It’s 2020, and in the midst of the first lockdown. In order to keep us – and our customers – safe, our managers have decided to implement a rule which means we cannot take cash. The safe in the office is empty. We have no money in our till drawers. We cannot take it at all. There are signs all around the shop stating this (several on the front windows, two on the front doors, one on the hand sanitiser, on the fridge doors – basically everywhere). Still, we get customers who think they are an exception. With this, being berated for mask laws that aren’t our choice, and trying desperately to calm panic buyers who want a dozen packs of toilet rolls, we are fed up.

I am serving a line of people when a man comes to my till, scans through the shopping, and then tries to hand me a £20 note.

Me: “I’m very sorry, but we’re not accepting cash at the moment.”

Customer: “What?!”

Me: “We cannot accept cash. You can pay by card, or if you don’t have it on you I can pause the transaction and keep your shopping to the side while you get it.”

Customer: “Just take the money!”

Me: “I’m sorry, but we have no change to give you; we have no cash anywhere on the premises.”

Customer: “This is ridiculous and illegal! This whole rule is just a f****** disgrace and you should be ashamed of yourself! Just take the f****** cash and do your job!”

At this point, a supervisor who is standing nearby steps up beside me.

Supervisor: “I won’t tolerate you talking to anyone like that. We have no change in the drawers or anywhere in the shop. It is the manager’s rule, so either pay by card or just get out.”

The man silently paid by card and left, and I was honestly shocked. My supervisor was a friendly, fairly quiet guy who I had never heard talk back to anyone. It was just a sign of how fed up we all were with being verbally abused by customers. I quit retail not long after that. The icing on the cake was hearing how some of my younger colleagues, not long out of high school, had to be picked up from work after their night shift because a customer made them feel too afraid to walk home.

Retail is a chaotic environment, especially when you’re understaffed and unexpectedly busy.

Two of four registers are open, our manager is handling the delivery from our warehouse, and the other two staff members are sprinting around the busy store trying to fulfil [Popular Delivery App] orders before the drivers show up to collect them.

Then, the school kids show up. We’re queued around the store, but a group of them manage to sweet-talk their way to the front of the huge queue with only a handful of items. Some have sweets, a few of them have some fizzy juice, and a couple of them have large glass bottles of [Brand], a totally non-alcoholic grape drink that looks a lot like wine.

I scan them through as fast as I can and then call on the next customer.

Me: “Next on till one, ple—”

Customer: “You just sold those kids alcohol!“

Me: “Wh… Oh… No, that was a bottle of [Brand]; it’s totally non-alcoholic.”

Customer: “Nonsense! Those were clearly wine bottles! I demand to speak to your manager!”

Attempts at further explanation whilst I desperately page my manager to come up the front just make her angrier and angrier. She demands to know why I didn’t chase them when she “pointed out [my] mistake” and berates me on the strict Scottish licencing laws, as if I don’t already know them.

My manager finally appears and tries to calm the woman down. She’s yelling loudly about how she’s going to get me arrested for selling alcohol to minors, spinning tales about how I was probably “in league” with the kids. She goes on and on until the manager gets fed up and demands she leave. Thankfully, she does.

A good twenty minutes later, things are finally starting to calm down when we spot a police car pull up outside. That’s not unusual; they sometimes stop in for milk or snacks for the local police station.

The officers leave their car, enter the store, and stride right up to my register.

Officer #1: “We got a report that a cashier here wilfully sold a minor alcohol. Can we speak to the manager, please?”

I sigh audibly and roll my eyes before responding.

Me: “We had a crazy woman in here earlier who saw me sell some schoolkids [Brand] drink. She thought it was wine and wouldn’t believe us when we tried to explain it.”

Officer #1: “We still need to speak to a manager, and we need to ask you some questions.”

I page the manager again and get a quicker response as it’s quieter. He explains the situation the same as I did, but there’s a procedure to follow.

I’m walked into our back office by the officers. One goes to speak to my manager and review the CCTV and the other starts asking me questions.

Officer #1: “Okay, how many kids were in the group?”

Me: “Four, maybe five. They come in as a big group and split up more often than not.”

Officer #1: “What alcohol did they buy?”

Me: “They didn’t buy any. One member of the group bought a bottle of [Brand] drink, which looks like wine but isn’t wine.”

Officer #1: “We have a witness that says you sold them a bottle of wine.”

Me: “The witness is wrong; there was no alcohol sale.”

Officer #1: “The witness says that you are friends with these kids.”

Me: “I am not. They mill about the store, and I see them for a minute tops maybe once a week. They gather in groups, make a lot of noise, and often cause hassle. I just want them out the door as fast as possible.”

Officer #1: “What is the name of the person you sold the alcohol to?”

Me: “I don’t know any of their names! And I didn’t sell any alcohol to them. I’ve not had a single alcohol sale all day.”

The officer narrows his eyes at me and scribbles something down.

Officer #1: “You know, you’re looking at a £10,000 fine and three months in prison, right? This would be a lot easier if you just told the truth.”

Me: “Wha… But I’ve not done anything!”

Officer #1: “Just tell me who you sold it to!”

Before I can stammer out a reply, the door opens and [Officer #2] sticks her head in.

Officer #2: “I just checked the CCTV and till logs with [Manager]. It was [Brand] drink, not alcohol.”

They look over at me and see me shaking, pale, and on the verge of crying.

Officer #2: “What the h*** is going on in here?”

Officer #1: “I thought he was lying.”

Officer #2: “Get out of here, [Officer #1]. Now.”

Without a word, [Officer #1] stood and shuffled out of the room. [Officer #2] sat down across from me and did her best to calm me down. My manager stuck his head in and told me to take the rest of the day off.

I told him I quit.

Two friends and I (along with several thousand other knitters from all over the world) descend on the ancient and beautiful city of Edinburgh, Scotland for the annual Yarn Festival. I’ve booked rooms in a guesthouse, and at breakfast the first morning, we discover that everyone else at the table is there for the same reason. There’s a total of four Americans and two Austrians. We quickly calculate that it will be slightly cheaper and much faster for us to split a taxi fare six ways than to ride the bus to the venue every day.

Although we have all signed up for classes, the real draw is the stunning variety of beautiful wools offered by two exhibition halls worth of vendors. We hold back the first day, but at sunset on the second day, the six of us stagger out of the venerable Corn Exchange heavily laden with purchases.

Our driver watches as we pack bag after bag after bag into his Tardis-like black taxi.

Finally, he asks slyly:

Driver: “Wouldnae it be cheaper tae just tak’ a sheep home wid ye?”

In the Glasgow city centre, there are a variety of nightclubs that are typically licensed to operate and, of course, to serve alcohol until 3:00 am. To cater to the drunk and hungry crowds which fill the streets after the clubs close, a number of fast food restaurants operate in the nearby vicinity. Some years back, in my clubbing days, a friend and I were very excited to try a new American sandwich chain that had opened near our favourite club.

We both ordered and stood at the counter to watch our sandwiches get made and overheard a conversation between the two staff on duty — one of whom had an Australian or New Zealand accent — that concerned us a bit.

Worker #1: “I know the restaurant is new, but I can’t believe how short-staffed we are! There were some jobbies in the kitchen when I started earlier.”

In the Scottish vernacular, “jobbie” is slang for poop.

Friend: “Um, pardon?”

Worker #1: “What was that, mate?”

Me: “Oh, yeah, what was that you were saying about there being crap in the kitchen?”

Worker #2: “Yeah… What are you talking about?!”

Worker #1: “What are you guys talking about?! I never said there was crap in the kitchen!”

Everyone Else: “You said there were jobbies in the kitchen!”

Worker #1: “Uh-huh, so what?”

Friend: “What do you think that word means? Because here, it means ‘crap’.”

Worker #1: *Laughing* “Oh, man, I didn’t know that! Where I’m from, it’s just a word we use to describe ‘temp workers’.”

At that point, we all pretty much fell about laughing (especially my friend and me) and advised [Worker #1] that they might want to be careful about how they use that word in Scotland going forward.

Apologies to the Antipodeans among us; this story goes back about fifteen years and I was drunk, so I can’t remember if the worker was from Australia or New Zealand, but I’d be very grateful if you could confirm this translation for me!

I had a new start employee. She started on the first of September. We submitted a ticket to IT to get her a log-in for the computer system, along with about six other log-ins for various programmes. All the programme log-ins arrived fairly quickly. The computer log-in, to actually let her log in to the computer to access everything else, took longer.

I — and my manager — raised around ten tickets. 

The new start finally got her log in three months later. 

The IT department sent me an email with a satisfaction survey. 

I was the model of restraint. I rated them “very poor” and my only comment was, “It took you three months to provide a new start log-in.” 

My new start was very proud of me for not swearing at them in the feedback.