(Christmas is very important to me, so I want my first Christmas in my new flat after graduating from university to be special. I decide to buy a Christmas tree. I go to a garden centre to buy one and am greeted by an employee.)

Employee: “Good morning! Are you looking for a Christmas tree?”

Me: “Yes, I am.”

(I tell him my budget and what I’m looking for, and he leads me over to the trees.)

Employee: “Ah, this one is beautiful!”

Me: “Oh, actually, as I said, I’d prefer a fake tree. I can’t touch real ones or—“

Employee: “Nonsense! No one should have a fake tree. How about this one, then—“

(I am dragged around the garden centre for ten minutes as the employee shows me various trees, all real, before I finally snap.)

Me: “Excuse me; I have told you repeatedly that I would prefer a fake tree. I am—“

Employee: “What? No! Fake trees are awful! All plastic and ugly. You don’t want a fake tree! Only lazy people have fake trees. You need a real tree—“

Me: “NO! Listen to me. I do not want a real tree; I want a fake tree. If you had listened at all when I told you what I was looking for, you would know that I cannot come into contact with pine or fir trees because I am allergic! I have been trying to tell you repeatedly for almost fifteen minutes now. Now please take me to find a fake tree.”

(The employee ran away, tail between legs, and I was helped by another employee who said that the employee had been trying to sell nothing but real trees because he got a better commission. I got a discount for the trouble, and have been happily coming into contact with my fake tree for six years.)

(I am in the hospital, having an operation on my hand that requires me to be under general anaesthetic. I am fourteen years old and have previously had two generals, so I know I react well, if very strangely. The anaesthetist is prepping me for surgery, with my dad beside me.)

Anaesthetist: “Okay, now the next drug I’m going to give you is this [medicine], which [does something I now can’t remember]. Okay?”

Me: *already a little bit drugged up and very sluggishly cheerful* “Okay!”

Anaesthetist: *barely started administering the medicine* “Right, so, adults often say that it feels like you’ve had a little drink–”

Me: “Oooh, yep, got that! Wooowwwww! Dad, everything’s blurry!”

Anaesthetist: *trying not to laugh* “Yes, sweetheart, it does that sometimes. I always hear that it’s a bit like having alcohol from the adults, and some people say that it makes them feel very happy.”

Me: “It feels like I’ve had alcohol or something!”

Anaesthetist: “There she goes!”

Me: “And I feel really happy! Did you give me something?”

Anaesthetist: “I’m going to put you to sleep now, sweetheart, okay?”

Me: “Okay! See you in a bit! I like your hat!”

(Out like a light. I apologised to the anaesthetist afterward, while still a bit drugged, and asked where his hat was when he came to tell me that I’d made his day. He’d never been wearing one.)

(I’m the idiot in this story, though in my defence I was very tired. I work for one of the largest supermarkets in the country. We have a standard uniform in all stores; the only difference is that my uniform features a high-visibility vest since I work in a loading yard and drive vehicles. I have just completed an early-morning shift on my sixth consecutive day of work. I forgot to buy some lunch in my store, so I stop at my local one on the way home to get some bits. As I’m walking into the store, another customer stops me.)

Customer: “Excuse me!”

(Thinking it can’t be about me, I keep walking.)

Customer: “Hey, EXCUSE ME! STOP!”

(I actually stop and look around to see a customer glaring at me.)

Me: “What?”

Customer: “How rude! I’m asking for some help here, and you’re just ignoring me.”

Me: “I, uh, don’t work here, mate… Try customer service.”

(The customer just stares at me, confused, while I try and figure out what is going on. Then, I look down to see I’m wearing my full uniform from work, and that the customer quite rightly assumes I work here.)

Me: “Oh… Right, sorry. I don’t work at this branch, and I have just finished an early start shift.”

(The customer seemed to accept this and move on, but then I spent the next twenty minutes walking around a store being asked stuff when I had no clue, since I didn’t work there. I was even asked by a floor manager which department I was in… Note to self: just buy things in your own store.)

(I’m a school receptionist. When students sign in late, they come to me.)

Students: “Miss, we’re sorry we’re late. [Road] was closed because someone died.”

(They give pretty specific details to the death, which I track down, but I put them on detention. They come back at break time.)

Students: “Why do we have detention?”

Me: “I looked into that accident and the road, and found out the closure was yesterday, not today.”

Students: “That’s not true!”

Me: “I pulled news sites and looked; they all give [date], which was yesterday. Now go to detention before I give you one after school!”

(I tell their head of year afterwards.)

Me: “I had half the mind to give them detention for that, too. It’s low.”

Head Of Year: “Keep it in your back pocket, and tell the parents when they come in for a meeting.”

(I’m still quite new to my job, and I’m working one of my first solo shifts when the following happens. Our till system uses both a mouse and a touchscreen, and sometimes they can be a little over-sensitive, which makes it not uncommon for us to bring up the wrong menu when using them. I’ve been there long enough to know about this, and to watch out for it whenever I’m serving. Our card payment system isn’t contactless, and customers have to physically enter their card and PIN number for anything to be processed. A woman comes up to my till with a single item. I say hi and go to scan it when the till prints out a receipt for the last transaction. I’m a little surprised by this, which must show on my face, but I quickly realise that I’ve simply left the cursor over the “print receipt” button, move the mouse, and put the old receipt in the bin.)

Customer: “What was that? What’s happened?”

Me: “The till just printed out a duplicate receipt for the last transaction; nothing to worry about.”

Customer: “Have I been charged for their stuff?”

Me: “No, not at all. It was just a copy receipt.”

Customer: “Are you sure, though?”

Me: “Positive. It didn’t bring their items up on my screen; it was just a copy of their receipt. Besides, the card machine isn’t ready for payment, your card was nowhere near it, you’ve not entered your PIN or any other details, and you’ve not handed me any money; there’s no way to charge you.”

Customer: “Are you sure? I don’t want to be charged for someone else’s things!”

Me: “Definitely. There’s absolutely no way for that to happen.”

(She still looks dubious, but there’s nothing more I can say, so I scan her item and tell her the total.)

Customer: “Are you sure I’ve not been charged?”

Me: “Yes, 100% certain. The total is [price], the same as is on [item], and you can see it up there on the till’s customer display.”

(She finally pulled out her card — which had been in her bag up to this point — and paid. I finished the transaction and handed her her item as she scrutinised her receipt, which, of course, only had one item on it. On her way out, she turned to her husband and said, “I need to keep an eye on that card; I think I’ve been charged for someone else’s stuff.”)