When my nan was still alive, she had a doctor that she had been going to for many years. He was a nice bloke, friendly, and competent at his job.

His name? Doctor Seewright.

His occupation? Optometrist.

You can’t make this stuff up.

My grandma has a habit of always referring to me, her only grandchild, as “the little ‘un”. When she is talking TO me, she just calls me by my name, or something like “darling” or “sweetie” — or “rascal” if I am misbehaving — but if she is talking ABOUT me, even if I am in the same room, she always calls me “the little ‘un”. This continues into my teenage years, and when I leave for university. I don’t mind it; I actually think it’s kind of sweet. But at one point, my aunt starts to think that I am getting too old for the nickname, and she has the following conversation with Grandma, which she later recounts to me.

Grandma: “Good thing the little ‘un is coming to visit this weekend; my radio is acting up again and she fixed it last time.”

Aunt: “Yeah, but Mom, seriously. [My Name] is twenty-one, at university, and living on her own, not to mention nearly a head taller than both of us, and neither of us is small to begin with. Don’t you think it’s time you stopped calling her ‘the little ‘un’?”

Grandma: *Smugly* “Nuh-uh! Doesn’t matter if she grows two meters tall and becomes a professor. She’ll always be my little ‘un!”

And she kept referring to me as “the little ‘un” until the day she died. I miss her.

I am intersex but identify as a boy. A lot of people mistake me for a girl, despite the fact that I have short hair and a flat chest. It doesn’t help that my name is unisex and my voice is high-pitched. I work at a superstore as a cashier.

Old Man: “Thank you, [Female Version Of My Name]!”

Me: “Actually, it’s [Male Version Of My Name], but that’s okay.”

Old Man: *Stares* “Are you sure?”

Me: *Chuckles* “Yes, I’m sure.”

The old man blushes and leaves. A few days later: 

Manager: “We had a complaint about you.”

Me: “Really? What did I do?”

Manager: “A man said you called him stupid on Monday.”

Me: “No, I didn’t. He called me by [Female Version Of My Name] and I told him it’s [Male Version Of My Name]. Check the cameras if you don’t believe me.”

A couple of days later, I’m helping a woman with her items at the till. 

Woman: “Is your name [Female Version Of My Name] or [Male Version Of My Name]? I can’t tell what you are.”

Me: “It’s [Male Version Of My Name].”

Woman: “That isn’t right. You look like a girl. Your chest is flat, though, and your hair is short, so you must be one of those tomboys.”

Me: “No, ma’am, I’m not a girl. I’m a boy.”

The next day:

Manager: “We had another complaint about you. A woman said you insulted her.”

Me: “I didn’t insult anybody; I was the one insulted. Check the cameras again.”

Today, I went into work, and there’s a sign stating that “Any abuse of staff or false complaints will not be tolerated.”

I have a leak, so I call my water board and someone takes my details.

Customer Service: “And can I take your name, please?”

I got married a few months ago, and I can’t remember if I have changed my surname on the account. Something that I can only attribute to lack of sleep makes me come up with this gem:

Me: “I don’t know my name.”

Eventually, I was able to communicate why I had said this. Whoops!

A customer approaches my register. As I start ringing her items up, she leans in to look at my name tag.

Customer: “Oh, so you’re Kathy?”

Me: “No, ma’am, my name is Katie, actually!”

Customer: “Okay, well, thank you, Karen.”