When I was in my twenties, my father owned a Porsche 911, and I was on his insurance to allow me to drive it occasionally. I was also an active cyclist, and for journeys of less than ten miles, I preferred to cycle.

While heading down to the local store on my bike, a man driving a convertible BMW pulled out of a side street right in front of me, forcing me to brake hard. I remonstrated with him, to which he spat out the following nugget.

Man: “Oh, go away. I bet you can’t even drive, let alone own a car, and certainly not one as nice as mine. On a bike! I bet you don’t even have a job. Just [redacted] off.”

It just so happened that I had my father’s 911 for the weekend, as I had to drive down to London later that day. When returning from the store, I saw the same man parked outside a property, pontificating, bragging about his BMW.

I went home, got changed, and headed out in the 911. He was still there. I pulled up alongside him.

Me: “Oi, dude, remember me? This is my car. Nice, isn’t it? Very fast, too. I bet you wish you could afford one. Maybe work harder, you know?”

His lower jaw dropped a little.

Me: “Anyway, can’t stop to chat; I gotta get to London. See ya. Oh, and you might wanna grow up a little.”

I let the 911 pull a little wheelspin and rolled away.

I work in a vegan coffee shop, so all our milks are plant-based or nut-based. I have explained this to a customer who doesn’t seem happy with the menu. She is berating me while her friend looks on quietly.

Customer: “This is ridiculous! I want real milk, none of this plant or nut s***!”

Me: “Well, ma’am, there are those who are lactose intolerant—”

Customer: “If people are so delicate that milk will harm them, then that’s God’s way of telling them they shouldn’t be around! God intended us to drink milk! Real milk!”

Customer’s Friend: “God intended for you to have teeny tiny tatas, but you went and got those fixed, didn’t ya?! Let the nice people have their soy milk and stop being a c**t for once!”

A mother is checking out with her little girl, maybe four years old or so. The little girl is as cute as a button and keeps smiling up at me.

Me: “Hello! How are you doing today?!”

Little Girl: “I have a clitoris!”

Me: *To the mother, not skipping a beat* “Cash or card?”

I regularly catch a bus from a stop that is nearest to a big, international hotel. On this day, a bus is just pulling up and I notice a man in a suit, desperate scrolling his phone. I recognise that he is trying to work out if this is the right bus, and I know the bus will almost certainly be gone by the time he does.

Me: “Where are you going?”

Man: “Heathrow Airport.”

Me: “Ah…”

I furrow my brow, because though Heathrow is only about 3 miles away, there is no direct route, and I am trying to work out which is the best way.

Man: “I’ve been told to catch the 490 bus.”

Me: “Ah, yes, then this is your bus. You’ll need to get off it two stops after I get off, and the 490 leaves from the same bus stop.”

Kudos to whoever suggested this route; while it’s not the most direct or fastest, it is the simplest and the cheapest. An older woman at the bus stop has also overheard.

Woman: “Don’t worry, I will show him where to get off.”

He sits beside her, and they start chatting.

Woman: “Where are you from?”

Man: “Brazil. Rio de Janeiro.”

Woman: “Where’s that?”

Man: “South America.”

Woman: “So you are American?”

Man: *Kindly.* “Sort of.”

Woman: *To me, apologetically.* “We just didn’t learn any of this stuff in school. I had to learn from my children and grandchildren.”

And the two of them fall into a discussion, her asking smart but uninformed questions “So you speak Spanish?”, and when I get off the bus, he’s drawn a sketch of South America, and is giving her a short history of European colonisation. She is listening, rapt.

I was happy to witness this, and a little sad that she didn’t have the education she deserved, though she was making up for it now, at every opportunity.

I work in a bakery.

Customer: “I’d like some sweet sausage, please.”

Me: “Sweet sausage? I don’t think we have that. Can you describe it?”

Customer: “Like your hot dogs, but sweet.”

Me: “We don’t sell hot dogs, sir.”

Customer: “I’m looking at one right now!”

I see where he’s pointing.

Me: “Sir, those are eclairs.”

Customer: “I don’t want Claire’s! I want mine!”

Me: “No, sir, they are called eclairs. They’re not hot dogs; they’re long pastries with cream in the middle.”

Customer: “Yes, I know. I call them sweet sausages.”

Me: “Next time, just ask for eclairs, sir.”

Customer: “Why would I do that?”

Me: “Yes, why indeed?”

Related:
Never Sausage A Thing Before, Part 5
Never Sausage A Thing Before, Part 4
Never Sausage A Thing Before, Part 3
Never Sausage A Thing Before, Part 2
Never Sausage A Thing Before