(We have just had Mother’s Day, the busiest weekend of the year. We do not ever guarantee times of delivery; we just say it’ll be delivered before 5:00 pm.)

Customer: “I asked for it to be delivered before 1:00 pm. It’s nearly 2:00, and they haven’t been delivered. My mum has now gone home from work and won’t receive the flowers for her birthday. I want my money back. I am very angry.”

Me: “Hi, [Customer], we apologise for the delay. We usually deliver up until 5:00 pm and do not guarantee delivery times; however, as you’ve requested it, I’ll refund you in full and cancel the order. It may take five to seven business days for your bank to process this. We apologise for any dissatisfaction caused.”

Customer: *about 3:00 pm* “The flowers still have not been delivered. I never asked you to cancel the order! I am furious! I want to make a formal complaint. You have ruined the whole surprise. I never asked for them to be cancelled!”

Me: “Hi, [Customer], you asked for a refund and we provided one. When a refund is processed, we are then unable to deliver the flowers. I apologise for any dissatisfaction caused. Thank you.”

(Did she want the refund — which is out of policy but we did anyway — AND the flowers? Hell, no!)

Me: “You folded and put away my laundry? Who are you and what have you done with my real girlfriend!?”

Girlfriend: *starts to cough because she has the flu on top of hay-fever*

Me: “No wonder you’re sick! You’re not my real girlfriend at all! YOU’RE A DECOMPOSING POD PERSON!”

Girlfriend: “So… Want to have sex with a decomposing pod person?”

(Our vacuum cleaner has died on us, so my dad and I go shopping for a new one. We go to an appliance store. I’m a young teen at the time. A salesperson starts showing us various models.)

Salesperson: “And here we have a Sauber.”

Me: “Huh. German for ‘clean,’ right?”

Salesperson: “Yeah. You speak German?”

Me: “Not fluently, but decently well.”

Salesperson: “Dein Vater is doof.” (“Your father is stupid.”)

(He then winks at me, like I should find him hilarious. I don’t.)

Me: “So does my Dad.”

Dad: “Ich möchte zu dein Geschäftsführer sprachen, bitte.” (“I would like to talk to your manager, please.”)

(We had a lovely talk with the manager about employees who like to call their customers stupid, especially to their own kids, even if they’re doing it in another language. We went elsewhere to buy our new vacuum, so I don’t know what happened after, but I can’t imagine that the employee stayed long at his job.)

My dad told me this story. When he was a kid, the family moved to a new house. After living there about three months, he distinctly remembers that one night they heard a loud bang, and the next morning, he and his siblings found a bullet hole in the mailbox. It was a great mystery for all the children as they wondered why a random person would shoot at their mailbox.

The mystery went unsolved. More than 40 years later, my grandfather developed rapid-onset dementia and had to be put in aged care. As my dad and my uncle went through his paperwork and belongings, trying to sort everything out, they came across several old documents which shed light on some interesting events that occurred at the time of his family’s move.

My grandfather, despite being a Catholic and never missing a Sunday mass, was not a very nice man. When my grandfather sold the previous property, a farmhouse, before moving to the new one, he deliberately neglected to tell the new owner of the farmhouse that the small piece of land in front of the house — the only entrance to get into the driveway — was actually private property. My grandfather had bought it from the council some years back and now owned it, and he didn’t sell that tiny bit of land to the new owner.

He then, after the sale of the house was finalised, informed the new owner that that piece of land was his, and that he’d give permission for the new owner to use it — essentially, to drive through it to reach their driveway — for a sum of $500 per year, which would be about $3000 in today’s money.

Forty years later, my dad finally understood the bullet-hole in the mailbox.

Customer: “How old are you?”

Me: “Sorry?”

Customer: “How old are you? You couldn’t be more than 25.”

Me: “I’m 22; why?”

Customer: “If you are 22, then why are you wearing a watch?”

Me: “Because I like my watch.”

Customer: *rolls his eyes* “Oh, are you one of those stupid hipsters who thinks you’re too good to look at your phone, or something? Seriously, they shouldn’t hire hipsters.”

Me: “Sir, I wear this watch because it was given to me by somebody I care about. I don’t see how wearing a watch is an issue.”

Customer: “I’m sick of hipsters thinking they’re better than everybody else. If you’re not a hipster, then tell people.”

(After customer leaves.)

Customer #2: “Did you really just get in trouble for wearing a watch?”

Me: “I think so.”

Customer #2: “I wonder what he would say if he saw my brother’s pocket watch.”