(This happens during the Ebola epidemic in Africa. It has recently been reported that a woman from Glasgow has been quarantined after contracting it while working over there. I am recovering from my first ever allergic reaction, which left my skin blotchy and swollen. Normally I wouldn’t be outside, but life goes on and I need shopping. I’m currently checking out. The cashier has been looking at me strangely for the whole transaction.)

Cashier: “That’s £109.87, please.”

Me: “Oh, my reward card.”

Cashier: “Th-thank you?”

(She hesitantly takes it, trying to avoid touching my skin. She scans it and drops it on the other end of the counter.)

Cashier: “£98.87.” *while handing over cash* “Do you have card?”

Me: “No. Cash.”

Cashier: “Please, use card.”

(She activates the card reader and waits for me to use it.)

Me: “Look. I have £100 right here. I’m not using my card.”

(It takes the cashier a long time to reach for my money, but I sneeze into my other hand before she takes it.)

Cashier: *going pale* “YOU’VE GOT THE EBOLA!” *runs screaming through the store to who-knows-where*

Other Worker: *running up to me* “What on Earth?!”

Me: “She just said I had Ebola and ran off.”

(The other worker disappears and comes back roughly a minute later to finish my purchase.)

Other Worker: “Sorry about that. She said your face was peeling off, and that you gave her Ebola.”

Me: “Oh, I’m sorry. I had an allergic reaction last week. I guess it must have scared her.”

Other Worker: “No, it’s not your fault. It’s just plain ignorance.”

(I paid, and as I left, the cashier was being dragged up to the front by EMTs. She was in full hysterics, shouting, “EBOLA!” at every customer who walked past. I’m fully recovered now, but whenever I’m in there and we lock eyes, she flees. I’m told by the others in there that she still thinks I have Ebola, and tries to call the police every time she sees me. They keep a tally in the back.)

(I work at the customer service desk dealing in returns, exchanges, etc. Today, a customer comes up to my colleague with a bottle requiring a pump-action to get the contents out.)

Customer: “I bought this the other day, but it’s not working; can I swap it for one that does?

Colleague: “No problem; if you bring up what you want to exchange it for, I’ll put it through.”

(The customer goes to get a replacement and comes back to the desk.)

Customer: “The thing is, I don’t want to get it home and find out it doesn’t work, either. Can you test it?”

Colleague: “Of course.”

(By this point, the customers and colleagues at the adjoining kiosk desk are laughing. My colleague presses down on the top and some of the contents squeeze out into her hand. The customer is quite happy as the exchange is put through.)

Colleague: *rounding on colleagues who are now rolling on the floor* “What’s so funny?”

(She looked down at the defective bottle in her hand and saw that it was sexual lubricant — which she now had on her hand. Everyone was laughing, including her, as she ran to the bathroom to wash her hands. By the end of my shift, about an hour and a half later, everyone working heard the story. You’d have to have a set of brass ones to go up to a customer services desk to say, “The lube doesn’t work!”)

(This takes place not long after my shift, in the car park. It has been snowing quite a bit, but the trolley bays are under cover and the walkways and “roads” salted. I am walking to where my mum normally picks me up if the weather’s been bad, when I witness a customer drag his trolley to an empty parking space and leave it there.)

Me: “Excuse me, sir, but that’s a car parking space. Could you please take your trolley to one of the trolley bays?”

Customer: “But I might slip.”

Me: “The trolley bays are under cover, and that’s a parking space; you’re preventing other customers from parking, and making our porters’ jobs more difficult.”

Customer: “But I might slip.”

(The customer then walked off to his car and drove away. Since it was freezing and my mum hadn’t arrived yet, I took pity on the porters and pulled his trolley and a few others over to the trolley bays. I didn’t slip once.)

(I work at the fishmonger’s counter where we have a display selling whole, gutted salmon in bags for £4/kg. A young woman and her daughter approach the display and order some fish. This conversation takes place as I am wrapping it.)

Child: “Mummy, look at the big fish!”

Customer: “Yeah, it’s really big, isn’t it!” *pauses, to me* “What’s that red stuff? Is that blood?”

Me: “Yep. We get these in gutted so there’s a little blood from being packed immediately after.”

Customer: “I just didn’t know fish had blood.”

(I am a head cashier. I have been called to the checkouts to assist a young couple of Indian descent. After serving them:)

Manager: “It’s a good thing you could handle that. I couldn’t understand a word they were saying.”

Me: “They sounded Glaswegian to me.”

Manager: “How would you know? You’re from Sheffield.”

Me: “Why didn’t you? Haven’t you lived in Glasgow all your life?”

Manager: “True. I wonder why I couldn’t understand them.”

Me: “Racism?”

(She wasn’t best pleased with me.)