It is Friday. My boss remarks that he is going to have fish and chips that evening… because it is Friday.

Me: “It’s interesting what was considered fish, historically. People often wanted to eat things that weren’t officially considered ‘meat’. That’s why there are no beavers in England anymore.”

Boss: *Trying not to laugh* “Bollocks!”

Me: “No, really.”

Boss: “No, that’s nonsense. I’m going to Google that to prove you wrong.” *Pauses* “No… I am not going to Google ‘eat beaver on a Friday’ from a work computer. I am going to Google ‘eat beaver on a Friday’ when I get home.

The matter was never mentioned again.

I started a new job as a lorry driver and had perhaps the worst possible thing happen on delivery. I lowered my tail lift to the ground, and the back door man took the delivery off and reloaded my tail lift with waste and returns. Our tail lifts have ramps that lock upright to restrain the load on the tail lift. It is impossible for me to see from the trailer, and the back door guy must ensure that it is safely locked before I move the tail lift. He gave me the all-clear and I lifted away. I pulled a cage off the tail lift into the trailer and I heard the worst possible noises: crashes and the screaming of a child.

I lept out of the trailer and noticed that the contents of the tail lift had fallen off the unlocked ramp and landed on a small girl who was passing by with her school group. She seemed mostly unhurt but obviously upset. She had two teachers looking after her, so I ran to the back door guy to ask what had happened. He hadn’t stowed the tail lift and was having a cigarette when he should have been supervising.

I reported the incident to my office, and then I followed their advice and reported the incident via the store’s incident report line. The back door guy lied and said that nothing had hit the girl, just landed near her and scared her. When I got back to the yard, I went straight to the office and wrote a statement admitting to any errors I think I made, as well as the fact that it was witnessed and I took details.

Fast forward a month. I’m dragged into a meeting and suspended pending investigation and likely sacking. The manager attempts to steamroll me, but I manage to speak up.

Me: “I will not sign anything here or agree to anything without a Union representative present.”

Reluctantly, the manager calls in a rep, who talks me through everything. He has me accept the suspension and explains that it’s a formality and that the main investigation will be where I can make my case. He somehow gets the investigation arranged for the next day. During the investigation, he lets me speak but adds context or helps me to explain things better. At the end of the meeting, he makes his own statement, which calls out the main three reasons that I was suspended.

Rep: “‘Number one: the incident wasn’t reported properly.’ [My Name] followed the direct advice of management and then further wrote a statement without being prompted. ‘Number two: the tail lift ramp was not secured.’ It was impossible for [My Name] to see if the ramp was secure, and he relied on the back door guy to clear it. He can’t be held accountable for the ramp since he wouldn’t have been able to secure it even if he did see it. ‘Number three: [My Name] did not immediately check on the person who had been injured.’ Firstly, had the ramp been stowed, this would not have happened. Second, the girl was being attended to by her teachers, and [My Name] wouldn’t have been able to help much more. He did offer to call an ambulance and offered to share details when asked. All in all, whilst this is a horrible, unfortunate incident, [My Name] was incredibly unlucky to get caught up and did everything right from his end. I don’t see why it took a month for this to be investigated since [My Name] did report it.”

The end result was that I was completely cleared of fault. The back door guy was sacked for not doing his job properly and not reporting the incident. The store manager was sacked because he did not ensure that his staff knew the correct back door procedures, and the third back door guy (who should have assisted with the delivery in the first place) was put on final warning for not doing his assigned duties. (He was actually clocked out on break during the incident.)

I needed to go into a particular supermarket in town for a few items which I prefer from there. The store was packed — and I mean RAMMED; I have never seen it so full. Only three of the six tills were open, and I queued for several minutes to make my purchases. The till operator was friendly, polite, and apologised to me for my wait.

While he was ringing me up, a manager walked past. My till operator flagged him down.

Till Operator: “Can we get some more tills open? These lines are ridiculous, and people are waiting.”

The manager looked at him as if he had grown a second head.

Manager: “We don’t need any more tills open. It’s not as if the store is even full.”

Then, he walked off without another word, leaving the poor till operator staring helplessly after him as he finished ringing me up.

I have had the misfortune of being born in early December, and as such, like all December (and, presumably, some November/January) babies whose families celebrate a certain midwinter festival, I have known that greatest of scourges: the joint birthday/Christmas present.

Every year, my September-born sibling would come downstairs to find that every one of our relatives had sent them a gift.

Every year, I would come downstairs on my birthday to find that the only people to get me a gift were my parents, my sibling, and one set of grandparents, with the rest of the presents only showing up when Father Christmas did.

And every year, I complained to my parents about this, only to be rebuffed with, “It’s the thought that counts,” and other such platitudes. Clearly, I was on my own when it came to fixing this, which, as a highly socially-anxious child, wasn’t my ideal situation. Still, I was a CREATIVE socially-anxious child, and by golly was I going to find a way to… trick my parents into fixing it for me.

On the first of November of the year I turned thirteen, I walked into the kitchen at breakfast time, blew a long note on a bugle we had lying around the house, and unfurled a scroll I’d made from wallpaper scraps and two rolling pins.

Me: “Hear ye, hear ye! By proclamation of Prince [My Name] The First, the holiday known as Christmas, and anything to do with it, may not appear in this house prior to [the day after my birthday], on penalty of death. Furthermore, any item celebrating the prince’s birthday may not arrive at the house after said day, under the same penalty.”

Mum: “Is this a joke or are you being serious?”

Me: “Serious. Except for mince pies — they can show up earlier.”

As the date chosen was still well before we normally decorated the house for Christmas, my parents mostly shrugged this off as me wanting to make a joke. However, just as I had planned, every relative who phoned for the next month got regaled with this funny story about my birthday/Christmas border.

When I came down on my birthday that year, a good 45% of my relatives had gotten me a gift, many with tongue-in-cheek references to avoiding the death penalty. Even better, come Christmas, most of those relatives sent another gift, though these were mostly smaller and obviously last-minute purchases.

The next year, it happened again, no doubt aided by the fact that I finally had a reason to put effort into my thank-you letters, even if that reason was Pavlovian training. (I seem to remember taping a sweet next to the “and” in “thank you for my birthday AND Christmas presents.”) Some relatives did backslide, but most of the closer ones have kept up the split to this day.

And that’s the story of how I saved my birthday from Christmas via psychological warfare.

I work in a fairly male-dominated industry, and most of the female coworkers I’ve had over the years tend to leave quickly because of a fairly sexist atmosphere. I tend to get along with most of them really well. In both my previous job and my current one, I’ve had female coworkers who get along really well with me say that I’m “sweet” and “charming”.

One day, a male coworker speaks to me.

Coworker #1: “I don’t get it.”

Me: “What?”

Coworker #1: “The girls, they all seem to like you, especially [Coworker #2].”

Me: “Okay… and?”

Coworker #1: “They barely talk to me. I told [Coworker #2] that her boobs looked great, and she just ignored me and walked away. You never say anything to her about how great she looks, and she’s all over you and hugs you every morning.”

Me: “Really? You just walked up to her and said, ‘Hey, [Coworker #2], I like your boobs!’? Were you expecting her to go, ‘Oh, yeah, here, have a feel,’ or to show you? Crazy idea: have you ever, with any of the girls, just talked to them… like they are human?”

Coworker #1: “Well, no, but girls love being told they look great.”

Me: “Yes, they do, but usually, it’s, ‘Hey, that new haircut suits you,’ or, ‘I love your earrings today.’ What you did was just objectify her and make her feel like an object.”

Coworker #1: “So, I should say I like her hair?”

Me: “It’s a better start than the boobs, yeah. But try just talking to her.”

[Coworker #2] actually walks up behind me at this stage and wraps her arms around me in a hug.

Coworker #2: “And that is why I love you most out of my work friends. [Coworker #1], honestly, don’t even try talking to me. You won’t ever be seeing my boobs.”