I’m a single woman, and I decided I wanted to travel, and do so alone. I’d been saving up money and vacation hours for several years for an international vacation. I chose to go to London. I decided to buy a wheeled duffel bag, with a separate trolley, to use as my carry-on. That decision prompted this situation.

I flew from my small city into a major city for the flight to Heathrow. Since I was coming in on a puddle jumper, I had quite a ways to get to the international gate. On the first escalator, I picked up my brand new wheeled duffel, and the handle broke. I managed to get to my gate without it breaking more severely, but it was very difficult.

After I found my gate, I went into all the stores around me, asking if they had tape or glue or something to repair it. No one did, but one lady went to check their storage room and came back with a handful of rubber-bands that she gave to me. She also helped me determine that a screw had failed, and they happened to have little eyeglass screwdrivers, so I bought one, and some candy, in case she got commission. She’s the first awesome stranger in this story. If you’re reading this, thanks again.

I got back to my gate, and tried to MacGyver a repair. I remembered that I had packed a sandwich bag worth of craft supplies, including some teeny rolls of washi tape, which is decorative paper tape for crafting. Between that and the rubber bands, the handle was holding together, as long as you didn’t look at it too hard. And you wouldn’t want to look at it, because it was really ugly.

While I was fixing it, my bag was in front of me, but I was trying to keep out of the way of traffic. At one point, someone came by, and I said, “Excuse me, sorry,” and nudged the bag a little out of the way. Then he said, “How are you doing?” and since I’m honest and a bit strange I said, “Okay-ish.” I didn’t think much of it, and the man passed me.

I finished fixing the bag, and was sitting there upset at that stupid bag. I even wrote a review for the bag. I was in a rotten mood.

After five or ten minutes, a man came by and asked, “Why did you say, ‘okay-ish’?”

I realized he was the man who passed me, so I explained about the brand new handle breaking, and my efforts to repair it. He commiserated with me and said I needed my money back. He then asked about my plans, and I said I was going to London for a vacation. I told him that it was my first time, but I had always wanted to visit the UK, specifically England. He was from London, but lived in the States, and was on his way home for a little while and then going on to Europe.  

Then, and this is why he stuck in my memory, he asked, “Do you have paper and a pen?” I brought out my travel planner, and he proceeded to give me notes of all the must-dos from a Londoner point of view, including an open-air market because, “You’d like it; it’s quirky like you.” And the must-eats, including good restaurants. I took loads of notes, and I still have them. We must have spoken more than 15 minutes. He was awesome. When he went back to his seat, I was in a much better mood.

Stranger in the airport, if you read this: you’ll never know how much that simple conversation helped me.

I was slower than expected getting my driver’s license. One day, when I was still new to driving and didn’t have class, I had to go run some errands. I went to the bank, and my brain momentarily forgot how to park.

I ended up close to, but not actually, damaging someone’s car, and couldn’t get out of the situation. The woman in it called her husband, a truck driver, who came out and offered to help me readjust my car. I hopped out and trusted him to do so, crying and having a full-out panic attack. It was the first I ever had, and I still feel it a little sometimes when I remember what happened. I noticed the bank security guard coming out to watch the situation; he kept looking at me and smiling, nodding reassuringly but staying near his post.

The guy fixed my car’s position and then went to the security guard, asking him something I didn’t hear as I went and got everything I needed out of my car.

The couple continuously reassured me that everything was fine, not a mark on the vehicles, etcetera, and then the man led me inside, where the security guard was just bringing me a cup of water to help me calm down.

I’m sharing this, not to show off about how generous I am, but how broken the system is, and how easily well-meaning people can fall through the cracks. This is a message to encourage people to keep an eye out and try to be helpful where you can.

Recently, my wife was admitted to a National Health Service hospital with pneumonia. She’s also eight months pregnant, so it’s all a bit stressful, and we’re hoping the baby hasn’t been affected in any way by the pneumonia, or by its treatment. I visit her after work to take her a few items from home and to speak to her doctor. She’s going to be in for a few days, at least. We also discuss whether she should transfer to a private hospital, as we have private medical insurance.

By the time we decide on what’s happening, it’s nearly 9:00 pm, and I’ve not eaten since midday. My wife sends me down to the cafeteria to get some dinner before they close. In the line behind me is a boy of no more than 11, wearing the uniform of a local primary school, who is doing the same thing. He chooses a cheap sandwich, and looks enviously at my jacket potato with chicken curry. I pay, and move to sit down, but hear behind me that the card the boy is trying to pay with has been declined. It’s at this point I notice there’s only one other table occupied in the cafeteria, by a group of off-duty nurses. This kid is on his own.

He reaches into his pocket to look for change. He has about fifteen pence. By the time he goes to find his parents and comes back, the cafeteria will be shut. Of course, I offer to pay. The poor kid is crying, trying to refuse. The lady running the cafeteria only cares about closing up. I ask if there’s any chance of a cheap jacket potato for the lad, as they’re only going to be thrown out anyway.

“The prices are up there,” she says, pointing at the menu board.

“Fine,” I say to the lady. I turn to the boy and ask, “Chicken curry, or beans and cheese?”

“Beans and cheese, I guess,” he mumbles, tears clearing.

Of course, he’s wary of strangers, as he should be, but I ask him to sit with me. I guess I’m feeling helpless, not being able to do anything for my wife and unborn child, so I’m trying to help in any way I can. After a few bites of potato and a gulp of soda, he tells me that his mum is in the hospital for a second night in a row. None of the family that were supposed to help look after him have turned up, so he’ll be sleeping in the chair by her bed again, and going to school in a dirty uniform again. And of course, he’s worried sick about his mum. This is ridiculous.

I go back with the boy to the ward his mother is on. She is worried, as she just sent him down to grab a sandwich, and he’s been gone about half an hour. I explain what happened, and she tries to pay me back, almost ripping her IV cannula out as she stretches around looking for her purse.

“No need, no need, please!” I protest. She eventually relents, and looks drained from the effort. I have no idea what’s wrong with her, and don’t want to ask. Given the ward she’s on, I doubt it’s life-threatening, but it doesn’t look like fun, in any case. I convince her to make social services aware of her son’s predicament, and ask the ward sister why they hadn’t done so already. They blame shift changes, foreign and new staff not knowing procedures etc.

Eventually, they contact the out-of-hours social services, who promise to send someone home with the boy to get a clean uniform, and to chase up the family for somewhere for him to stay. I tried calling to find out what happened, but of course they couldn’t discuss it with me. I hope it all worked out okay for them.

And in case you’re interested, yes, my wife and baby were fine. A beautiful girl, induced a few days later, and a few weeks early, but absolutely perfect.

I used to be a girl scout. Cookie season rolled around, and my troop was scheduled to sell them outside of a convenience store sometime very early in the year. Of course, this meant it was very cold outside.

Not many people bought cookies or even walked into the store, and we were freezing, tired, and miserable.

After a while, I went into the store to go to the bathroom and warm up a bit. When I came outside, my troop leader was holding several steaming cups of hot chocolate.

I asked her where she had gotten them, and she said that she didn’t buy them. Apparently, a woman had seen us outside the store and decided to buy them for us from a nearby fast food joint. I completely missed her!

Thank you, random woman! You made my dreary day much brighter, and the hot chocolate was delicious.

(I work at an upscale garden show and vendors’ market once a year, which is sponsored by an aristocratic family and takes place on the grounds of their manor. On one evening, the head of the house also holds a special VIP event, to which he invites politicians, CEOs, and other aristocrats. They receive a special invitation, which also counts as their ticket to the garden show before the event. Unfortunately, a lot of the VIPs forget their tickets and are the stereotypically arrogant, “Don’t you know who I am?! I don’t NEED a ticket!” kind of people. So far, we’ve had four small altercations with VIPs, and I fear another one coming when I see a quite posh-looking man approach my table from the side.)

Posh Man: “Hello! I have a bit of a problem. My wife and I forgot our invitations to the VIP event. We’re terribly sorry. Is there any way to let us in, or do we have to drive back home?”

Me: *somewhat taken back by his friendly politeness* “Oh, that should be no problem! All I need is your ID or anything else that shows your name, and I can ask the organisers to check the invite list.”

(The wife suddenly begins to giggle while the man is searching for his ID.)

Wife: “You’re not going to believe us, I think.”

Posh Man: “Oh, yes.” *smiling sheepishly* “You probably won’t. We get it a lot.”

(Confused, I take his ID – and see that his title is Baron von Munchausen. I can’t help but laugh. “The Baron von Munchhausen” is a fairly well-known old collection of stories about said Baron, who makes up grand tales and stories of impossible feats about himself, such as riding on a cannon ball, riding a horse that was cut in half, etc.)

Me: *joking* “Oh, lord! Are you sure you got an invite?”

Posh Man: *winks* “I assure you it is not a lie!”

Me: “To be honest, I’d be tempted to let you in even if it was, just for the story!”

(After a quick chat with the organisers, they confirmed that he and his wife were invited, so I let them in. He winked at his wife, saying, “It worked!” loud enough for me to laugh again. He later left a tiny box of chocolate from one of the vendors in the office for “the ticket girl with good humour.” One of the nicest VIP encounters I’ve had in the five years I worked that job.)