My family isn’t exactly well-off, so we usually only go out to a restaurant on someone’s birthday. Today is a lucky day, because there is no special occasion.

This new restaurant offers free refills on fizzy drinks, which is unusual in the UK at the time. We’re all thinking this is a great idea, except for my youngest sister, who wants a milkshake.

Dad: “The milkshake is more expensive, and there’re no refills, so you’re only getting the one.”

Sister: “Okay.”

Dad: “The rest of us are going to be refilling our drinks; you won’t be able to refill your milkshake.”

Sister: “I know.”

Dad: “Once it’s gone, it’s gone. You’re not getting another. Are you sure you don’t want Fanta?”

Sister: “I’m sure.”

We order food and drinks, and after a short wait, the waiter brings a tray full of drinks. As he approaches the table and goes to put the tray down, it catches on the condiments holder. The tray tips over, the adults both reflexively grab the two drinks closest to them, and the milkshake goes spilling all over the table. Miraculously, most of it is on the table and the little one is only slightly splashed.

My sister immediately slams both elbows on the table, drops her face into her hands, and starts to tear up. The waiter is extremely apologetic and almost falls over himself trying to cheer her up. At the same time, my other sister is laughing her head off at the little one’s face and I’m attempting to help use napkins to stop any of the milkshake from falling off the table.

Every time the waiter mentions something about getting a new one right out, the little one shakes her head and cries a little harder. She’s tough as nails and doesn’t usually cry, so we’re all a little in shock still.

Waiter: “I— I’m so sorry! I’ll go get my manager!”

Before he comes back, our dad gets her to explain what’s wrong.

Sister: “But you said I’m not allowed another one!”

Dad: “Oh, [Sister]. Don’t be silly. Of course you can have another milkshake; it wasn’t you who spilled it.”

The waiter returns with his manager.

Dad: “It’s okay. She just thought I wouldn’t let her have a replacement.”

Manager: “It’s okay, sweetie. Of course we’ll replace your milkshake. I know, how about we upgrade you to the Oreo milkshake?” *To Dad* “Is that okay?”

My sister is nodding.

Dad: “That’s—”

Manager: “No extra cost, of course.”

Dad: “Do you even like Oreos, [Sister]?”

Sister: “I got to try them at school when [Friend] bringed them.”

Dad: *To the manager* “That’d be great, thanks.”

The mess is quickly cleaned up and a waitress brings over a tray with the new fancy milkshake on it. As she goes to put it down, it catches on the condiments holder. My sister looks at her milkshake in horror.

Whether due to quicker reflexes or a lighter plate, the waitress doesn’t tip the tray. We notice the condiments holder was the problem last time, and I reach over to move it to my side of the table to prevent this from happening again.

Me: “Do you think—”

Dad: “Yeah, it probably was.” *To the waitress* “Can you let the other guy know it wasn’t his fault?”

Waitress: “Huh? Oh, sure.”

My sister got to enjoy her fancy milkshake and the food was good, too. We had a good time and went back to that restaurant again a few times.

My daughter and I are out shopping. A lady in front of me at the trolley bay is struggling with something, and since I know a few tricks with them, I speak up.

Me: “Are you okay?” 

Lady: “I don’t have the right change for the trolleys.”

Most supermarket trolleys in Ireland have a coin slot to unlock them, and they usually take a €1 coin, but sometimes if it’s an older lock you can fudge it with a smaller 20c coin.

Me: *Already sorting my change* “Here, sometimes this works.”

I put a 20c coin into the nearest trolley, which works fine. I pull it out and pass it back to her.

Lady: “Oh, thank you! How much did you put in there?”

Me: “Don’t worry about it; it’s just 20c. Happy Christmas!” 

She then pushes the €5 note she’d been carrying into my confused daughter’s hand. Cue the usual Irish Mammy’s argument about taking money, which we eventually ceded.

My daughter spent it on a charity fundraiser teddy, so we still got to spread some seasonal goodness.

It’s around Christmas time and I’m finishing up my last-minute Christmas shopping at my local big-chain grocery store.

As I’m waiting in line to pay for my few items, I notice the man in front of me. He’s an older gentleman, probably in his late fifties. He’s talking with the cashier, obviously excited about something. I come to find out that he’s buying stuff for his new apartment, the first one he’s ever had. He’s telling her that he’s a recovering alcoholic and addict who has finally, FINALLY gotten clean, gotten a job, and gotten his life together enough to get off the streets and into a place he can actually call his own.

I smile to myself as I listen to this man gush in excitement about decorating his new place… until it comes time for him to cash out. I guess the total is a bit more than he planned on because he asks the cashier to put some stuff back. He sounds so sad that my heart breaks. I don’t have any cash on hand to help him, but I do have a plan.

As soon as he walks away toward the entrance to wait for the bus, I ask the cashier to add the items he didn’t buy to my own order. At first, she looks confused, but I quickly say:

Me: “I want to buy those for him. Can you make it fast so I can catch him before his bus gets here?”

Y’all, I’ve never seen a cashier move so fast in my life! I rush to the entrance and thankfully, he’s still there.

I walk right up to him, hand him the two bags of stuff had to put back, and tell him:

Me: “Happy holidays.”

The look on his face when he realized what I had given him was worth more than the small amount I had spent.

I was working at the register, talking to a lady who worked for a loan company about how to get a loan for Christmas shopping. She gave me some information and then left. I checked out a few other people and then got back to doing some neatening up around the register.

A woman approached my register and handed me $100. She had overheard my conversation with the loan lady, so she withdrew the money for me. I made sure with my manager that I could accept the money and he said yes. It was a real shock, and I was thankful for the generosity.

This happened in the mid-2000s while cellphones were generally used for talking and people printed out directions from the Internet before going somewhere. My little sister had moved out to the state of New York for college, and I wanted to surprise her on her birthday by making a road trip up there and popping up at her door.

I made an incredibly boneheaded move of printing out instructions from the website Mapquest rather than buying a road atlas, and I quickly found myself lost in New York City with no idea where I was. I tried asking people for directions, but they would either rudely head me off — police included! — or give me a set of convoluted directions that would get me lost even further.

It began to grow dark and I seriously started to panic to the point where I was sweating gallons while gulping can after can of fruit punch. By then, I had at least a dozen different written directions in my car.

In desperation, I got out of my car and ducked into a tiny convenience store that was eerily lit with yellow lighting, and behind the counter, I saw a man staring vaguely into space. His eyes were bloodshot and glazed over, and I could tell he was definitely stoned.

Me: “Excuse me. Can you tell me how to get out of New York City? I’m trying to get to [City].”

The man was silent for about five seconds.

Man: “You want to get out of New York City… and go to [City]… Where exactly in [City]?”

Me: “[University].”

There was another five-second silence.

Man: “[University]…”

He spoke slowly, with a stoic and emotionless face, without blinking or moving.

Man: “So, you’ll want to leave and take a left… You will find a traffic light… Turn onto [highway]…”

There was yet another five-second silence.

He continued giving these complex directions — with all kinds of traffic lights, highway exits, turn left, turn right, go under the bridge steps included — in this eerily calm voice, pausing two to five seconds in between each one, as I frantically jotted them all down. When he finally finished:

Me: “Thank you so much!”

An awkward silence fell. I started heading for the door.

Man: “You’re welcome.”

I was extremely skeptical about these directions, but I was so desperate to get out of the New York City streets after dark that I would have taken directions from a seven-year-old.

Would you believe me if I told you the directions Mr. Stoner gave were 100% accurate, down to each stop sign, and led me STRAIGHT TO THE MONUMENT SIGN of the university?