In our big open-plan office, some colleagues would buy sweets in bulk, selling them at higher prices to others with profits going to charity. It was a win-win for everyone: people with a sweet tooth need not go out to nearby sweet shops, the charity would get an income, and we’d get to meet people from other departments who’d stop and chat for a minute or two. It was all a very nice atmosphere. The sweets were laid out on a spare desk, with a price list and an honesty box next to it.

One day, a colleague realised that instead of making a profit, the operation was currently running at a loss.

I had noticed a pair of young men, both late teens I suppose, who’d saunter up to the sweets desk, pick things up, put things down, pick things up again, put money in the box, take change out, and so on. They always seemed to be trying to act casual. I had been privately suspicious of them because of this behaviour, but I didn’t say anything as one shouldn’t judge by appearances.

However, when my colleague pointed out there was a discrepancy, another colleague said, “Well, I wonder who it could be,” in a pointed way, and I got the distinct impression they already had a good idea who it was.

From then on, they started doing a complete stock-take and accounting of sales and income after anyone bought some sweets (but out of view). When the teens came for their sweets, with their usual performance, colleagues leaped up after they’d gone to do a complete check of the stock and cash. They found that there was money missing, and it seemed to not be a surprise to anyone. From then on, the sweets were kept on someone’s desk, and people had to hand over cash to someone, just like in a normal shop.

Months later, the two young men burned down a train. On their way back from an evening on the south coast, they started mucking around with a lighter and singeing the furnishings for fun, and the train went up in flames. Fortunately, there was no one hurt, but they got jailed.

The all-time most unrealistic demand I ever heard was from a coworker. She said the same thing to me, other coworkers, Human Resources, and management, and she honestly believed she was in the right.

Her demand?

Coworker: “I cannot be around people who take psychiatric medications. That stuff turns you violent. So, for my own safety, anyone taking them cannot work near me. This is a matter of health and safety, and you have to accommodate me.”

She got right up to threatening legal action if her demands were not met. After a month of this, management said:

Management: “Yeah, you’re still in your probation period, and this job obviously isn’t suitable for your ‘needs’, so bye-bye.”

And thus she was fired. At least she didn’t have to work with us “crazy people” anymore!

A great restauranteur opened a chain of cafés/relaxed dining restaurants. They were great. They served Italian cuisine — very simple, quality ingredients, shown at their best with simple presentation. It was a favourite of ours.

At some point, the chain was taken over by a ginormous global food conglomerate. This story takes place sometime after that, but we had many good meals there after the takeover.

This time, I order beef carpaccio as a starter: a simple dish of thinly-sliced raw beef with parmesan, olive oil, and some salad leaves. The dish arrives, and the beef is brown. It’s raw beef, and it’s brown. It is clear to me that it has been exposed to the air for hours and oxidised.

Me: “This shouldn’t be brown. Something is wrong.”

Waitress: *Picking up my plate* “I will ask the kitchen.”

A few minutes later, a manager comes to our table

Manager: “What’s the problem?”

Me: “The beef carpaccio had oxidised; it was brown.”

A few minutes later, he comes out, triumphant!

Manager: “Yes, you are right. It shouldn’t be brown!” 

I was a little stunned. He definitely seemed to think I should be pleased that he had validated my complaint. Was I the only person on the premises who knew that beef carpaccio was raw and that raw beef was red?

It was obvious to me that the dish had been prepared hours before and (presumably) inadequately covered in cling film. The waitress didn’t know the dish, which she should have; the menu wasn’t that long. But more worryingly, either there was no one in charge of the kitchen, or that person wasn’t watching the dishes leave, or they didn’t know what beef carpaccio looked like, or they didn’t care. None of the options filled us with confidence. We paid for our drinks and found somewhere else to eat.

The restaurant has been purchased by yet another corporation and is still trading ten years later. I haven’t bothered going back.

As a grocery delivery driver, the first few months of the global health crisis were… wild, to say the least.

Firstly, I went from pretty much being treated like a non-entity by my customers to some kind of superhero. I would roll my trolley of groceries up to a customer’s house and would leave with chocolate, cold drinks, and more hand sanitiser and wet wipes than I could use in two lifetimes. I made a small fortune in tip money.

One night while I was working, a guy standing at a crossing started jumping and clapping and waving at me, giving me thumbs-up.

But then, there were also the REALLY stupid people.

I lost count of the number of times I’d get to a front door and have a customer open it coughing and spluttering.

Customer: “I should warn you I tested positive.”

But this one is without a doubt the worst customer I had. I was wearing my facemask, and as soon as his door opened, he launched into a rant about how masks were useless and didn’t help anything, I should do my own research, etc.

Me: “Look, you think whatever you want, but my godmother is a phlebotomist for the National Health Service and has been wearing masks at work for over thirty years. My best friend is doing her Ph.D. in biogenetics and wears a mask every day in the lab. My sister’s father-in-law was an army doctor and wore masks whenever he worked with patients. My aunt is the head of logistics for [Ambulance Service], and they spent a small fortune on masks and other PPE for their crews back at the end of 2019. So, that’s my research, and frankly, I’m going to value that over something a random idiot said on the Internet.”

I am on a busy bus, and I’m sitting on one of the easy-access seats. I’m a youngish man. An older woman gets on and immediately starts poking my leg with her walking stick.

Older Lady: “Oi! Get up! Those seats aren’t for you!”

Me: “There are three empty accessible seats right next to you, and please stop poking me.”

Older Lady: “Young men stand on the bus! And this is my walking stick! I need it to walk, and I also use it to make my point to young ruffians like you!”

I proceed to remove my entire prosthetic leg and aim it at her.

Me: “This is my walking stick. I need it to walk. Shall I also use it to make my point?”

The old lady’s eyes went wide, and she sat down in one of the available seats and muttered an apology.

The best part was that later on the bus journey, a bunch of old ladies boarded at once, and I made a big show of vacating my seat and offering it to them. The flurry of “What a nice young man!”-type comments increased with the redness of the old lady’s face.