(I am a nurse practitioner, assisting my coworker inserting a vascular catheter for dialysis use. The patient is very restless.)

Coworker: “Please stay as still as you can; we don’t want to puncture the wrong blood vessel.”

Patient: “Okay, okay, sorry. It’s just that it really hurts.”

(My coworker continues with the catheterisation, but the patient still keeps wriggling.)

Coworker: “On a scale of one to ten, what is the pain level? I have given you lots of local anaesthetic already.”

Patient: “Nine to ten!”

Coworker: “Okay, let’s give you a little bit more local.”

(My coworker turns to me.)

Coworker: “Okay, let’s give him some more [anaesthetic].”

(I then point to the tray containing all the items required for the procedure, specifically the syringe containing the local anaesthetic — the FULL syringe that hasn’t been used.)

Coworker: *eyes bulge* “Oh, s***!”

(She turns back to the patient.)

Coworker: “Okay, we’re giving you some more local now. How is that?”

Patient: “Oh, much better!”

(The rest of the procedure went by without a hitch. To clear it up, my coworker has been working in the dialysis ward for almost twenty years and this was her first minor mistake at the end of a very long cover shift, but she d*** well hasn’t made that mistake again!)

UK licensing laws mean that virtually everywhere sells alcohol. I work at a corner shop, but we are a franchise and are very strict about ID.

One day, I had a regular come in for some beer. He’d forgotten his ID, but he was the year above me at school so I knew he was of age. I told him not to worry about it and he got his beer with no problems.

Later that evening, I was walking home from work, down a dark alley, when I was pulled to the side and mugged.

A man in a black ski mask demanded that I hand over my phone and wallet. Shaking, I did as he asked.

Then, suddenly, he jerked back and said, “Hey! You’re the girl from the corner shop. You’re all right! You did me a solid earlier.”

It was the guy that had come in to buy beer! He handed back my wallet and phone and I ran away before he changed his mind.

Upset and shaking, I told my mother what had happened and who had tried to mug me. Being a small village, my mother soon told his mother.

I almost felt bad for the guy.

(I work at a bookstore. A man comes in and asks me to recommend him a book. I ask the usual questions: what sort of thing does he like, what books has he liked in the past, and so on. With that information, I select a book, which he buys. A few days later, he comes back in.)

Customer: “That book was great! Couldn’t put it down! Can you write me another one?”

Me: “Can I recommend you another, you mean?”

Customer: “No, I mean are you going to write a sequel?”

Me: “Oh. I’m not a writer. The book was written by [Author]. I don’t think it has a sequel, but I can find you other books they’ve written if you like.”

Customer: “Oh. So… you didn’t write the books in the shop?”

Me: “I… No. I just sell them.”

Customer: “Oh. I always thought you guys wrote all the books in the shop!”

Me: “I wish. I’d be a lot richer if I did. We just sell them; we don’t write any of them.”

(The man look suddenly dejected and a little embarrassed, so I quickly add:)

Me: “I mean, it’s not uncommon for writers to work in bookshops. Some of my colleagues are writers, but as far as I know, none of their books are sold here. But somewhere there’s probably a writer who has their books in the shop they work in.”

(The man goes red, obviously embarrassed, so I decide to change the subject.)

Me: “Would you like me to recommend something else? [Author] has written quite a few books. If you liked that one, you’d probably really like these.”

(I led him over to a shelf and grabbed a few books, talking him through each one. I’m an avid reader and have read many of the books in the store, including the ones I am recommending. The man bought several books, apologised for what he said, and left. He’s been coming in every week for a while now to find a new book. Sometimes he apologises again for thinking we wrote the books but I always tell him it’s not a problem and that actually, I’m flattered that anyone would think I could write such good books.)

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(The customer is over six feet tall, Glaswegian, in his mid-50s, and looks ex-military. I am a fifteen-year-old girl, only 5’2”, working as a volunteer at a charity shop.)

Me: “That’ll be £24, please.”

Customer: *hands over a £50 Scottish note*

(I know exactly what’s coming.)

Me: “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t accept that.”

(At this point, I’d like to reiterate that I’m a volunteer shop assistant. I’m not being paid.)

Customer: “I beg your pardon?”

Me: “I said I’m really sorry, but I’m not allowed to accept that.”

Customer: “What d’you mean you’re—“ *he puts on an insulting Cockney, “little girl” voice, as if he’s imitating me* “—’not allowed to f****** accept that’?”

Me: *calmly* “I mean that I can’t accept that note. I’m really sorry, but my manag—“

Customer: “Oh, your manager says so?! You’re f****** kidding me! This is f****** legal currency! I cannae believe you English f***s will not let me pay for my own f****** clothes! This is a f****** disgrace!”

(He’s essentially shouting, and I’m in that space between being really angry and being close to tears.)

Me: “Sir, I’m really sor—“

Customer: “’SIR’?! Oh, you’re calling me ‘SIR’, now? How f****** dare you?! You think tryna plaster f****** manners over this is going to make it okay?! Take it!”

(He slams the money on the counter.)

Me: “Let me just get my manager…”

(I grab the phone behind me to call my manager down. My manager is a sweet, lady in her late 50s who loves the world but does not take attitude. She can hear that I’m upset, so when she comes downstairs she’s already fuming.)

Manager: “What’s the problem here?”

Customer: “I’ll tell you the f****** problem. This little b**** won’t let me pay for my f****** clothes.”

Manager: *visibly balks at the insult and turns to me* “Why not, love?”

Me: *terrified, points to the note on the counter*

Manager: *passes it back to him* “We accept neither £50 notes nor Scottish tender; this is both. You can pay by card if you don’t have other money.”

Customer: “This is f****** unacceptable!”

Manager: “You can pay by card or you can leave.”

Customer: “I’m going to be ringing your head office; this is a f****** disgrace!”

Manager: “And I will be ringing the police if you don’t leave right now. You’re harassing my staff. Get out.”

(The customer pushed the clothes off the counter, called me a b**** one last time, and stomped out. My manager bought me a strong cup of tea and a plate of biscuits, and gave me a hug.)

I was recently injured while travelling, but my stubborn self just kept on going as normal. My legs were bruised, I had scrapes and scratches, my knee was wrapped, and I had only just stopped bleeding the day before travelling into London with a large suitcase and backpack. Travel was slow and painful, but I still kept going. I had things to do, places to go, people to see, etc.

On six separate occasions, I needed to go up or down stairs with no escalator or lift nearby. Being my first time in England, I certainly looked lost, as well, I’m sure. Each time, someone came over and offered to help carry my luggage, walking up the stairs with me to make sure I didn’t fall and injure myself further. They didn’t accept anything and ran off in the opposite direction as soon as I had thanked them. 

But to those of you who helped me climbing stairs slowly with a suitcase half your size, thank you. I made it safely and without further injury thanks to each one of you.