One of my workers calls in, already late for their shift.
Coworker: “I started my period on the bus.”
Me: “Okay? So, what time will you be in?”
Coworker: “I won’t. I just said I started my period on the bus.”
Me: “So go home and take care of yourself! What time will you be in?”
Coworker: “I am not spending another’s day bus money on today. I already spent it once. I’m not coming in.” *Click.*
My new coworker, recent arrival from Asia, speaker of seven languages, announces to me:
Coworker: “I do a s*** now.”
Me: “You know, [Coworker], you don’t have to tell every time you leave your desk why you’re leaving.”
Coworker: “But I don’t want you to think I am leaving. Back home, you always tell your workmates why you are walking away.”
Me: “Okay, but here you don’t need to do that. I know you’re doing the work, so you can just come and go. Okay?”
Coworker: “Okay, well… anyway, I go leave a s*** now.”
Me: “It’s not leave a s***. It’s take a s***.”
Coworker: “Why would I take s***? That’s disgusting!”
Me: “No, you… huh… You know what? You’re right. English is weird. Well, whether you’re leaving one or taking one, no need to tell me, alright?”
Coworker: “I tell you none of my s***!”
Me: “That’s the spirit!”
I’m on the bus, and I overhear a dad talking to his young son:
Dad: “Stop jumping around and be quiet!”
Son: “Don’t be mad at me or I’ll tell mom that I saw you peeing in the bathroom sink.”
That conversation came to an abrupt halt, and the little boy continued his jumping. Thank God I was getting off at the next stop!
I used to have severe nosebleeds. When I say severe, I was hospitalised seven times and had to have two blood transfusions.
After several nasal cauteries between the ages of five and seven, they finally dropped down to four to five times a year and were much lighter in severity.
This story happened when I was eleven or twelve. I was out shopping with my mum when I felt the familiar feeling of blood running down my face. I pinched my nose and turned to the nearest shop worker.
Me: “Excuse me, do you have a toilet?”
Worker: “No, I’m so sorry, it’s staff only. I can run and get you some tissue, or you can use the public toilet downstairs?”
Me: *Already running away.* “I’ll use the toilet, thank you!”
I get to the escalators and start going down before I realise my mum isn’t with me. I turn around to see her still talking to the shop worker.
Mum: “That is unacceptable. You cannot make an exception for a child with a medical condition?”
Worker: “No, ma’am, it’s against shop policy.”
Me: *Trying and failing to walk back up the down escalator.* “Mum, come on!”
Mum: “That’s absolutely ridiculous. How is that safe? You’re just being cruel.”
Worker: “Ma’am, I am not in control of that policy.”
Mum: *Throwing the shoes she was holding on the floor.* “Well, you’ve just lost a sale.”
Me: “Mum, leave it! I need help.”
With blood now dripping down my arm and onto the floor, I turn around and just start running to the toilet. By the time my mum catches up, the bleeding has stopped, and I’m cleaning a substantial amount of blood off my face with the help of a lovely nurse who just happened to be in the bathroom.
Mum: “What a rude woman. I can’t believe she didn’t help you!”
I just gave her a look and spat out some blood that ran down my throat. I didn’t say anything, being a kid, but I do wish I’d gone back and apologised to that poor worker who was just doing her job.
My best friend at university is from the USA. He’s studying in England, but over Christmas, his family is visiting. Since I’m a Londoner, I decided to play tour guide for a day and plan a quick run-through of all the tourist spots.
At one point, we’re walking past a major central street to head to where the horse guards are. In doing so, we pass Downing Street.
Friend’s Dad: “Why is that road locked up?”
Me: “That’s Downing Street. That’s where our Prime Minister works and lives. Think of it like the White House.”
Friend’s Dad: “Huh.”
Me: “That’s why there are police outside with guns. It’s one of the very few times you’ll see guns in the UK out on the street like that.”
Friend’s Dad: “Oh. Do you all have to conceal your weapons here?”
Friend: “Dad, no, I told you. They don’t have guns here.”
Friend’s Dad: “No guns?”
Me: “Well, we have gun clubs for enthusiasts. My grandad is a member and took me shooting on a big range once, but the guns are never allowed to leave the club.”
Friend’s Dad: “No… guns? But, how do you defend yourself?”
Me: “From what?”
Friend’s Dad: “From other guns!”
Friend: “Dad! We’ve been over this! That’s not really a thing here. There’s knife crime, but—”
Friend’s Dad: “—Well, there you have it! How do you bring a gun to a knife fight?”
Friend: “You… don’t? Guns aren’t part of the culture here.”
Me: “Yeah… guns make me nervous, anyway.”
Friend’s Dad: “No wonder these Brits lost against us.”
Friend: “Dad, they’re just not used to seeing guns.”
Friend’s Dad: “Imagine being so not used to seeing guns that the sight of one makes you nervous!”
Me: “I know! Isn’t it wonderful! Anyway, we’re coming to the horse guard’s area, so…”
I go straight into my explanation of the next tourist spot, leaving my friend’s dad flummoxed as to how his apparent burn got turned into a compliment. Overall, he was a friendly guy and enjoyed the trip, but good LORD did that man like his guns.
