In college, a friend asks me to be a part of his film project. In the project, we follow a woman (me) and her husband as he goes down the path of addiction and back through recovery. We set up in an alley and start filming my husband drinking from a bottle in a paper bag. 

Me: “I thought I’d find you here.”

Husband: “F*** off.”

Me: “Why don’t you go get help?”

A woman walking by sees us and comes over.

Woman: “Hey! Leave him alone!”

Me: “What? Oh, no, no—”

Woman: “I said leave him alone! I’ll smack the stupid right outta you!”

Husband: “Ma’am, it’s fine. We—”

Woman: “You do not have to put up with these… fake-do-good b****es.”

Our friend, who has been standing nearby filming, finally steps in.

Friend: “Ma’am, please listen, he’s not—”

Woman: “He’s clearly a man in distress and you’re filming him!”

Friend: “No, he’s fine. He—”

Woman: “He ain’t fine!” *To my homeless “husband”* “Come on, sweetie. Let’s get you something to eat.”

Husband: “Um… this is a class project.”

The woman stands there, silent, looking at all of us. 

Woman: “A class project for what?”

Friend: “For [College]. I’m a film major.”

The woman seems at a loss, but then she rallies.

Woman: “Well… You can’t just go up to homeless people and put them in your—”

Husband: “I’m acting!”

Woman: “Oh. Well… you… are doing a fine job. Just don’t be out here long. Other folks won’t be so nice about you bothering the homeless.”

Friend: “Right. Thanks.”

We finished within an hour, and while other people did stop and ask what we were doing, nobody else was quite like that woman.

It’s a rainy day, so the mother’s group I meet with weekly has decided to visit a relaxed beachside cafe. We choose one that has plenty of space and is child-appropriate. When we arrive, there is only one other table of two seated so there are dozens of empty tables and chairs to choose from. We choose a more casual setting of two couches near the fireplace and get the kids seated with colouring-in books.

Everyone has a place to sit except me, so I grab a chair from a nearby table and sit it next to the end of the couch where my daughter is sitting. We’ve spoken with a waitress who has taken our drinks order, and all appears to be well.

Suddenly, a man — who I previously had not noticed, I’m not even sure where he came from — approaches me and proceeds to very angrily tell me off about moving the chair I’m sitting on. I first wonder if he works there but quickly realise from his wording that he doesn’t — referring to the restaurant staff as “they” instead of “we,” for example.

Man: “You moved that chair away from its table! The chairs are for paying customers!”

I’m trying to be polite even though he’s in my face, but I finally lose my patience.

Me: *Firmly* “I am a paying customer, so I also deserve to sit somewhere.”

All the while, I’m incredulously looking around me at the twenty or so empty tables. He eventually leaves and a waitress approaches to see what is happening.

Me: “Is it okay that I moved this chair?”

Waitress #1: *Looking rather confused* “Of course.”

I am still buzzing from the adrenaline that came from the confrontation for most of the meal.

When we finish and pay at the register, a different waitress asks us what happened, and I explain.

Waitress #2: “That man is a regular. He always acts like he owns the place and bullies other patrons.”

I hope they managed to get control of the situation, because it really soured what was usually the highlight of my week as a struggling mum.

I live near a school. [Woman #1] must live nearby; we regularly see her in her mobility scooter or the scooter parked outside one of the takeaways. She is a bit of a menace on it; she drives around at full pelt everywhere, on and off the road, in and out of people, and she gets very aggressive and defensive if you dare to call her out on it.

As the schools are letting out, I walk by and see an accident. I go over to see if I can help.

When I get there, a boy is still on the ground and [Woman #1] is sat on her scooter, arms folded, arguing with a woman who doesn’t appear to be the boy’s mother.

Woman #1: “He should look where he is going.”

Boy: *Through tears* “I wasn’t even going anywhere.”

Woman #1: *Shouting* “I need to go to the doctor! People like you need to watch where you are going!”

Woman #2: “Don’t shout at him! Even if he got in your way, you were going way too fast.”

Boy: *Sobbing* “I didn’t! I didn’t get in her way.”

I spot a teacher and wave him over.

Teacher: “[Boy], what happened? Are you okay?”

Me: “He was stood on his bike when [Woman #1] crashed into him. She saw him and didn’t even try to slow down.”

Woman #1: “Lies! You’re just picking on me!”

Me: “I’m sure there are a dozen other people who saw the same thing I did. Might want to call someone; this isn’t the first accident she has caused.”

[Woman #1] continued to shout at me, the teacher, the boy, and the other woman for some time. Eventually, the boy’s mum turned up at the same time as the police. The teacher and I each gave a statement, and they asked a few onlookers who told them what they saw.

I can only guess that the mum didn’t press charges, but [Woman #1] lost her scooter, and the world is at least slightly safer for everyone in the school and neighbourhood.

I am standing by my car on the road, with the bonnet open. A man walks past.

Man: “Doing some work to your car?”

Me: “It’s getting scrapped tomorrow, but I want the battery out. It’s nearly new. I’ll flog it on eBay.”

Man: “You would get some good money for those wheels, too.”

Me: “Maybe, but the recovery truck will be a bit confused about how to lift it, then!”

He walks on. I remove the battery in two minutes and let the hood drop. I just need to lock the car. I insert the key in the driver’s door… and it won’t turn. I try the handle. It won’t open, either.

It dawns on me that the car needs the power from the battery to operate the lock. How is the car going to be winched onto the recovery truck if the recoverer can’t get inside it to steer? I can almost hear Laurel and Hardy shouting, “Here’s another fine mess you’ve got me into!” I phone my father for advice.

Me: “He’s going to have a tough time recovering the car. Oh, there’s something else inside the car he needs: a parking brake!”

Dad: “To put the battery back in, you’ll need to open the bonnet. Where is the open bonnet switch?”

Me: “Passenger footwell.”

Dad: “Which is where?”

Me: “Inside the car. Oh, crap. I can’t steer, set the parking brake, or open the bonnet to put the battery back in.”

Dad: “Either deal with it in the morning, let him drag it on with the winch, or get a brick and smash the window in.”

I should have taken the man’s advice and just removed all four wheels!

For my family friend’s sixteenth birthday, we went to see Alfred Ellis play at an open garden concert. It was a casual picnic-style affair, but due to certain members of the five families being extremely culinary, it turned into a buffet, to the point that we needed tables, which we brought. During the first intermission, the ten teenagers were ready to descend on the food like wild animals, but we were raised better than our instincts, so we each grabbed a plate and lined up.

We then realised that we had a longer line than expected. About thirty people had lined up behind us. The sweet little old lady behind me asked where the till was, so we had to explain to people that it was a private meal for someone’s birthday.

Most were very understanding — and were given a plate of what we had not touched later — but one woman decided that, because we had set it up the way we had, we were wait staff, we were liars, and we would be comping her food for the trauma she had suffered. We were middle-class white kids in Somerset in the early 2000s. You could not get sadder or more diverse in clothing. We did not look like waitstaff. If she had called us vagrants, hippies, or gangsters, she may have been closer.

During her rant, a strawberry landed on her hat. She didn’t notice. But we sure did. So now she had something to scream about, as we were laughing at her FOR NO REASON, HOWDAREWEVERYMUCH! Then, another strawberry hit her, hard enough for her to notice. She looked up and a raspberry got her in the chin.

Unfortunately for her, the emotional infants of the group — two of the dads, mine included — had decided that the pile of strawberries and raspberries for pudding could be sacrificed in order to put her in her place. It took a few tries for her to get it, but every time she opened her maw to carry on, they would chuck a strawberry at her. She left when we all moved to join in.

The best part was when we spotted her far away, over-gesturing at what was clearly a manager. He gave the excellent response of a “What do you expect me to do about it?” shrug. He didn’t come over.

I also got to meet Alfred Ellis when he became a doctorate at my university some years later. My friend was extremely jealous.