(I come out from the back room of my store to find a woman lecturing a teenage boy for eating a candy he hadn’t paid for. She’s chewing his ear off, so as far as I’m concerned, the situation has already been handled. However, she comes up to the register to pay.)

Me: “You’re his mother?”

Woman: “Grandmother.”

Me: “Don’t worry about paying. Just tell him to call his mother and apologize.”

Woman: “Call his—?”

(She looks confused for a moment, and then narrows her eyes and nods sharply, turning to herd him out of the store.)

Woman: “She said we don’t have to pay if you call your mother and apologize, so call your mother!”

Boy: “Wait… What?”

Woman: “Call. Your. Mother. And. A. Po. Lo. Gize!”

(It’s a line I toss out every now and then when I catch kids filching, but I never really expect them to do it, so hearing his grandmother enforcing it was pretty satisfying.)

While as an L-Plater — meaning I am on my Learner’s Permit — I am driving with my instructor past a school. The school-zone speed limit is 40 kilometers per hour, and it is now 2:50 pm, meaning the school-zones kicked in a full 20 minutes ago. There are signs in specific areas, some of which are flashing, and huge “40” and “slow down” indicators painted on the road beneath us, impossible to miss.

I am driving past a bus bay that is separated from the main street by a grass island when a car comes up behind and beeps his horn at us. As I am driving at the correct school-zone speed limit, I don’t speed up, and he beeps his horn again. He then proceeds to drive over the curb, over the grass island, and into the bus bay, taking that road around and ending up in front of us. He then rolls down his window, gives us the middle finger, and speeds away over the hill.

My instructor is shocked, but tells me to not let drivers like that impact me and that if in the future I do decide to it is necessary to exceed a speed limit, the ones I should always stick to regardless are the school-zones, because it is not worth putting a child’s life in danger like that.

We then drive up the hill, and once we get to the top, I see flashing red and blue lights. As we drive past, the car is stopped on the side of the road with a policeman at the window. The driver sees our car, and then quickly looks away sheepishly as the policeman berates him. I look at my instructor, who continues to stare straight ahead, this time with a small smile on his lips.

Karma really is a b****.

(I’m driving my daughter and a friend to an amusement park. It’s August, the highway is full of people driving to and from holidays, and there are also major road-works going on. We come to a fork that I know well. It’s being refurbished, and the speed limits decrease accordingly. Because I’m taking the left bend, I stay on what would be the fast lane, even though the limit is now 60 on all lanes. A driver appears behind my car, flashing his headlights, but I can’t change lanes to let him overtake, nor can I accelerate. He guns up the engine and overtakes me on the right side, giving me the stink-eye and mouthing bad words as he passes by. A few kilometres later, there’s a queue caused by yet more road-work. Cars are driving bumper to bumper, and I happen to side up with the guy who overtook me. He has both windows down, so I wave at him.)

Me: “Sir, I’m sorry that I wouldn’t go past 60… It’s because there are three speed cameras in that spot. Have a nice holiday!”

(I then rolled up my windows and watched him stew until the exit.)

(I’m going to grab some lunch at a fast food place. I like to have a particular kind of sauce with my meal because before my father died, he would always get the same sauces and we’d eat together. It’s a way of making me feel like he’s still with me. So, naturally, I ask for this sauce when I go to order. It’s typical that this gets mixed up with a similar sauce when I get my food. I point it out and get a quick apology for the mix-up and the right sauce. At least, that’s what normally happens.)

Me: *seeing I have honey mustard instead of hot mustard* “Excuse me. I was given the wrong sauce. I asked for hot mustard.”

Cashier: *snottily* “Well, it’s the exact same thing.”

Me: “With all due respect, it’s not. Please, may I get hot mustard, instead?”

Cashier: “We’re all out.”

(I can see where they keep the sauces, and I can tell you, it most definitely isn’t out.)

Me: “Please, one is all I need.”

Cashier: “I don’t have to give you any! You don’t need anything else!”

Me: *smiling politely* “May I speak to your manager, please?”

(She brings the manager, obviously telling him her side of the conversation, and I hear her tell him that I am cussing her out.)

Manager: “Ma’am, I heard you were verbally abusing my employee.”

Me: *shaking my head* “No, sir. I simply asked for hot mustard instead of honey mustard. I still would like that, but I wanted you aware of her actions. She spoke to me rudely, proceeded to lie to me, and then told me what I consider to be an insult.”

Manager: “I don’t believe that. She’s our best employee here and—”

(A nearby customer has been looking at the menu the entire time, so he has heard everything.)

Customer: “The girl’s right; she never said anything rude. She was polite the whole time she was getting harassed. Doesn’t matter if she’s your best employee or not. She insulted a customer, who I’m surprised is still here.”

(The manager’s eyes widened as he looked at his cashier, telling her to get me the sauce I asked for. I thanked her in as polite a tone as I could muster and went to eat. The customer then stopped by my table. Turns out he was the manager’s brother!)

(In London, if you’re pregnant you can apply for a pin-on badge that says, “Baby on board,” so that people can offer you their seat on public transport — if they want to — without having to having to guess if someone is pregnant or just shapely. I am about seven months pregnant and have a badge, but I’m only going to be on board about ten minutes. I get on, and it’s packed, but I can stand. It’s no big deal, as I’m off the train at the next stop. A few seconds later, a Polish teenager offers me a seat. I decline, but thank him and let him know that I’m off on the next stop, anyway. I turn away and get my water out of my bag only to hear a middle-aged man in a suit start to rant. He is seated further down the carriage.)

Middle-Aged Man: “Those f****** immigrants. No manners. He’s just sitting there. Not even offering that pregnant lady his seat. He should be ashamed.” *gestures to the Polish man*

(We all ignore him, and I shoot the young guy who offered me a seat an apologetic smile. Suddenly, a little old lady further down the carriage marches up and hits the ranting man’s shin with her umbrella.)

Old Lady: “I heard that young man offer her his seat! You can bloody talk! You’re in priority seating. You’re the one that’s meant to move for the less-abled. It says it right above your head. He might be Polish, but you can’t even read English!”

(The man in a suit went bright red and got off the train at the next stop. He disembarked so quickly that he almost knocked over several other passengers.)