(Our shop is a small craft shop. We sell fabrics and other craft items but not upholstery and curtain items. I work there six days a week so I don’t tend to frequent other craft shops on the seventh. A customer calls.)

Me: “Good afternoon. How can I help?”

Customer: “Do you sell curtain brackets?”

Me: “No, I’m afraid not; we don’t sell curtain accessories.”

Customer: “So, you don’t have brackets?”

Me: “No, I’m afraid not.”

Customer: “Where do you normally send people who need curtain things?”

Me: “I’m afraid we’re not a catalogue of shops; we don’t really—”

Customer: “You must have a list of contacts for people you can’t help.”

Me: “Well, there’s a shop in [Nearby Town] who may do them, but you may want to Google curtain shops in the local area to be sure.”

Customer: “Oh.” *hangs up*

(Seriously, shops are not local directories for you, and small business owners don’t have time to be making lists of other craft shops to send you to. Google is a thing; do your own research.)

(My friends and I have been to a nightclub in the city, and instead of getting the train, I offer to drive everyone. I am stone-cold sober as I don’t like to drink alcohol; I don’t like the taste. We exit the club and see a food truck on the curb. All of my friends are a bit too drunk to want food, but I go over and join the queue. There are a few people in front of me, and finally the queue thins and it’s just me and a man that is so drunk that he can’t stand. At one point, he hunches over and gags but luckily isn’t sick.)

Server: “Anyone not had their order taken yet?”

(The drunk man in front of me ignores him and continues to gag.)

Server: “Anyone?”

(This goes on for two minutes and in the end, I roll my eyes and step forward to order. The second I open my mouth…)

Server: “Get back in line! That man was in front of you.”

(I shrugged and decided to walk away, because I had already been in the queue for ten minutes and it didn’t look like I was going to get any food any time soon. The second I stepped out of line, the man vomited over the curb and up the side of the truck.)

(I am in my early thirties and have recently taken a part-time job in a bar so I can spend more time with my young children but still earn money.)

Young Coworker: “I can’t believe you’ve never worked in a bar before! It’s like you’ve been doing this for years.”

Me: “I’ll tell you a secret. Drunk people are basically toddlers.”

Drunk Customer: “I want crisps! No… I want crisps and a shot! No… I want another beer. Now! Now! Now!”

Me: “See?”

One day, my dad’s class was given new rulers by the school to replace old wooden rulers. The old rulers had a problem with splinters, and may have had inches on them — Dad can’t really remember, as this was the 70s — whereas the new rulers were centimetres only. Perfectly valid reasons to replace the rulers. There was just one problem: the school made the mistake of choosing ones advertised as shatterproof, with the word featured prominently on the rulers themselves as if trying to invite the destructive curiosity it inevitably would.

Telling a room of teenagers, the intelligent and mischievous individuals that they are, that it’s impossible to do something has never been a good idea, nor will it ever be. No matter the generation, teenagers will put this sort of claim to the test, and that’s precisely what happened here. My dad and his classmates, taking the claim that these long, thin slabs of plastic were shatterproof as a challenge, started bending the rulers to just over a complete circle, forwards and backwards, to determine the claim’s truthfulness.

The rulers survived being bent forwards, but when they were bent backwards, the claim they were shatterproof failed the truthfulness test miserably. As a result of my dad’s class’s experiment, from what he tells me, shards of plastic shrapnel initially originating from the ridges flew all over the classroom, which was obviously far more dangerous than the splinters from the old wooden rulers. Only one ruler survived the mischief, and that was because it had been confiscated before its user could scatter its remains across the classroom by testing its structural soundness. Dad can’t remember since it was so long ago, but he suspects they went back to the wooden rulers until the not-so-shatterproof ones could be replaced.

(I am waiting in line to change some money, and I overhear the following.)

Customer: “Hi. I’d like to change £500 to Euros.”

(The customer hands over notes. The clerk counts twice in front of her.)

Clerk: “This is only £480.”

Customer: “Oh, I was sure I counted £500; let me check in my bag.” *no luck* “Okay, it’ll have to be £480, then.”

Clerk: *starts to count out money*

Customer: “Oh, can it all be small notes? They won’t take anything big.”

Clerk: “Okay, but it will be a couple of minutes, then.”

Customer: *sounding grumpy* “Fine.”

Clerk: “Okay, so this is €528.”

Customer: “€548?”

Clerk: “No, €528.”

Customer: “Are you sure?”

Clerk: “Yes.”

Customer: “But when I was going to change £500, it was €550.”

Clerk: “Yes, but you’re only changing £480.”

Customer: “But that’s more than €20 less.”

Clerk: “Yes, because you’re paying £20 less.”

Customer: “But euros are less than the pound so it should be more than €530.”

Clerk: “No, £20 is about €22, so you’re getting €22 less than €550, because you’re paying £20 less.”

Customer: “Hmm…”

(She did eventually take the money, but still sounded unconvinced. I’m pretty sure she went away to tell everyone about the “clerk who tried to cheat her out of her money.”)