(I work at a gas station close to a major highway outside Stockholm. Due to its location, it is always busy. This particular day, it is even busier than usual and all three registers have a line at least five people deep. A man in his 70s enters and goes directly to my counter.)

Old Man: *at the top of his lungs* “I NEED BATTERIES!”

Me: “Okay, but you will have to wait your turn like everyone else.”

Old Man: “WHAT? I CAN’T HEAR YOU! I NEED BATTERIES FOR MY HEARING AIDS!”

(Several people in line start to chuckle at the man who doesn’t seem to realize he is screaming.)

Me: *louder* “You need to wait your turn!”

Old Man: “BUT I AM GOING TO A BAPTISM!”

Me: “You still need to wait your turn like everyone else!”

(The old man turned quiet and looked at me blankly for a while and then left. I guess he didn’t hear much at the baptism.)

(For a couple of years, my boyfriend and I lived in a teeny-tiny one-bedroom apartment with probably the smallest kitchen table there is to buy. Therefore, we are thrilled when we finally get our new apartment since it allows us to buy a new table that can fit all of our friends and family. The table is 2.5m long or approximately 8.2 feet. When ordering it, I pay extra for delivery up to the fifth floor. The elevator is big but not so big that it can hold a 2.5m-long table plus wrapping. Therefore, the instructions are that, on delivery day, there will be two persons from the delivery firm, carrying the table up the stairs. Seems simple, eh? The day of delivery:)

Delivery Guy: “I’m here to deliver a package for [My Name].”

Me: “That’s me, but you were supposed to be two persons.”

Delivery Guy: “Ah, don’t worry about it. I’ll fix this.”

(The delivery guy proceeds to take the table out of the truck, gets the table inside the apartment building — only because I hold the door open for him — and then lowers the table onto the floor in a brusque way. When the elevator arrives, he tries to shove the table inside the elevator car but since the table is longer than the car, when the doors closes, the table is sticking out quite a bit. He then tries to lean the table so that one side of it hits the roof and the other side hits the tile-clad floor. This continues for several minutes, while sweat is starting to break out on my skin. Bear in mind that this is a rather expensive table, at least for a twenty-something couple that has just bought an apartment.)

Me: “Are you sure about this? I did pay for two people to deliver this via the stairs.”

Delivery Guy: “Oh, no problem. It’s just a really small elevator.”

Me: *under my breath* “Well, it really isn’t.”

(New accessibility rules state that the elevators in new houses must have certain measurements; it’s a really big elevator. The delivery guy tries to take out the table from the car, shoving it into the glass doors in the hallway, then on the floor, then into the ceiling, making a large dent in it. By now I’m really sweaty because I know there is going to be at least one dent in the table.)

Delivery Guy: “I’m gonna try and take this via the stairs but the table is really heavy. How many stairs is it?”

Me: “It’s on the fifth floor.”

Delivery Guy: *lets out a heavy sigh and tries the stairs only to realize that the table is too heavy* “I’m gonna call a colleague and get some help.”

(In the end, the two delivery people got the table up the stairs and into the apartments. The whole thing took approximately an hour and a half. Nearly all corners were dented and I had to lodge a claim with the store. The new table arrived a couple of days later, via a different delivery firm, was brought up the stairs by two delivery people instantly, and had no dents when they were done.)

(It is a busy Saturday and almost every movie is sold out.)

Customer: “I want four tickets for [Newly Premiered Movie] at 12:15.”

(It’s about 12:05.)

Me: “Sorry, ma’am, but it’s all sold out.”

Customer: “Excuse me?”

Me: “There are no seats left. It’s pretty busy today.”

Customer: *getting a bit riled up* “So you’re telling me you will not sell me tickets?!”

Me: “I can’t sell you tickets to a movie that’s sold out.”

Customer: “We came all the way from [Place not very far away, about ten minutes with a car] and now you’re telling me we can’t see the movie?!”

Me: “No, as I said, sold out. But there are a few seats left at the 2:00 show if you want to see that one.”

Customer: “No! I got a dog sitter for this! I can’t pay her that much extra! My kids really wanted to see that movie! Are you gonna stand here and tell them that they can’t?! Are you really gonna do that to my kids?!”

(I look at the kids, about eight and ten years old and looking really ashamed.)

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am, but if you don’t want to see anything else there’s really nothing I can do. May I suggest that you buy tickets from your phone next time? That way it’ll be easier to get tickets on time.”

Customer: “I want to talk to your manager!”

Me: “Sure.” *calls for a manager* “She’ll be here in just a minute.”

(While the first customer is waiting, I start to talk to the next customer in line when the first one interrupts:)

Customer: “Does she think we have all day?!”

Me: “She’ll be here as soon as she can.”

Customer: “I will make sure everyone hears about this awful service, and I will definitely make sure that you’ll get fired!”

(She read my name off of my name tag and stormed off before my manager even got there.)

(I work in a liquor store on a boat that sails between Sweden and Finland. The customer in this story is Swedish.)

Customer: “Do you have Swedish alcohol?”

Me: “Certainly. What are you looking for?”

Customer: “Swedish alcohol.”

Me: “Ah, yes, but what kind of product are you looking for, more specifically? Spirits? Schnapps? Beer?”

Customer: “It has to be Swedish.”

Me: “But—”

Customer: “From Sweden.”

Me: *screaming inwardly* “Let’s go look at our selection…”

(After showing him a range of assorted Swedish brands, I return to my till. Ten minutes later, I see the customer paying for a large bottle of vodka, named after its country of origin — which is not Sweden.)

I am a teacher. One day, some years ago, I woke up with the flu: delirious from a spiking fever and only able to croak a few words. I was in no shape to teach, so I called in sick.

Half an hour later, a substitute teacher called me for instructions. I told her that I could barely speak but it was also apparent that I had no voice. I was probably rambling a little due to the fever but managed to tell her the lesson plans.

I then hung up and dozed off in feverish dreams. Twenty minutes later, she called again. She had lost her notes, and could I possibly repeat them? I croaked the lesson plans, hung up, and dozed off.

Fifteen minutes later, she called again. She had lost her notes. Could I repeat the lesson plans?

Wheezing and croaking, I went through the lessons for a third time, told her that if she lost her notes again she would have to improvise as I had the flu and couldn’t talk. Just leave me alone.

Five minutes later, the principal called and wondered why I refused to give out the lesson plan to the sub.

He didn’t sound entirely convinced when I told him that I had. Three times in less than an hour.

The sub then called me again screaming that she’d lost the lesson plans and I’d better come to work and instruct her. I had a coughing fit into the receiver and hung up on her.

I was fuming, partly from the fever but also because the sub was trying to set me up. Her daughter was in my class, and a few weeks prior, I hadn’t fussed enough when her daughter was sick. I spoke to the teacher she had for the class after mine so that she would get home quicker, but that wasn’t good enough, and the sub had harassed me for quite a while.

However… My desk was opposite one of the school’s most senior teachers. This was a fabulous teacher who wasn’t afraid to voice her opinion on difficult matters. She was also the next-door neighbour of the sub, and the two hated each other. As the sub was in a foul mood, she fairly quickly began screaming at the other teacher, who in turn screamed back. The sub then began throwing stuff at them!

As they weren’t alone in the room, the sub couldn’t deny that she had begun the attacks, and she was banned from ever working at my school again.

During the screaming match, the sub bragged about how she had harassed me that day and in the previous weeks, so I didn’t end up in any trouble despite her scheming.