He Is His Own Flight Risk

, , , , , , | Right | November 14, 2018

(I am going on holiday with my friend, and a man runs up to us and grabs me.)

Man: “Hey, tell me where I go for my flight.”

Me: “I do not work here, so I can’t tell you.”

Man: “You screw-up! I’ll call [Airline]’s manager and tell them you aren’t prepared to help me, and therefore you should be fired!”

Me: “But I don’t work for [Airline].”

Friend: “No, he doesn’t.”

Man: “Well, if I miss my flight, it’s thanks to [Airline] for hiring you two idiots!”

Friend: “Likely, and tell me when security arrive!”

(My friend and I are both laughing now, and the man storms off, muttering rude things under his breath.)

Man: *across from terminal exit* “WHY? I MISSED MY FLIGHT BECAUSE YOU DIDN’T TELL ME WHERE IT WAS! I HATE YOUR AIRLINE!”

(I walk up to him and ask him which was his flight.)

Man: “[Flight number] at [time of departure].”

Me: “That flight leaves at 18:55, and it’s 12:04. It leaves from Gate 12, Terminal 1, and we were at Gate 54, Terminal 3.”

Man: “Oh.” *walks off*

Me: *to friend* “And he was calling me a screw-up!”

(We laughed until we figured out we were about to miss our flight!)

We Don’t Serve Euro Trash

, , , , , | Right | October 29, 2018

(I work in a city centre bar, and this takes places on a busy Saturday night. Three Irish guys have ordered a round, and all the card machines stop working whilst one of them is trying to pay.)

Me: “I’m really sorry, but none of the card machines are working. Have you got any cash to pay with?”

(All of them shake their heads no.)

Customer #1: “So there’s something wrong with my card?”

Me: “No, it’s something on our end. None of the machines are working at the moment. Sorry. Let me just go grab my manager to see what I should do.”

(I run into the back to speak to my manager, who tells me to let them have the drinks for free because the fault is on our end. I go tell them this, and carry on serving other people. A few minutes later they attract my attention.)

Customer #2: “Hi, can we have three gin and tonics, please?”

Me: *slightly confused* “Our card machines still aren’t working, sorry, so, if you haven’t got any cash…”

Customer #2: ”I’ve got cash.”

Me: *more confused* “You’ve got cash?”

Customer #2: “Yeah.”

Customer #3: “Why don’t you believe him?”

(In my head: because you said none of you had cash fifteen minutes ago.)

Me: “Oh, I just have to check because the card machines are down. So that’s three double gin and tonics, yeah?”

(I make their drinks, give them to them, then ring it up on the till.)

Me: “That’ll be [amount], please.”

([Customer #2] hands me a note, and when I look I see that it’s a Euro note — currency used in Southern Ireland and some other countries in Europe, but not in the UK. Thinking it’s a genuine mistake I go to give it back to them.)

Me: “Sorry, it looks like you’ve accidentally given me Euros.”

Customer #2: “So?”

Me: “Well, we can’t accept Euros as a method of payment.”

Customer #2: “Yes, you can. You have to.”

Me: “Sorry, but I don’t. We can’t accept Euros.”

Customer #2: “Yeah, but we’re Irish.”

Me: *speechless for a second* “But we’re not. We cannot accept Euros. You need to pay me in pounds.”

Customer #2: “But we’re Irish!”

Me: “That doesn’t make any difference. We can’t accept Euros.”

Customer #2: “But this is the only cash I’ve got!”

(I stare at them for a second, and then ask for their drinks back since they can’t pay for them. The worst part was that they seemed genuinely confused that I couldn’t accept foreign currency. I went in the back and sat down for five minutes after that.)

My Audience Of Two Will Be Enraptured!

, , , , | Right | October 10, 2018

(I’m working on the tills and I am approached by a woman holding a packet of crisps. She doesn’t put them on the belt but holds them out to me. She has the look of a very stern headmistress.)

Customer: “I found this on the shelf reduced to 10p. They went off at the end of last month.”

Me: “Ah, yes. We reduced it because it was near the expiration date.”

Customer: “It is illegal to reduce stock after it has expired. Did you know that?”

Me: “It was likely reduced as it neared the best-before date to clear it off the shelves. We are allowed to sell stock which is nearing or has gone past its best-before date up to a month afterwards.”

Customer: *in a patronising tone* “Really? Well, that’ll be something interesting to write in my blog.”

(She strutted off looking very superior. For a few seconds, I stared after her, still holding the crisps. Behind her a male customer was trying his hardest not to laugh. I checked with a supervisor later and he clarified what I had said; we throw away stock which has reached the use-by date, but we can sell stock one month after the best-before date. We broke no laws, and hopefully the woman did her research and realised that before she wrote her blog!)

The Doctor’s Prognosis Is Dislocated From The Truth

, , , , , , , | Healthy | October 1, 2018

This tale’s from a few years ago, and will need a little backstory. I have a multi-systemic collagen defect disorder called hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos syndrome. To explain it in detail would take all night; suffice it to say that my joints dislocate very easily and, though I’ve learned to put them back by myself, there are some I just can’t fix unaided, the wrist of my dominant hand being one of these, for obvious reasons. Bear in mind, too, that dislocations — whether full or partial — hurt. A lot.

One evening, housesitting for a friend on the other side of my city, feeding her cats, I somehow managed to pop my right wrist half out of place. I knew it was out, and I was alone in the house, but — luckily, thought I — the nearest hospital was just over the road. I necked a dose of my usual liquid morphine, grabbed my walking stick left-handed, and headed over to Accident & Emergency.

It was quiet, so I was seen in about thirty minutes and sent for an x-ray, as per routine. When my x-ray was done, though, the doctor on duty left me to sit — on a hard, plastic chair in a cubicle, that was not helping my general chronic pain, while my morphine slowly wore off — for three hours.

After those long three hours, he finally bothered to come to me, and insisted, in the most supercilious, maddening way possible, that my wrist was fine, that the x-ray showed nothing, and that I should go home. I argued with him for a minute, but gave up. Words weren’t going to get through; that much was clear.

I sighed. Then, I asked him to humour me for a moment and get a firm grip of the hand on my injured arm. He did, not looking too pleased about it.

I yanked my arm back against his hold, hard. I could hear the crack as my wrist went back into its proper position, and so did he. The look on his face was an absolute picture.

I’ve never been back to that hospital since. And if I have my way about it, I never will!

Digging Your Nails Into This Alibi

, , , , , | Working | July 9, 2018

(A coworker bursts into my office.)

Coworker: *thrusting a sheet of paper into my hand* “I need you to sign this!”

Me: *after reading the paper* “[Coworker], I can’t sign this. This says you attended [Meeting] yesterday.”

Coworker: “I know; I sort of need an alibi.”

Me: “But this wouldn’t prove anything. [Meeting] is held over instant messenger. All someone has to do it check the record and see you weren’t in it.”

Coworker: “So, you won’t help me? God, you’re so mean now that you’ve been promoted. I could lose my job.”

Me: “What’s the alibi for, anyway?”

Coworker: “I needed to nip out and get a pedicure for my great-aunt’s funeral on Friday, and I can only get it done at [Salon], which is near [Town]. And, well, the parking is really bad, so I took the metro, and I ended up being gone for five hours.”

Me: “Five hours?! You know you could’ve taken compassionate leave?”

Coworker: “And missed ogling at those construction workers across the road? Think straight, [My Name]!” *leaves*

(She probably would have gotten away with her little frolic, had she not acted suspicious and blurted out a fabricated story to her manager, who then followed up on it and discovered the truth. She wasn’t fired, but she lost access to her company car for the rest of the week, meaning she had to pay to drive to the funeral. A rumour started later that month that she decided not to go, and spent all day at home.)

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