Back in the 2000s, I was a soccer referee. One year, there were several of us from the same club who travelled to one of the biggest kids’ tournaments in the world to officiate matches over a period of days.

One of our members had suffered a stroke some years earlier. Luckily, he had made it through; he was in fine physical health and his brain also worked fine. His speech centre had taken a hit, though, making him speak very slowly and sounding a bit strange when he talked. That still didn’t make him a bad referee; he had passed all the tests and officiated matches on a regular basis, so doing so at this tournament shouldn’t be a problem.

At this tournament, there were observers as well as referees. These observers would watch matches and report back to the organizers on the quality of the referees. That way, the organizers could screen out the bad ones and let the best ones get the finals — kind of the same process as in professional soccer.

One day, our referee friend was officiating a match when the observer on site suddenly took it upon himself to walk onto the field, blow a whistle, and stop the match. Both the players and the referee seemed confused and ended up standing around the observer, trying to figure out what was happening. The coaches of both teams also wandered onto the pitch and approached the observer.

Coach #1: “What’s going on?”

Observer: “This referee is not fit to officiate the match.”

Coach #2: “Uh… why? The organizers sent him here, so he must be.”

Observer: “It’s clear that he is not fit. He can’t talk properly.”

The two coaches looked at each other and both shook their heads.

Coach #1: “Listen, pal, we’ve been playing for twenty minutes now, and he hasn’t made a single mistake. You, on the other hand, have: observers are only here to observe and report. You do not have the authority to stop the match.”

Coach #2: “We’ll be reporting this to the organizers after the match.”

It turned out that both coaches were actually referees in Division 2, the third-highest level in the country. The observer was dismissed from the tournament and sent home, while our referee friend kept getting matches.

We were travelling as a family in our car, listening to the radio, and the song “Take My Breath Away” by Berlin came on. I was perhaps seven years old at the time, and since English is not my first language, I didn’t understand all the words, but I liked singing along anyway. That, of course, meant I would often get some words wrong.

Me: “Take my bread awaaaay!”

My sister snatched my sandwich from me and we all laughed.

It’s 2020. My son is a very social young man — fifteen years old — and the world situation has made him turn to online services to keep in touch with his friends.

One of his friends is very religious and in a way where certain “ways of life” means you go to Hell. Over several weeks, if not months, my son comes down and tells me about conversations with this friend.

Son: “[Friend] says all nonbelievers go to Hell. And if you do drugs or drink alcohol, same. Stop!”

Son: “[Friend] says transgender people and gays get a hot ‘ever after’ when they die, too.”

Son: “[Friend]’s not talking to me anymore.”

Me: “Why is that, kiddo?”

Son: “Today, we talked about food, and [Friend] said [Friend #2] is going to Hell.”

[Friend #2] is from a different country, and apparently, his diet and religion means he is doomed. 

I tell [Friend] that with all these rules, Hell sounds more and more like a place I would prefer over Heaven. Then he says all my other friends will be in Heaven while [Friend #2] and I are in Hell, and we will be lonely.

And I say, “No, not by your account.” And now he has blocked me, as well as my son.

Me: “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

Son: “Yeah, I guess. He’s been my friend for years, but it’s getting to be too much. I’m not going to say I’m sorry, because I’m not, but if he unblocks me and plays it off as if nothing happened, I’m fine with that.”

He stops to think for a while, before bellowing a laugh.

Son: “If not, I probably won’t see him again until Hell.”

And he walked off, laughing about his clever remark.

It’s now 2022 and they ARE talking. His friend is still very religious but better at accepting different cultures and religions and not so quick to judge others.

When I was a student around fifteen years ago, I worked part-time in the fresh goods (meat/fish/cheese) department of a supermarket. One of the things we did there was using a bandsaw to cut up big chunks of bone and frozen pieces of meat into slices.

At the end of the day, one of the jobs was to clean the saw, which meant taking the whole thing apart, bringing it back into the dishwashing room, cleaning out most of the meat and gristle by hand, and then running it through the industrial dishwashing machine. Afterward, we’d put it together again. This whole operation would take about half an hour.

As there would only be one of us doing the late shift and closing up, there was a bit of a procedure to when we’d close the various sections. I couldn’t just stay in the back and wash everything; I also had to tend to whatever customers came in just before closing time. If we had been two people during the last shift, one of us could have worked up front while the other did all the cleaning, but our boss was thinking more about the bottom line than about efficiency.

I tried my best to be quick and efficient when cleaning and closing up, but because the supermarket remained open for an hour or two after our fresh goods section had closed, there would always be the odd customer coming over to us just before we shut down.

Back to the saw. Sometimes, customers would ask us to cut a specific piece of meat. No problem, as long as the saw was still open. Once I’d taken it apart, though, using it again would require it to be cleaned a second time. I, therefore, tried being efficient: if customers wanted a sliced leg of lamb, I’d have pre-sliced pieces ready. I always tried to make sure I had pork ribs, lamb, and other things already cut. That way, if somebody wanted something cut after I had started cleaning the saw, I could say, “Sorry, sir, the saw is being cleaned at the moment. I do however have what you want already made. How many slices would you like?”

This seemed to work okay, but once the boss found out that I dismantled the saw at least half an hour before my section’s closing time, he pointed out during a staff meeting:

Boss: “We always do what the customers want; keep the saw open until closing time.”

Me: “Okay, but you know it takes quite a while to clean, right? Waiting until the section is closed means I’ll have to stay longer.”

Sure enough, waiting until closing time before dismantling the saw meant I’d finish my shift about half an hour later than normal. There was nothing that could be done about that; it takes that long to clean. I tried being efficient, clearing the shelves and cleaning everything else, but even if the saw was the only thing left to do as the section closed, I couldn’t change the laws of physics. Then, this happened in a later staff meeting.

Boss: “The fresh goods section has been clocking out pretty late the last couple of months. Try to get things done quicker.”

Me: *Sigh*

In the end, I went back to doing things my way. It turned out that not reassembling the clean saw until after closing was the key, as customers would see for themselves that it was not in operation. That kept most of them from asking.

I’m at the airport, trying to check in. As always, I use the check-in machine and intend to use the self-help bag drop because it’s faster than the manual check-in. For some reason, the machine doesn’t give me a baggage tag, so manual intervention is needed. There is always an attendant at the bag drop in case someone needs help, so I head over there and explain that I didn’t get a baggage tag.

Attendant: “You should try another machine.”

Me: “I did. It said the tag had already been printed.”

The attendant visibly and audibly sighs but gives no gesture in any direction.

Attendant: “Then you need to go to the check-in counter. “ 

Me: “Yes, and where is that?”

Attendant: “There are signs.”

I’m starting to think I may be missing something really obvious.

Me: “That I can see from here?”

Attendant: *Rolling her eyes* “You don’t need to see them from here; you will see them when you get there.”

I’m getting a bit fed up.

Me: “Well, I’m not here every day, unlike you.”

She frowns, lifts the world’s heaviest arm, and points in what, somewhat surprisingly, will turn out to be the right direction.

I’m really fed up at this time.

Me: “You don’t have to be quite so obvious about how stupid you think I am.”

She walked away. So did I, and after a brief wait and a pleasant exchange with the check-in person, my suitcase was tagged and sent on its merry way. 

Walking back toward security, I saw the attendant again, in what seemed to be a helpful interaction with someone. I have no idea what I did wrong.