(I am about seven years old, and it is Christmas Eve. My parents convince me to go to bed hours before, but out of excitement I’ve not gone to sleep yet. I hear my dad head into the attic.)

Me: “Daddy?”

Dad: *clearly surprised to hear me calling so late* “You should be asleep!”

Me: “I know, but, Daddy?”

Dad: “What?”

Me: “Are you getting your Santa uniform?”

(I still believed in Santa… because I was convinced my dad was Santa! A few years later, when my best friend told me the truth, I realised I hadn’t been too far off the mark!)

(One summer, I do an internship at a popular independent radio station. We have gotten an interview with the lead singer of a reasonably popular British rock band. However, the band’s manager is a bit of a pain to deal with, and has a tonne of demands in regards to content that he is always changing. The DJ tells me this is the norm in this business, but this guy is just obnoxious. Each time he calls, he acts like he is doing us the world’s biggest favour. Not long before the interview, he calls the umpteenth time.)

Band Manager: “Now, listen here. [Singer] has a VERY busy day today, and you cannot keep him on the line a minute longer than necessary. Got it?”

Me: “Oh, yes, there’s nothing to worry about. [DJ] should be done in under 15 minutes.”

Band Manager: “There are to be no personal question about him or the band; is that clear?! He isn’t here to answer silly questions”

Me: “Don’t worry; we have a bunch of questions about the new album coming out, and that’s all we’re concerned with.”

Band Manager: “Make sure you do.”

(With that, he just hangs up. The interview goes very well, and the singer seems pleased with the questions the DJ asks about the new album.)

DJ: “Thanks so much for joining us, [Singer]; I hear today’s a busy one for you.”

Singer: “Oh, not really. I’ve been just chilling and playing [Video Game] today. I’ll probably stroll down to [Bakery] in a bit. Easy day.” *chuckles*

(The DJ and I were both fighting hard not laugh at this point, since this guy basically revealed his manager was lying. We could imagine the embarrassed look on the manager’s face when he said that. That was the only time we had this band on our show; we think the manager was too embarrassed after that one.)

(I have applied for Universal Credit and have to attend a compulsory interview for it. I get the email telling me that my interview is not only 400 miles away, but also in another country. I call the helpline to ask them to reschedule my interview.)

Helpline Employee: “How can I help you today?”

Me: “I’ve been given a date for my interview, but it’s in Edinburgh, and I live in London. I was just wondering if that was a computer glitch or something?”

Helpline Employee: “Would that be a problem?”

Me: “Well… yes. I live 400 miles away. In London, England.”

Helpline Employee: *as though I am stupid* “Edinburgh is in Scotland, not in England. Can you attend the interview or not?”

Me: “No. As I have said, it’s 400 miles away, so I have no way of getting there. I’d like an interview closer to my home, please.”

Helpline Employee: “I can send you the public transport options to get you to your interview. It’s really important to go to it!”

(I don’t want to hang up and call again, as I was on hold for so long. I decide to go with it and see if she spots the problem.)

Me: “Can we talk through transport options now?”

Helpline Employee: “No, all I can do is email them to the email address you provided.”

Me: *getting frustrated* “I have already looked at transport options. As I don’t have a car, I can only go by train. A train from London to Edinburgh takes about five hours, usually longer. I can’t afford that kind of trip, and even if I could, I don’t want to spend more than ten hours on a train in one day. Can I change the location of my appointment, please?”

Helpline Employee: “How far away do you actually live?”

Me: *thinking we’re finally getting somewhere* “About 400 miles.”

Helpline Employee: “I can move your appointment to the afternoon. That will mean you will have time to attend!”

(I just hung up and resolved to be on hold again. I gave it a minute and called back. After being on hold for ages, I spoke to someone who changed my appointment to the branch that was 20 minutes walk from my house. He had no idea why I was sent to the Edinburgh branch, but at least he understood the concept of distance.)

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(Our store works on the basis that you order the item and it is fetched from the warehouse. One customer has come several times and asked to try on work shoes from us. The third time, he brings his wife. This happens ten minutes before closing.)

Supervisor: “I’m sorry, but this is the third time this week you’ve come and tried these shoes, I’m going to have to ask you to make a decision.”

Wife: “So, you are telling us to make a decision now?!”

Supervisor: “I’m sorry, but that is merchandise, and we need it to be in decent condition for the customer who buys them. Your husband has been here twice already, and my colleague says you’ve tried the same shoe each time. Furthermore, we’re due to close soon, and we need to make sure everyone has been served and their items picked by then.”

Wife: “Fine, if you’re going to be like that, you can take your shoes back!”

(The husband takes the shoes off, puts them in the box, and slams them on the counter, but she’s determined to have the last word.)

Wife: “You’ve lost a sale!”

Supervisor: “I don’t mind!”

(I am a 17-year-old student, working part-time in a major supermarket chain as a checkout operator. Because of UK law, persons under the age of 18 must have approval from someone over 18 before they can sell alcohol, and my store requires that person to physically come to the checkout and type in their ID and password to authorize the sale. In this case, the customer is clearly old enough, ripped, and covered in tattoos.)

Me: “I’m really sorry to keep you waiting, but I’m afraid I have to get approval from someone over 18 before I can sell you this.”

Customer: “I’m over 18. Consider it approved.”

Me: “I’m afraid that it has to come from someone that works here, but I’ll have my supervisor over here just as soon as I can.”

Customer: *getting increasingly irritated* “Just put it through. They don’t have to know about it.”

Me: “I can’t sell alcohol without a code. My machine completely locks up as soon as it picks up alcohol, and I need someone over 18 to physically come here and override the lock-out. I promise you, my supervisor will just be a moment.”

Customer: “That’s a dumb-a** policy. Just type in their code or something.”

Me: “I’m afraid that’s actually the law. Section 153 of the Licensing Act of 2003 states that a responsible person is committing an offence if he or she allows a person under the age of 18 to perform the sale or supply of alcohol, unless the sale is approved by that or another responsible person. I don’t know my supervisor’s code, and if I was able to just sell alcohol, then the store could easily lose their licence, and both myself and all the managers could be fined.”

(At this point the customer loses it. It’s been less than two minutes since this entire exchange began, but he leaps at me over my checkout, grabbing me by the collar of my shirt and pulling me towards him.)

Customer: *shouting* “Listen to me, you f****** b****. I didn’t come here looking for a f****** lecture. Do you know who I am?”

(He shakes me a bit and moves right in my face, our noses about a centimetre from touching. A lot of people are watching, but none step in. I’m actually a black belt in three different martial arts, and more than capable of defending myself, but given that I am relatively new to the job and can see my supervisor on his way, I decide not to lash out.)

Customer: *as loud as he can* “I’m the f****** national wrestling champion. I’ve got hundreds of trophies, dozens of medals. What the f*** have you got, you whiny c***?

(My supervisor arrives, taps the guy on his shoulder, and nuts him straight in the face. He drops to the floor clutching a bleeding, and probably broken, nose. My supervisor flips him onto his front and pulls both his hands up behind his back, zip tying his hands together, and pulling his phone off his belt.)

Supervisor: “Hey, when you’ve got a minute, can you get the police down here? No rush.”

(I love my supervisor.)

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