(I work at a sno-cone stand for my uncle, and as it is usually very hot, my stand almost always has a line. Customer #1 is sitting at a picnic table off to the side, not in line.)

Customer #1: “Excuse me, can I get a water?”

Me: “I’m sorry, sir, in just a moment, after I help this girl with her cone.”

Customer #1: “I don’t care! I’m thirsty and it’s hot. Do you want me to become dehydrated and die?!”

Me: *getting sick of people not waiting in line and expecting service* “Frankly, sir, I don’t care. There is a line, that you can see is quite long, and you are currently at the end of it.”

Customer #1: “WOW! I should tell your boss about how terrible your service is. You’re being a b***!”

Customer #2: *a regular* “Go ahead, dude. It doesn’t matter; that’s her uncle.”

(I have my two-week-old daughter in her pram in front of a busy market stall. A man is impatient to get to the stall before me and pushes past, knocking against the pram and almost tipping it over.)

Me: “HEY!”

Man: “It was in my way.”

Me: “Oh, that’s all right then. It’s not as though there’s anything important in there. IT’S ONLY A BABY!”

(My brother and I are both English by birth and have English accents, but my parents and grandparents are all Welsh and have Welsh accents. We have gone to South Wales to visit the family and are in Swansea Market.)

Me: “Welshcakes! Can we have some, please?”

(Mum goes to order. My brother and I keep chatting away.)

Stallholder: *to person behind us* “What can I get you, love?”

(We assume the stallholder hadn’t seen us, but this happens a few more times and it becomes obvious we are being ignored.)

Mum: “Excuse me. Are we being served?”

(The stallholder blanks us and serves more local Welsh customers.)

Mum: “Are you not serving me because my children have got English accents?”

(Again, no response. Luckily, another Welshcake stallholder is opposite and has seen everything.)

Other Stallholder: *loudly, so everyone can hear* “Come over here, love! I’ll serve you. And my Welshcakes are much better than hers!”

(We go over, and get a couple of free Welshcakes. Other customers who witnessed the situation come to this stall instead. The nice stallholder made a fair bit of money that day!)

(I have just stepped off a cruise ship and am heading into the main street when I pass a market stall with lots of shoes. I swipe a fleeting glance at them.)

Owner: “Ah, pretty lady looking at the pretty shoes!”

Me: “I’m just looking.”

(I carry on walking past when he grabs my arm. He sees the disdainful look I give him and he lets go.)

Owner: “These shoes are beautiful! They will look beautiful on your beautiful feet!”

(He creeps me out, but I need another pair of shoes and, in his defense, they weren’t terrible.)

Owner: “You are English? No?”

Me: “Yes. I am English.”

Owner: “Beautiful English rose! For I do you special deal. Okay?”

Me: “Okay. How much?”

Owner: “You are so beautiful. Only the best leather for you!”

(He peels back the thinnest leather I have ever seen. The stitching on the shoe isn’t even straight. It’s drastically warped and very noticeable. I decide to hear him out all the same, but I am getting annoyed.”

Me: “So, how much?”

Owner: “For you pretty lady, today is your lucky day! They are half price! I do you special deal. Just for you I will take more off! $150!”

Me: “I don’t think so! Why are you charging so much?”

(The owner looks insulted and then laughs at me snidely.)

Owner: “You have no style! These are Gucci!”

(The owner defiantly points to the Gucci label on the sole.)

Me: “If they are real Gucci, why is Gucci spelt wrong?”

(The owner throws the shoe to the floor in anger and tells me in very colourful language to go away and that I am an ugly English girl!)

(Near where I live, there is a popular Amish market. We buy their baked goods a lot. We buy a six-pack of cinnamon buns. Once we cut one, we realize they are raw inside.)

Me: “Yes, I’d like to return these, please.”

Baker: “Why?”

Me: “They’re raw on the inside.”

Baker: “But they’re already open.”

Me: “Yes, I cut one. That’s how I realized they were raw on the inside.”

Baker: “But you can’t return it. It’s open.”

Me: “I can’t eat it. It’s raw. You’re not allowed to sell it that way, either. It’s a health hazard.”

Baker: “Well, what do you want me to do?”

Me: “I’d like a refund. I can’t eat these, and I had no way of knowing they were raw when I bought them.”

Baker: “…”

Me: “Well, could you finish cooking them at least?”

Baker: “But you opened it! One’s cut!”

Me: “Yes. Now think about it. Do they look raw on the outside?”

Baker: “No…”

Me: “Excellent. Now, are they raw on the inside?”

Baker: “Yes…”

Me: “Good. Now the big one: How could I know they were raw on the inside?”

Baker: “…if you cut one and saw.”

Me: “Yes! So there’s no way I could’ve known without cutting one.”

Baker: “Oh. Well, I don’t want to give you a refund.”

Me: “Well, you do realize you’re not allowed to sell them like this? There are laws. There are health regulations. I could report this—”

Baker: “—fine! Here’s your refund!”

Me: “Thanks!”