(A few decades ago teachers were able to sign up to a lucrative retirement plan that would come into fruition in the 2000s. The government expected and thus preemptively advertised a shortage of teachers to entice school-goers to aim for teaching as a career path. At the same time, universities lowered their entry requirements and steered towards a profit-based program, advertising the shortage and near guarantee of a job at the end of your studies… and fools flocked to the industry, myself included. I had the scores to get me into other industries, but I fancied teaching because I love kids, and the shortage side of it didn’t hurt. Fast forward to the end of my five years of university. The shortage never came to fruition, so I was essentially competing with 44,000+ teachers in my state alone to find work that didn’t exist. Nevertheless, I enjoyed teaching and was generally pretty chipper about it, happy to accept any casual work that came my way. I figured that I’d just do the best job that I could and hard work would eventually pay off. I was naive. Here’s some examples of real conversations that I had that contributed to my decision to leave teaching. They were all in different schools with different teachers.)

Full-Time Teacher: “This is my first year out of uni. I got this class straightaway.”

Me: “Well done; that’s fantastic.”

Full-Time Teacher: “Yeah, I was a butcher before and ran my own business. My wife is a teacher in [Very Affluent Suburb in the city] where we live. But she said male teachers get a job straightaway, so I did it, and here I am.”

Me: *cringing* “That’s great; it must be a nice change for you.”

Full-Time Teacher: “Yeah, but I do miss the extra $45,000 more I earned each year there.”

Me: *thinking I earn half of that alone* “Yeah…”

(Another time…)

Teacher #2: “I thought teaching would be easier. I’ll admit it.”

Me: “Yeah, I guess so. I mean, there is a lot of prep work to do, even as a casual without the planning and marking those with a class would need to do. But it’s so rewarding.”

Teacher #2: “Oh, no, I meant because I hate children.”

Me: “…”

(Another time…)

Teacher #3: “Oh, I am 77. I don’t need to teach, but it’s nice to come in.”

Me: “You look very well for your age. Teaching must keep you young.”

Teacher #3: “No, dear, I am just rich. I can afford good makeup. I don’t need to teach, but I like gossiping in the teacher’s lounge.”

Me: “…”

Teacher #3: “Getting teaching work is hard, though, isn’t it, dear?”

Me: “Sometimes, I suppose.”

(Another time…)

Teacher #4: “Where do you live?”

Me: “[Area].”

Teacher #4: “Why don’t you work there?”

(I don’t know how to answer this, but [Teacher #4] walks off before I can reply, anyway. The next day I walk into the office, and that same casual teacher is talking to a full-time teacher. I overhear this gem.)

Teacher #4: “Did you hear her music? Are you really going to call her back for more work?”

(I sign in as they looked over at me. I turn around and walk straight to the classroom. She looks embarrassed as h***. The stupid thing is while she is trying to boycott my casual work at that school, I’ve only ever taught there while she, too, was at work. She was obviously given work before me, and since she can’t be in two rooms at once, I’ve not taken any work that could have been hers. And finally…)

Teacher #5: *after telling me I’ll get full time the next year and a class of my own* “So, you just have to put your preference down for which stage you’d like to work with, and then we can assign the full-time teachers for next year. You’ll be great with stage three, I think, but you can be anywhere.”

Me: “That sounds excellent, thanks.”

(Fast forward a month over the school holiday break. I haven’t heard anything from the school. I decide to call and ask so that I can make other arrangements and update other schools and so on…)

Teacher #5: “Oh, sorry, I thought they told you. We hired a new teacher because she’s [ethnicity] and the school gets extra funding.”

(I quit teaching soon after. I miss working with kids and the job itself. I do NOT miss working with many of the teachers I had to deal with.)

Years ago, I was the receptionist in my hometown’s only brothel. It had been there in the same place, a minute’s drive from the local police station, since the 60s. Everyone knew what it was. The entrance was a set of stairs leading up from a street.

A TV is set up, playing a feed from cameras showing the street and the stairs leading to a door that either the bouncer or myself have to open.

One slow night, I’m doing paperwork while talking to one of the girls, when I see a brand-new car stop outside. The next thing I see is something being lit, and then a firecracker gets thrown out the passenger door and up the stairwell. I instantly hit the emergency button that goes to the police station while the bouncer comes running. I tell the bouncer to just watch.

The passenger lights another firecracker when a cop car pulls up behind them with lights and sirens going, causing the passenger to drop the lit cracker inside the car. We watch on the cameras as the cracker bounces around inside the car, tearing up the interior, before two boys escape the car straight into the arms of two laughing cops.

It turns out the 17-year-old driver had taken his mum’s brand-new, $40,000 car she’d had for two days for a joy ride while she was asleep. The car is a write-off and both boys end up with second-degree burns and criminal records.

It certainly made a boring night more entertaining.

(I am working the bar for a ‘Family and Friends of RAAF Veterans’ function where the family and friends of Air Force veterans are invited to a free lunch, with free drinks, paid for by taxpayer money. Most aren’t veterans themselves, and the veterans are generally very lovely, but those who aren’t veterans — who are receiving free food and drinks — are always needy, greedy and demanding. I spot a man wandering around in the lounge area outside of the function room, obviously looking for something. I approach and ask if he needs help:)

Me: “Hi there, sir. Are you looking for anything in particular?”

Guest: “I need a lift!”

(We have a chauffeur car for patrons who wish to be picked up and dropped off from the club.)

Me: “Are you after the chauffeur car, sir?”

Guest: “NO! I need to find a lift!”

Me: “Ah, a lift. We—”

Guest: “Yes! A lift! Where’s the lift?!”

Me: “As I was saying, we have several lifts in the club due to having many different areas and split levels. May I ask which part of the club you need to head to?”

Guest: “I’m heading to the lift! I need the lift! This woman is sick and she needs the lift to go home!”

Me: “Ah. Well if someone is driving her we can bring the car around to this entrance–” *gestures to his left* “–so she doesn’t need to walk so far.”

Guest: “I’ll do that. Where’s the lift?”

Me: “Where did you park your car? We have several car parks and a couple of different lifts lead to different car parks.”

Guest: “I parked it out back.”

Me: “So, you parked in the car park here?” *gestures to rear car park* “If that’s the case, you just need to head out the doors here.”

Guest: “No! I said I parked out back! In the big car park!”

Me: “Oh, you parked out front? Did you come in through the big reception with the escalators? That’s the front.”

Guest: “Yes! And we came through a lift! Where’s the lift?!”

Me: “Okay, now I get it. Follow me, sir; it’s just around here. See the signs that say ‘Reception’?”

Guest: “Thanks. Finally. You know you could explain yourself better.”

(As I’m directing the gentleman, a woman,whose husband was one of the dead veterans displayed in a memorial presentation at the lunch, walks up to me:)

Woman: “This lunch was disgusting. I’m never coming back here again.”

Me: “Oh, no, I’m so sorry. What seems to be the problem?”

Woman: “I didn’t get the food I wanted.”

Me: “Well, at our events, like all large events I’ve ever been to, they place the meals in a rotation. You got the beef, but the people either side of you got the turkey, and the next person got beef and so on. You could have swapped with the person either side of you, or at another place on the table.”

Woman: “But I wanted turkey. You should have made sure I was getting turkey.”

Me: “Well, I was pouring drinks at the time. But you could have swapped with anyone at your table.”

Woman: “My husband died in the war, and you can’t even get my meal right.”

Guest: *who had been impatiently listening and huffing* “Your husband died in the war and all you can complain about is your FREE lunch being paid for by HIS—” *points to me* “—taxes. F*** off… and take me to the car for f***’s sake!”

I own a hobby shop that sells plastic model kits, etc. One day a male customer came in and purchased a model of the Hindenburg (1930’s zeppelin).

The next day he returned and asked for his money back. I asked why? He stated when he opened the box it looked nothing like the box art!

I had to explain to him it was a model and that you made it!

The dog we had growing up was the sweetest, friendliest dog you could imagine. He loved people, and all of our neighbours knew him and loved him back. They didn’t know our names, but they knew our dog.

At one point we needed to move to another state temporarily for my dad’s work, and took the dog with us. Six months later my mum, sister, and I returned home to spend Christmas with our family and ran into one of our neighbours.

He came up to us and said he hadn’t seen our dog for a while, had he died? Mum had to inform him that no, the dog was very much alive, we’d just been living on the other side of the country for the last few months.

They had noticed our dog was no longer around and coming to visit, but none of them had noticed that our house was empty and my family wasn’t living there or going about our daily business.