There’s a particular music cruise I’d really like to go on, but there are no single cabins and none of my friends have the money to join me. Thinking it’s worth a try, I post a personal ad online, asking if anyone out there might be interested in also going on this cruise and splitting the cost. I post it in the non-romantic, women-seeking-women section of the website.

The next day, I receive an email that reads, “This is totally absurd. It’ll cost you $2000 to fly to Florida for this one thing! What a waste of money.” The email signature contains a decidedly male given name. 

It’s a slow day at work, so I write back, “Dear [Emailer], you’re getting ripped off on flights if you’re paying $2000 for Vancouver to Miami six months in advance.”

He emails back almost instantly, “You’re wrong!”

I respond, “Nope! See attached screenshot of a flight for less than a quarter of that. Also, why are you creeping around a personals website reading the W4W/platonic ads? Do you get off on giving women unsolicited financial advice or something?”

The email I receive back calls me a number of unflattering names, though perhaps the most baffling one is “dunce.”

(Reader, I blocked him. And yes, I did find someone to go on the cruise with me, and we had a great time.)

(I work as a hostess at a local pizza joint in my hometown. It is a really busy night, the house is packed, and I am pretty tired from working a double today and yesterday. I am stretching my back out behind the hostess’ counter when an elderly gentleman comes up to pay for his family’s dinner.)

Older Guy: “You know, I could probably fix that for you.”

Me: “Oh, my back? Are you a chiropractor or something?”

Older Guy: *just as his wife walks up behind him* “No… just a really good lover.”

(Cue me laughing awkwardly and then taking a pile of dirty dishes from a coworker so I could scurry off to the back.)

(As I wait for a bus home, I notice a man going up to other people waiting and quickly moving on to the next person. I have only been at the bus stop for a few seconds when he approaches me.)

Man: “Have you got any change? I haven’t eaten in days.”

Me: “No, sorry. I haven’t got any change.”

Man: “So you don’t care. What a horrible person you are.”

(The man starts pacing back and forth, shooting me dirty looks each time he passes me and shouting abuse.)

Man: “Scumbag! Tramp! Evil! Scumbag, scumbag, scumbag!”

(Two minutes pass and, thankfully, my bus pulls up. As I hurriedly get on, the man gets right in my face for one last comment.)

Man: “I hope your bus crashes.”

(My girlfriend and I are on our first holiday abroad together — both from the UK — travelling with my family. We are both at the evening meal buffet and the hotel is serving calamari. My girlfriend is standing next to the calamari when a stranger approaches her, a British male who is also staying at the hotel.)

Stranger: *pointing to calamari* “They shouldn’t serve that muck here.”

Girlfriend: “Excuse me?”

Stranger: “Those rings — I thought they were onion rings so I put some on my plate. They shouldn’t serve that muck as people will think that they’re onion rings.”

(I should point out at this point that each item of food has a little card next to it that says what the item is in Spanish and in English.)

Girlfriend: “But it’s calamari; it’s a popular dish.”

Stranger: “I know what it is, but they shouldn’t serve it because it’s foreign muck.”

(My girlfriend leaves to get food from elsewhere, and I just happen to approach the calamari. I’m putting the food that is next to the calamari onto my plate when the stranger approaches me.)

Stranger: *points to the calamari* “Don’t put that on your plate.”

Me: “I’m sorry, were you wanting some?”

Stranger: “No, they shouldn’t be serving that foreign muck in a place like this.”

Me: “In a Spanish hotel?”

Stranger: “People could think that they are onion rings.”

Me: “But it says what it is on the card.”

Stranger: “I don’t care; they shouldn’t be serving it. People don’t like it.”

Me: “Actually, I’m glad that they’re serving it because I love calamari.”

Stranger: “Well, not everyone does.”

Me: *pointing to another dish being served* “I don’t like that, but they’re still serving it and I haven’t got a problem with that because I know that people do.”

Stranger: “But people could think that they’re onion rings.”

(At that point, I realised that you can’t fix stupid and pushed past the stranger to get to the calamari. Surprisingly, he didn’t block me. I began to walk away when my mum approached the calamari and loaded some onto her own plate. The stranger just stared before walking off.)

I severely sprained my ankle one summer and had to use crutches and a medical boot while it healed. This meant that I had to use either the disabled toilet or the adapted cubicle when out in public, as I needed to use the handrails to pull myself back up to a standing position. I preferred the latter, as it meant I wasn’t depriving someone in a wheelchair of their only option, but this wasn’t always possible.

(Encounter #1:)

I was at the supermarket with my mum, doing some shopping, when I realised I needed the toilet. As is common in British supermarkets, the entrance to the toilet from the corridor was via two heavy fire doors, both of which opened into the “airlock” in between them. This space wasn’t big enough for me to manoeuvre in with my crutches, and the doors were too heavy for me to manage on my own, so I had to use the disabled toilet, which only had a single door.

I settled down to do my business. Suddenly, I heard the door rattle, like someone was trying to open it. I called back that I’d be out shortly. The rattling stopped, and then the person outside started banging on it. I shouted again that I’d be out as soon as I could. The rattling and banging continued. It unnerved me enough that I fumbled my crutches as I stood, forcing me to waste more time figuring out how to pick them up.

When I got out, I saw who was banging on the door: an elderly woman with a cane. She’d barely managed to move out of the way of the door when I opened it, despite me giving warning of doing so. When she saw me, younger than her and not in a wheelchair but clearly leaning heavily on crutches, her face practically turned purple, and she started to splutter.

I apologised for taking so long, but that it couldn’t be helped. I also suggested that she wait a few moments before going in; my pain medication was having an apocalyptic effect on my bowel.

She didn’t listen and practically slammed the door in my face. Only to rush out and into the main toilets a few seconds later. I wasn’t kidding.

(Encounter #2:)

The main shopping centre in my city doesn’t have doors separating the toilets from the main corridor and uses bends and curves to maintain privacy and confine smells. This means I could use the adapted cubicle in the main toilets, instead of tying up a disabled toilet. It also, however, meant having to queue.

On one such occasion, I was waiting in the queue and was almost at the front. There were three or four people ahead of me when the only adapted cubicle opened up. The first person headed towards it. That was fine; I wasn’t at the head of queue, after all.

When I was at the front, I didn’t go for the next cubicle to open, or the one after. I literally needed the adapted one. It was the only one with grab bars. I let close to a dozen people go ahead of me while I waited. The first few, who’d seen the other woman go into the cubicle, were sympathetic.

When she eventually came out, wearing a completely different outfit, I went to use it and recoiled. It had been wrecked. The bowl was absolutely rammed with toilet paper. More toilet paper was on the floor. There was a bloody tampon sitting on top of the sanitary bin. A pair of knickers was sticking out of the “in” tray of said bin.

The only cubicle I could use in those toilets was unusable. The next nearest non-customer toilets were on the next floor or at the other end of the same floor. The disabled toilets were RADAR locked. And, thanks to the wait, I was now absolutely busting.

Luckily, someone managed to flag down a member of the cleaning staff, who had the ability to give me access to the disabled toilet. I pity the person who had to clean that up.