It’s Like She’s Toying With You

, , , , , | Right | January 8, 2018

(I work on a cruise ship as a dishwasher and we’ve just arrived in Stockholm. We’re in quite a rush, and it’s only my coworker and me left to do a huge pile of dishes before we have to lock down the pentry. The bar is already locked down and our supervisors have left. The only set of keys to the bar is three decks down. A few minutes before closing, one of the bartenders brought in a cheap toy — something you get for free when you pick up a piece of candy sold everywhere — which was left behind by some parent and then put it in the now locked-down bar section. The parent suddenly appears in the kitchen, holding his happy-looking baby.)

Parent: “Excuse me, have you guys seen a toy somewhere? I must have left it behind and we need to get off the boat.”

Coworker: “Yes, actually. One of our bartenders took it into the bar, and we’re closed now. They’ve locked all the doors; I’m sorry.”

Parent: “You have to do something! You need to kick in the door! My baby won’t stop crying; he loves that toy!” *the very happy-looking baby laughs*

Me: “I’m very sorry, sir, but we don’t have the keys to the bar, for security reasons. There’s nothing we can do. You can pick up the toy in Stockholm, too; it’s cheap and comes with [Candy].”

Parent: *shouting* “NO! HE WANTS THIS TOY! HE WON’T STOP CRYING! DO SOMETHING!” *the baby giggles*

Coworker: *looks at me, then nods* “All right, sir, I’ll try and call one of our supervisors to bring up the keys.”

Parent: “YES! THANK YOU!”

(No one answers my coworkers call, which isn’t unexpected, since we’ve all been up since 2:00 am and everyone usually goes straight to their cabin to catch up on their sleep.)

Coworker: “I’m sorry, but they’re not answering. I guess I could run down to the reception and see if the keys are there.”

Parent: *yelling even louder* “YES, YOU WILL! BRING ME MY CHILD’S TOY!”

(My coworker leaves and I’m left alone to try and rush through all the tasks, moving as fast as I can in the very small kitchen. The parent steps in.)

Me: “Sir, please, if you could just wait outside. My coworker is trying to find the keys and we’ll try to help, but I really need the space to do our tasks. She’ll be with you as fast as she can.”

Parent: “When will she get back?”

Me: “As fast as she can.”

Parent: “In two minutes? When will she be back?”

Me: *losing my temper a bit* “Sir, it will take the time it takes. The reception is three decks down and about 750 people are between her and the desk, getting off the boat. Are you sure you can’t pick up the toy in Stockholm? They sell it literally everywhere.”

Parent: “NO! HE WANTS THIS ONE! IT’S VERY IMPORTANT!”

(After a few minutes, my coworker arrived with the keys, looking flustered but happy to be able to help, opened the bar, and handed the toy to the baby. The parent did not say thank you, and the happy-looking, giggling baby started crying the moment he saw the toy. Thanks for nothing, I guess.)

They’re Terrible At Names

, , , , , | Working | January 8, 2018

(My first name is Jamie, which is my given name. People generally call me this, but I often run into issues with the older generations who think it is a nickname. A manager has recently joined the company and has been trying to send me a document via email.)

Manager: “I keep sending you the email. Are you sure you aren’t getting it?”

Me: “I’m certain. Have you been replying to the email I sent you?”

Manager: “No. I don’t think it’s professional doing that.”

Me: “You could copy the email address from it.”

Manager: “No, I’m not that tech savvy. Let me take it down again. ‘James–’”

Me: “Jamie.”

Manager: “Yes, James.”

Me: “No. My name is actually Jamie.”

Manager: “Jamie is a nickname. You must be called James.”

Me: “No, I’m telling you it’s Jamie.”

Manager: “I’ll check with IT.”

(He leaves for half an hour and returns.)

Manager: “They say they won’t change your email address.”

Me: “Why would they even do that?”

Manager: “Because you can’t use your nickname. It confuses people.”

Me: “It is not my nickname. It is my actual name.”

Manager: “They say you need to call them and confirm. I suggest you do it quickly; this email needs to be sent!”

(He left again and I didn’t call IT. I decided to come in with my birth certificate the day after. He refused to believe it and demanded to see the “real” certificate. At this, I just gave up. He continued to try sending emails to me, and moaned when I didn’t receive them. Thankfully he wasn’t actually my manager, being in a different department, and the documents he was sending weren’t important enough for me to fuss over. My actual manager, however, has a sense of humour and finds all of this hilarious, and refuses to do anything until the other manager calls me Jamie at least once. IT can add a James variant to my email, but as it is an addition and not a straight-up change, my manager has to approve it. I don’t think anything is going to change anytime soon.)

Their Pie Is A Katy Perry Song

, , , | Right | January 8, 2018

(I am in a local restaurant for lunch. A man and woman at the table next to mine have just been given their meals, which are both some kind of meat pie with potatoes and veggies on the side. They call for the waitress.)

Male Customer: “Excuse me! Our food is almost cold.”

Waitress: “Really? The plates were very hot.”

Male Customer: “No, the plates are hot, but the pie is just barely warm.”

Waitress: “I’m sorry; I’ll go get you new meals.”

(A few minutes later:)

Waitress: “Here you are. I’m so sorry. I spoke to the chef and he said customers have complained the pie was too hot, so he lets it sit outside the oven for a bit before he serves it. This was fresh from the oven; I hope it’s all right for you.”

(They both began to eat and then both put their forks down.)

Male Customer: *to female customer* “This is way too hot; I’ll have to let it cool down.

Female Customer: “Mine is, too.”

(They both sat there for a good five minutes before they could eat their food. I saw the waitress watching them; she seemed to think it was quite amusing.)

Keep Note Of Taxis Like This

, , , , , , , | Working | January 8, 2018

(I live in Glasgow and have gotten a taxi to Queen Street Station. The driver has been perfectly calm and chatting with me up until now. When we get to the station, I see the cost is £17.60. I instinctively grab the first note in my wallet, believing only one to be in there, and hand it over.)

Driver: *furious* “This is a fiver!”

Me: “Oh, sorry. I didn’t know I had that in there.”

(I take it back and pull out the £20 note. In this time, however, the driver turns off the engine, locks the doors, and starts using his phone.)

Me: “Umm, here.”

Driver: “SIT DOWN! YOU AREN’T GOING ANYWHERE!”

(I sit down, confused and worried, as he dials the police, reporting my blunder as attempted theft. After he hangs up he spends the next couple of minutes mumbling at how the English, like me, can’t be trusted. When the police arrive, he gets out and starts ranting at them. I can only see the face of one officer, who doesn’t look too impressed. She comes over and talks to me through the window.)

Officer: “Now, I’m not going to get formal with you. You look respectable enough, and [Driver] phones us at least once week thinking someone is stealing from him. Can you pay?”

(I lift up the £20 and she looks at the meter before rolling her eyes.)

Officer: “So, what happened?”

Me: “I had another note in my wallet and took that out, instead.”

(She rolls her eyes again and goes back to the driver. The driver then comes back and takes my money. He hands me my change.)

Me: “You’ve short-changed me.”

Driver: *pretending to be calm* “No, I haven’t!”

Me: “You’ve given me 40p; I should have £2.40.”

(Both officers looked in the car at the meter, and the driver begrudgingly gave me the extra £2 before speeding off. The officers shrugged and left. I just made it to my train. The irony of it all was, he was also English.)

Got Themselves In Your Bad Books

, , , , , , | Learning | January 8, 2018

(I work in my university’s bookshop. A student comes in and asks for a book for his course.)

Me: “Sorry, we’ve sold out. We get a new stock in every Monday, so if you come in first thing you should be able to get one.”

Student: “I can see one on the shelf behind the counter. Give me that one.”

Me: “Actually, that one is mine. I bought it last Monday when they first came in.”

Student: “You don’t need that. I do. Give it to me.”

Me: “What makes you think I don’t need it?”

Student: “Because you’re just a shop assistant. You don’t even have the qualifications needed to apply for [University], and [Course] is much too hard for you.”

Me: “Hmm, I see you weren’t at the pre-lecture meet-up.”

Student: “What? Yes, I was. How would you know?”

Me: “Because if you had been there, you would know that I’m the seminar tutor for [Course].”

(He looked at me like I’m nuts and left. Our first seminar was the day after, and I made an extra special effort to stress that the bookshop gets new stock every MONDAY. [Student] kept his head down for the entire seminar. I figure he got his books elsewhere from then on, because I’ve yet to see him in the shop since.)