This happened when I was about nineteen, working as a volunteer in a charity shop. The shop in question was on a fairly narrow street with businesses on either side, so the front of our store directly faced the café a few feet opposite. I’ve always been a somewhat well-endowed girl, and I have always been quite self-conscious of the fact, and while I don’t particularly dress to hide my body, I don’t dress to show it off, either. I just wear whatever I feel comfortable in.

On this day, I was in the shop window, redressing one of the mannequins and organising the window display. I was busy focusing on my task, so I was oblivious to anything going on outside.

After a moment, the shop door opened, and in hobbled an elderly man. I would have put him in his nineties, easily — the stereotypical little old man with a cap and walking stick.

I looked up to acknowledge him, but he cut me off before I could speak.

Old Man: “Hello, love. I was just sitting in [Café] and saw you in the window. I had to come in and tell you that body of yours has made my year!”

Me: “I’m… sorry?”

Old Man: “If this is how [Charity Shop] advertises from now on, I might just camp out at [Café] more often just for that view!” *Chuckles* “Very tasty view, indeed! Just wanted to let you know!”

He smiled widely and hobbled back out again. I watched in shock as he ambled back across the street to the café, feeling my skin crawl. I went and put my jacket on before finishing the display as quickly as I could and removing myself from the window.

It’s been nearly ten years and I still get creeped out remembering this old man who made the effort to walk across a road to tell a complete stranger that the sight of her body had made his day, all in a tone that suggested he genuinely thought I’d find it flattering.

I just started my job at a grocery store. I’m nineteen and had a horrible home life growing up, so I tend to freeze up when people start yelling at me. It doesn’t help that I’m incredibly short and dainty-looking, so people think they can get away with it.

I’m serving a man who has been increasingly creepy the whole time. I don’t really know any of my coworkers yet, or I would signal someone for help. I just ignore him as best I can.

Me: “Your total is $123.45. Do you have a [Store Loyalty] card today?”

Creep: “That doesn’t sound like enough numbers for your phone number, sugar.”

Me: *Pauses* “Your total is $123.45. Is that cash or card?”

Creep: “I’m not leaving until I get that number, cutie.”

It’s pretty quiet in the store, and the other checkout operator has gone to find us a box of bags. The self-checkout attendant is too far away from me and is helping someone, so there’s really no one to call for help. I carefully hit my assist light button with my knee to not draw attention and keep repeating the man’s total. He is getting increasingly angry with me for not playing his game.

I have a manager on today that I have never worked with before, and my coworkers jokingly referred to her as The Enforcer this morning. I assumed it was because she is a bit of a hard-a** about her staff. Out of nowhere, this very tall woman appears at the end of my checkout with pink hair and a nose ring.

Manager: “Hi, [Definitely Not My Name]! I’m [Manager]. Nice to meet you!”

She says all this with the brightest smile on her face and in the sweetest voice I have ever heard coming from someone who looks like she could snap me in half with one hand. She turns to look down at my customer — she has a good inch or two on him — and her entire face drops and her eyes and voice turn to steel.

Manager: “Not my first time meeting you, though, is it, [Customer]? Do we need to have another chat?”

The creepy guy just puts his card into the reader and pays before scurrying out as quickly as he can. I am in awe.

The manager instantly switches back to her previous sweet manner.

Manager: “Sorry about that, boo. He is the absolute worst, but they won’t let me ban him. The good news is that he is petrified of me — enough that even if I’m not in the store, just ring your bell and ask them to get me as soon as he starts acting up. He usually cuts it out then. Also, I know your name is [My Real Name]; I just didn’t want him to know that. Anyway, how are you liking it here?”

I went on to find out that this woman was universally loved by almost everyone in the store for just being a ball of sunshine and laughter who was always willing to lend a hand. She also tolerated absolutely no abuse toward her staff whatsoever and would go toe to toe with the store manager for us any day of the week. She is EXACTLY who I want to be when I grow up.

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One part of my job duties is to issue daily burning permits for my Fire Department. It’s a Monday, and the same number keeps calling and hanging up. Finally, they come through.

Me: “Fire Department, how can I help you?”

Caller: “I need a burning permit.”

Me: “Sure, let me get some information from you.”

Caller: “You issued me one last Friday.”

Me: “Okay, I can transfer the information to the new permit.”

Caller: “Sorry for calling so much. My friend thought you sounded cute and said I should ask you out. But I still need that burning permit.”

Me: “I’m flattered by the compliment, but I am already married.”

Caller: “Do you think you’d divorce him for me?”

Me: “Your burning permit is on its way to your email. Have a great day!”

I did not answer the phone for the rest of the day. My husband got a kick out of it, though!

Let’s go back to the year 2001. Cargo pants were fashionable and the penny was still in production. I was only fourteen years old, so I had no car, but it was fine; my parents lived close to the best ice cream place in town, which I walked to often. Amazing ice cream within walking distance? What on earth could be wrong here?

Well, to get to and from said ice cream, I had to walk past the gas station where an employee had taken to catcalling me every time I walked past. I could not get the yummy delicious ice cream without being treated to hollers of, “Nice t*ts! Why don’t you lick something else?” and so on and so on. For weeks.

Let’s just say it’s very stupid to harass people from your place of work; they know where to find you. And since I was only fourteen, I didn’t think to go to the manager of the gas station about his employee’s conduct, and I didn’t want it to turn into a he-said-she-said, no-harm-done situation. Because, again, it was the 2000s — how lame were security cameras? I was fourteen and angry and wanted my revenge to be painful.

So, I started my quest to collect pennies — as many pennies as I could get my hands on. You had pennies, I had nickels, dimes, and even quarters, and I would trade for them. It took about a week to collect just over $2 in loose pennies. People were so willing to part with them.

One ruined walk for ice cream later, and I knew my target was at work. Home I went to gather my hoard of pennies. Into those massive cargo pants pockets they went. One short jingling walk later — during which I wasn’t 100% sure my pants weren’t about to fall down due to the weight of 200-plus pennies in my pockets — I arrived at my destination and in I went.

I grabbed what I needed for a simple $2 transaction, a pack of Skittles and a red Gatorade, and to the till I went.

My target looked rather smug. I don’t know, maybe he thought his many unwanted invitations to [perform a sex act on him] had succeeded. That is, right up until I started pulling fistfuls of pennies out of those pockets and simply dropping them on the counter. They weren’t in a Ziplock. Nope, loose pennies all over the counter.

Of course, the right to refuse an overwhelming amount of coins is and was a thing. I believe anything more than fifteen pennies was considered excessive at the time and could be refused. And so he tried.

Employee: *Defiantly* “I don’t have to take that!”

But I was angry and my revenge would not be denied, so I shot back.

Me: “Oh, but you will. You clearly wanted my attention with all your hollering over the past few weeks. So, you’ll take those pennies or I’ll have a chat with your manager.”

And so he started counting, and I stood there repeating back all the “lovely things” he had been saying to me and interjecting random numbers in for good measure. He wasn’t smart enough to make piles of ten, not that I expected smart from a boy stupid enough to sexually harass women outside of his place of work. So I kept him there. His coworker opened another till to help other customers, but she made no moves to help him.

Once the transaction was finished, I took my purchase, and before I walked out the door, I told him:

Me: “If you ever catcall me again, it will be $5 in pennies, and I will be chatting with your manager.”

Ice cream trips were so blissfully free of catcalling after that.

I know that 99.9% of cashiers don’t deserve that mountain of coins. I just wanted to share my story of that 0.01% who got what they had coming.

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In the UK, it is the law that if you have a vehicle taxed for road use, then the vehicle must be insured for road use. All vehicle tax and registration are managed by the DVLA (Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency), and there is also the Motor Insurance Database (MID) that has every UK-insured vehicle on it.

This is not a closely-guarded secret; you can literally go to a website and pop your vehicle registration in and it’ll flag if it’s insured or not. There is also something called SORN (Statutory Off Road Notification); if you intend to not have your vehicle insured or use it on the road, you need to go to the DVLA and get it SORN’d

I work in vehicle insurance. The plus side is that whilst we need to have good customer service, we don’t have to be nice to clients due to the nature of what we do. This client has called to cancel his insurance. He has me on speakerphone, so I can hear a lot. He’s also been pretty rude and difficult so far, getting snappy at me regarding DPA and stuff we have to do by law.

Me: “So, why are you looking to cancel the insurance?”

Client: “It’s winter, idiot. I’m not gonna ride it.”

Me: “Have you had it SORN’d?”

Client: “Nah, don’t see the point.”

Me: “I need to make you aware: if your vehicle is taxed for road use and you do not have insurance, the DVLA could fine you up to £1,000, and the vehicle can also be seized and even destroyed by police. I would recommend getting your vehicle SORN’d as soon as you cancel the insurance; you can do it on the government website and it’s free.”

Client: “How would they know it’s not insured?”

Guy In The Background: “It’s called askMID.”

Client: *To the guy* “Shut it, mate.”

Me: “As your friend has advised, there is the Motor Insurance Database run by the Motor Insurance Bureau, which the police and the DVLA use to verify if a vehicle has insurance.”

Client: “Well, how are they gonna know the reg if they can’t see it? It’s gonna be in the garage. Suck on that, sugar t*ts.”

Me: *Dryly* “The DVLA are the ones who gave it the registration plate. They’re the ones that issued you the V5. If it’s UK registered, the DVLA knows the registration, make, model, colour, etc. of the vehicle, who owns the vehicle, and where that person lives. You could take it to Timbuktu if you really wanted to, but if it’s registered and taxed for UK road use, the DVLA is going to be able to find out if it’s insured. You don’t have to SORN the vehicle, but again, it’s free, and if they do decide to check it, you could lose out on up to £1,000.”

There’s a rather awkward silence.

Guy In The Background: “I went on holiday to Timbuktu.”

Client: “Shut up, mate! And… I’ll… uh… get it SORN’d.”

Me: “Lovely. Let’s get that cancellation calculated. I’ll just pop you on hold.”

Guy In The Background: “She ain’t gonna do anything to try and get you a discount on the cancellation after you called her ‘sugar t*ts’.”

Client: “Shut it—”

At that point, I put the client on hold. And yes, I left the cancellation fees at full costs; we can choose to waive them at our discretion, though it does reflect on our scores if we go under a certain amount on average.