(A customer comes in with an old catalogue and discovers the item he wants is no longer that price.)
Me: “Sorry, sir, that catalogue ended three-days ago. See the start and end dates on the front?
Customer: “I don’t give a f*** about where you’ve got dates. The price is in writing so you have to honour it! I know my rights!”
(I’m at a family Easter lunch and we’ve just started serving dessert: a banana pudding and apple tarts.)
Father: *to his brother-in law* “What do you want?”
Brother-In-Law: “I’ll have an apple tart.”
Grandma: *about her daughter* “He’s always been partial to the old tarts!”
(I am a natural redhead, and I always get comments on how nice my hair is and how it’s the same shade as a popular type of ginger hair dye. The following exchange happens between me, my mother, and an elderly woman when I am seven years old.)
Stranger: *looks at my hair* “Oh, gosh, honey. How old are you?”
Me: “I’m seven years old, miss!”
Stranger: *to my mother* “How dare you?!”
Mother: “Excuse me?”
Stranger: “Letting your daughter dye her hair at such a young age! It’s despicable!”
Me: *confused* “But—”
Stranger: *ignoring me* “It’s almost as bad as putting makeup on her or letting her get strange piercings!”
Mother: “Actually, that’s her natural hair color.”
Me: “Yeah, it—”
Stranger: *still ignoring me* “And you have the audacity to lie to my face about it! What sort of role model are you trying to be to your children?!”
Me: “MISS!”
Stranger: *finally looking at me* “There’s no need to yell, dear.”
Me: “But this is my natural hair color. My mum had ginger hair before she dyed it blonde, and both my grandmas had ginger hair. I’ve never had any other hair color than ginger, and I think you’re being very rude!”
(The woman was obviously shocked and proceeded to move as far away from us as possible. My mother was relieved, and I ended up getting ice cream later for “scaring the nasty lady away!”)
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(It’s April Fools’ Day. I’m seven years old.)
Me: “Mummy, Mummy, I made up a joke! What kind of chicken doesn’t lay eggs?”
Mum: “I don’t know, darling. What kind?”
Me: *in a creepy voice* “A dead one.”
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(I am babysitting. My little nephew wants what he calls a “yellow biscuit”: a type of cracker made from corn, so it is a light yellow colour.)
Nephew: “Auntie, can I have a yellow biscuit, please?”
Me: *being a bit silly* “Yes, I’ll get one for you. Does Mummy have yellow biscuits in the cupboard or do we need to get the crayons and colour one in?”
Nephew: “We’ve got lots. They’re in that tin.” *very solemnly* “You aren’t allowed to draw on biscuits. It’s a rule!”
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