answer the door. The delivery guy is short, baby-faced, and looks like he’s just started his first year of university. As soon as he sets his gaze on me, I see the wheels in his head start turning.)

Delivery Guy: “Took you long enough!”

Me: “I’m very sorry. I was on the phone.”

Delivery Guy: “I guess I could let it slide if I could… sit in and eat this with you? You’re my last delivery for the night.”

(He smirks and I roll my eyes.)

Me: “No, thank you. I’m good. How much will it be, then?

Delivery Guy: *holding my pizza away from me* “Aw, come on! You are smoking! It’s free if I can get your number and a kiss.” *winks*

(I am so over this guy. I start digging through my wallet and pull out enough to cover it.)

Me: “I’m really not interested.”

Delivery Guy: “Aww. Well, then, maybe just your number? Come on, sweetie. I can show you a good time!”

(He hands me my pizza. I roll my eyes.)

Me: “Look, I’m just trying to have a nice night in with my girlfriend. Here’s your money.”

(His eyes are as big as saucers as he realizes his mistake.)

Delivery Guy: “Eww! I just hit on a [slur]!”

(He then took off running down the hall… without his money. Hey, horny delivery boy, thanks for the free pizza!)

(I’m filling up at a motorway petrol station. As I enter the kiosk, I recognise an actor who plays a rather notorious character on a popular soap opera making his way to the register.)

Actor: *to cashier* “Pump four, please, mate. And could I also get—”

Customer: “YOU!”

(A belligerent-looking customer storms up to the actor, inches away from his face.)

Customer: “How dare you! I know what you did to [Female Soap Character]! I’m calling the police!” *to cashier* “Detain this man! He’s a known thug and a thief, and—”

Actor: *adapting a more exaggerated London accent* “‘Ang about; did you say [Female Soap Character]?”

Customer: “Well, yes! Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about!”

Actor: “Nah, nah! You must be confusing me with my cousin is all.”

Customer: “Your cousin?”

Actor: “Yeah, [Notorious Soap Character]. You can tell us apart because ‘is skin looks ‘ealthier, and ‘e keeps ‘iself groomed a lot better.”

Customer: *squints* “My God, you’re right! You look nothing like him! I’m terribly sorry. Look, I don’t mean to pry, but you should stay away from your cousin; he’s a very bad man!”

(The customer turns to leave the station. When she disappears the actor shakes his head and turns to the cashier.)

Actor: “Twenty years of doing this, you learn how to deal with people like them.”

(I work in a gift shop. The shop is closed for the Christmas holidays and we are using the absence of customers to do a serious stock take. We sell a lot of small items such as marbles and pencils, and as such we have to count hundreds of them and it’s all done by hand. It takes a lot of concentration and it’s extremely easy to lose count and have to start all over again. To make things more difficult, the only way for the admin workers to access their office area is to walk through our gift shop where we are counting. Our manager makes a request at the staff meeting that the office workers stay quiet as they walk through and not to disturb us while we are counting. It doesn’t work.)

Office Worker #1: “Oooh, is this the counting that I’m not meant to be disturbing?”

Office Worker #2: “Dear me, that looks boring.”

Office Worker #3: “What number are you up to now then?”

Office Worker #4: “How was your Christmas break?”

Office Worker #5: “Why are you ignoring me? I’m trying to talk to you. That’s a bit rude.”

Finance Staff: *standing in the middle of the shop having a loud conversation about money and numbers, distracting us from the numbers we were meant to be thinking about*

(I wish I could say this was a one-off, but this happened multiple times throughout the day, even after being reminded to stay quiet several more times by the shop managers. We all lost count every single time.)

(I am working in a large UK retail shop as a Christmas temp. I have been called in by the warehouse manager at 7 am to help take the delivery in. Half way through, the shop floor manager demands that I stop taking delivery and move to the tills instead, even though I still have delivery to put away and I am covered in dust from the stockroom.)

SF Manager: “How are you finding the tills?”

Me: “I’m enjoying it, but I am concerned that I left a job half-finished upstairs and that it might affect the flow of stock if it is left unfinished.”

SF Manager: “Don’t you think I know what I’m doing as a manager?”

Me: “I didn’t mean anything like that. I just want to be sure that I’m not messing up.”

SF Manager: “THAT is not your concern.”

(Ironically, he cited people not caring enough about their duties as a main reason for not keeping any temps on after New Year.)

(I need to get new spectacles, so I get assessed. During the sight test, the optometrist notices I have the start of macular degeneration in one eye, tells me it isn’t serious at the moment, but warns me to watch out for lines appearing wavy when they should be straight. She gives me a leaflet to put on my fridge door, so that I’ll look at it several times a day and be aware of the need to check. She also instructs me to come straight back for another test if anything changes. This all freaks me out a bit because I’ve never heard of macular degeneration, so I dutifully put the leaflet on my fridge door and inspect that thing every time I go in the fridge, for about a month. I start noticing the sight in my left eye is quite blurry. So, off I trot back to the optometrist. I explain everything to the receptionist, then the optometrist, a different one to my first visit. He sight-checks me then leaves the room for a few minutes. He comes back in and asks if I mind him checking again. I don’t mind, but by now I’m sweating and my imagination’s working overtime. He does the same tests and asks me to explain again what the problem is.)

Me: “Look. I cover up my right eye…” *demonstrates* “… and you’re blurry. I cover up my left eye instead…” *demonstrates* “… and you’re not blurry.”

Optometrist: “Well, Mrs [My Name], both sight tests we’ve conducted today show no changes to the other test we did recently.”

Me: “Seriously? But I’ve definitely got strange vision in my left eye? How is that, if the test results are the same? Look, doctor, if it’s psychosomatic, tell me. If you think I’m dreaming it up because I’m so worried about losing my sight and I need a psychiatrist, just tell me straight. I really can handle it.”

(By this time, I’m near tears. I don’t know whether I’m losing my sight or my marbles.)

Optometrist: “Show me again.”

(Demonstrates covering up the eyes, etc.)

Optometrist: “I… might be a bit off course here but… did we provide your glasses?”

Me: “Of course, yes.”

Optometrist: “It looks like the common denominator is your glasses. Let’s get them realigned and see.”

(Aaaand I felt a fool. Mind you, so should they, too. My ‘demonstrations’ of blurry vs normal sight were done wearing my specs. The sight tests had been done WITHOUT my specs. It turned out there was a minuscule adjustment needed for the left lens. He brought my specs back and the blurred vision was gone. At least I know I haven’t lost my marbles yet. Not about that, at least.)