I am waiting to be served at the service desk of a major supermarket in a suburb known for drug problems, crime, and s***ty people in general. This store only has a handful of trolleys, and today, there are none in the bays. The cashier is a young woman of eighteen or nineteen.

The cashier has just started to serve me when I’m pushed out of the way.

Customer: “Why aren’t there any trolleys?”

Cashier: “Ma’am, please don’t touch other customers, and wait your turn.“

Customer: *Now yelling* “F*** THE OTHER CUSTOMERS! WHY ARE THERE NO TROLLEYS?“

Cashier: “Customers are using them?“

Customer: “THIS IS F****** RIDICULOUS! WHY ARE THERE NO TROLLEYS?”

I’ve had a long day at work and just want to do my return and go home, so I step in.

Me: “Because some idiots take them away from the shop and don’t return them.”

Customer: *Turning to me* “WHO THE F*** ASKED YOU?”

Me: “Well, considering you literally pushed your way into my conversation and are harassing a poor worker who has no control over how many trolleys there are, you did. Now, shut the f*** and use a basket like anyone with half a brain. Just f*** off and let the five actual customers here get served, or the security guard there can call the cops and I’ll press charges for assault. Take your pick.

Customer: “F*** YOU, YOU FAT—”

Me: *To the approaching security guard* “Please call the cops. This woman just… Oh, look at that; she ran away.”

One time, I was flying out of Melbourne’s international airport, and at the security check, they had both the metal detector scanner (doorway) and full-body scanners. As someone with two hip replacements — that is, big chunks of metal inside my body — I know that the full-body scanners are the preferred option. When I got to the airport person pointing out which security point to go to, I said I needed the full body scanner as I’ve got hip replacements. I was maliciously (or so it seems) sent to the metal detector instead, despite my protests.

As you can imagine, the detector went off, and I was sent back to take off “more” three times! (I had already removed anything metallic except my wedding ring.) Eventually, they listened and got someone with the wand to come and check me over and pat me down.

After I finally got through, the supervisor confronted me.

Supervisor: “You should’ve gone through the full-body scanner!”

Me: “I tried to insist on that, but your person sent me over to the other scanner.”

I pointed to the staff member.

Supervisor: “Oh, we have no control over them or what training they undergo.”

It wasn’t a huge problem, as “be there three hours before” means there’s always too much time anyway, so it was a frustrating waste of time for security and the people behind me, but it helped pass the time.

I learned my lesson and after that made up an A4 sign to hold up saying I had the hip replacements and to get the wand before going through the first time. Some even paid attention. (NAR readers will be familiar with how well people read signs!)

This story reminded me of a similar experience. In Australia, fish and chips shops are very similar to the British variety: typically small, independent fast food shops that serve deep-fried battered fish and potato chips (fat fries), amongst other things, cooked to order. Though they are independent, they typically have similar menus with similar prices, so you know what to order even if you have never been to that shop before.

I’m visiting my newish boyfriend, who moved from interstate a short while before we started dating. He and his friends haven’t had dinner, so he and a mate are heading out to get fish and chips for everyone. I’ve eaten, but I love me a deep-fried scallop (shellfish), so I ask for two of them.

They return with a single butcher paper parcel containing all the food the group ordered. It’s tightly wrapped to keep everything warm, and they open it in the middle of the table. I am scanning the spread to find my delicious morsels. Everything is deep-fried, and most of it is battered, so I have to go by size and shape. There are several fillets of fish, a lot of chips, a handful of dim sims (do not ask!) and some “potato cakes”, which are thin slices of potato, battered and deep-fried. I am not a fan. Nothing looks like a scallop.

Me: “Where are my scallops?”

[Boyfriend] points to the potato cakes.

Me: “Um, I wanted scallops, not potato cakes.”

Boyfriend: “Oh! In Queensland, we call them ‘potato scallops’ or just ‘scallops’. Sorry.”

So, I think, “Isn’t language interesting? Every day, I learn something new.” Well, it’s time to put that learning to use.

Me: “Ah! So, in Queensland, what do you ask for if you want the shellfish?”

Boyfriend:  “Scallops.”

I learnt to be very specific with food orders with him. I also refused to call peanut butter “peanut paste”. We must have standards.

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Chipping Away At The Confusion

I work in a second-hand store where we set our own prices based on what we think the item is worth, which of course leads to customers trying to negotiate a lower price on some stuff. Sometimes they have a point, and sometimes they’re just stupid, like in this case.

Customer: “Hey, you’ve got $20 on that violin there, but you’re missing the bow. Can you do it a bit better?”

Me: “First of all, if we have a violin missing the bow, that’s considered when we decide the price. Second of all, that’s a ukulele.” 

Customer: “…will you do the violin for $15?”

The comments under this story reminded me of an incident from long ago.

I was studying computer science, and part of the final year coursework was a huge software development group project. Four of us were Australian-born. The fifth, Amr, was from the Middle East. His father was a diplomat. They came to Australia when Amr was twelve, and when the next posting came, it was decided that Amr should finish his education in Australia.

So, by the time I met Amr, he had spent ten years in Australia, most of it without his parents. He was an Aussie bloke in most aspects. I knew he was Muslim, but I also knew he was not a strict adherent. For example, he drank more (much more) than the rest of us. What I didn’t know, which is important for this story, was about Halal and Haram. 

We’d typically spend our Saturdays at one of our homes, a big sharehouse near the university with a kitchen and plenty of living rooms. We’d take turns bringing food, and this particular Saturday, I bought two family-sized meat pies and some salad. I stopped working a little before lunchtime to prepare the food. I put the hot pies and cold salad out, and people grabbed plates and took what they wanted.

I was in the kitchen when Amr came back for seconds.

Amr: “This pie is amazing. What is it?”

Me: “Beef and bacon.”

Yeah, I shudder to write that now!

Amr: “OH, NO! Muslims aren’t allowed to eat pork!”

I saw the look on his face, and I started apologising. I knew about Kosher, so I thought I understood what that meant to him. I could not have been more wrong!

Amr: “YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE TOLD ME! Now I can’t have a second slice!”

In case you are curious, Amr finished his degree and was not allowed to stay in the country as his student visa expired. He could not go back to his home country because they have compulsory service and he would be an Aussie boy in a Middle Eastern army. So, he moved to New Zealand, who was happy to have him. His plan was to move back to Australia after he got New Zealand citizenship, but I believe by then he was very happy with his new home. I hope he has discovered turkey bacon!

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We’re Pretty Sure That’s Illegal, Dude!