I was born on the 11th of September, 2001. I’m English, so it’s never been a particularly evocative fact, and I’ve only ever met one person who was personally affected by the tragedy. When I was ten, I was in an afterschool club and overheard two teachers talking.

Teacher #1: “How long ago was 9/11 now?”

Teacher #2: “At least a decade, I think. I can’t remember exactly what year it was now.”

Teacher #1: “Surely not. I thought it was about five years.”

Me: “It was ten years ago — eleven in a few months.”

Teacher #1: *Scoffing* “How would you know? You’d barely remember.”

Me: “Because that’s my birthday, and I’m ten, so it has to be ten years.”

Teacher #1: “I really don’t think you’d know. It’s been five years.”

Me: “…but I’m not five.”

Teacher #1: “What’s that got to do with anything?”

Me: “…because 11th September 2001 is my birthday?”

Teacher #2: “…and it’s now April 2012?”

Teacher #1: “I think you’re both wrong. The maximum I would say is six.”

Teacher #2: “…Years aren’t subjective, [Teacher #1].”

Teacher #1: “How would she know what happened on her birthday?”

Teacher #2: “I assume because her parents mentioned it?”

Teacher #1: “Well, I think you’re wrong, and you shouldn’t lie for attention.”

With that, she flounced off. I looked at [Teacher #2], utterly baffled.

Teacher #2: “Don’t worry. I know you’re not making it up. Take this as proof that adults can be as wrong as anyone else.”

[Teacher #1] was nasty to me for the rest of the school year. I still can’t wrap my head around what her train of thought was.

I am on vacation in England. I order a crepe from a street vendor, and we chat amicably for a few minutes while he makes the crepe. I’m an American, and he’s from Bangladesh, and we both laugh that, as an American, I’m the only guy I know who likes cricket.

He hands the crepe over, I thank him, and I go on my way. It takes me a few moments before a panic comes over me. I quickly double back and arrive back at the crepe stand.

Me: “I forgot to pay you!”

Vendor: “You paid me with conversation and a shared love of cricket.”

He didn’t accept my money, but I did go back there every day for the rest of my trip and continued our conversation while I enjoyed every flavor of crepe he offered.

And yes, every time after that, I did pay!

The UK is going through a record-breaking heatwave, with temperatures hitting 40 degrees Celsius (104 F), which for us is A LOT.

I’m working at a train station when a passenger with an accent (either US or Canadian) comes up to me covered in sweat and anger.

Passenger: “For the love of God, turn on the AC!”

Me: “Sir, we don’t have any AC”

Passenger: “Ha… ha… very funny. Seriously, it’s hot as h*** out there, and my train isn’t for another thirty minutes!”

Me: “Sir, I’m sorry, but we don’t have any air conditioning devices installed at this station. We have a large fan blowing by the entrance if you’d like to stand there until your train arrives.”

Passenger: “Wait… you’re serious?”

Me: “I’m afraid so, sir.”

Passenger: “No… no AC? But…”

He looks around at the sad scene. Everyone on the platform and in the station is an image of sweaty misery.

Passenger: “…but… how?!“

Me: “Easy. It’s only hot enough to be this uncomfortable for a couple of weeks of the year, so our building relies on central heating a lot more than any kind of air conditioning. This particular station was built in the Victorian times before air conditioning was a thing. Also, if there was any air conditioning at this station, I’d be bloody standing right next to it!”

The poor passenger conceded that I had a point. I told him to come back during winter and he could try out our amazing central heating instead!

I am travelling from the South of England to the North of Scotland to start a new job tomorrow morning. I take a train up to London, and I am supposed to get on an early morning flight from Heathrow. The bus to the airport, however, is cancelled and I have to make my own way using a series of night buses.

It’s about 2:30 am, my phone is dead, and I’ve never used London’s night buses before.

I am young and a little scared, standing in the middle of the huge Victoria station, trying to figure out the faded bus schedule when a woman in a bus driver’s uniform comes up to me.

Bus Driver: “Are you all right, love?”

Me: *Through tears* “I need to get to the airport, and I think I’m going to miss my flight, and I don’t know how to get an Oyster card.”

An Oyster card is London’s pre-paid metro card. You can’t use cash on the trains and buses, but I’ve never used one before.

Bus Driver: “Here, let’s look up the route.”

She looks up my route on her phone and writes down all of the possible variations of buses and trains that I need to take, including the times! She then waits with me the entire time — like twenty minutes. THEN, when the bus comes up, she pays for my fare by tapping her own Oyster card on the scanner.

Me: “Thank you so much! I hope I didn’t keep you from your work!”

Bus Driver: “Oh, my shift finished half an hour ago. You just looked like you needed someone.”

I think about her every once in a while, and I’m incredibly grateful for her.

I went to a “posh” state school, one that desperately wanted to be a private school but couldn’t quite attract enough wealthy families willing to pay for tuition. However, we weren’t allowed to play common sports in PE like football, so instead, we did tennis in the spring/summer and lacrosse in the autumn/winter. This happened early in year seven (eleven years old), and I’m still salty about it nearly fifteen years later.

After a couple of lessons teaching us how to pick up the ball with a lacrosse stick and throw it without whacking ourselves in the head, the PE teacher divided us into two teams, let us loose on the playing field, and told us to play a game of lacrosse. It’s important to note that we knew the positions of lacrosse players on the field but pretty much nothing else. We also weren’t given or told to buy any gear apart from shoes, sticks, and mouthguards.

I, being a fairly exercise-averse preteen, decided I’d play goalie in an attempt to get away from most of the running around. I know the teacher saw me standing in goal because we locked eyes early in the game, and she didn’t say anything, so I thought I’d gotten away with it.

After about fifteen minutes of watching my classmates run around, someone actually managed to get near the goal and attempted to score. I tried to intercept but instead took the heavy baseball-sized ball full force in my chest. It was the first time I understood that “knocking the wind out of someone” wasn’t just a turn of phrase but in fact an accurate description. I crumpled rather unceremoniously onto the astroturf, gasping for breath that wouldn’t come. My vision went dim, and for a second, I genuinely thought I was dying.

Suddenly, there was a crowd of my classmates around me, and the teacher was pushing through to stand over me. Silly me, I thought she was there to help. Instead, she turned to the crowd and said:

Teacher: “And that, class, is why lacrosse goalkeepers wear heavy body protection. It was very silly of you to try and play goalie without that, wasn’t it, [My Name]?”

I just sort of gaped at her, too breathless to be upset that I was being shamed publicly for something I didn’t know I shouldn’t do. Apparently dissatisfied with my lack of a grovelling apology for not having memorised the appropriate attire for a game I’d only learned existed a month ago, the teacher made me stand up and told me:

Teacher: “If you’re really that hurt, you can go and sit on the side for a bit.”

Thankfully, by the time all the fuss had died down class, was almost over, so we all trooped back into the lockers to get changed.

I was a severely anxious child and convinced myself I’d actually done something wrong, so I didn’t report it. I still regret that, especially as I spent the next two weeks with a fist-sized bruise aching against my ribs every time I took a breath. Funnily enough, I developed an aversion to lacrosse after that and never played goalie again.