I am certainly not athletic and I am on the chubby side so I can’t even fake the appearance of someone athletic. I am also not particularly coordinated in general, and it is relevant to know that I am left-handed.

I was a casual (substitute) primary school teacher a few years back. While I didn’t want to be the kids’ friend per se, it doesn’t hurt to be known as the fun casual so long as they respect you and you can still get the work done. What I didn’t realise is that being the cool casual was even better. 

I was on lunch duty, strolling the sports field where kids of all ages were busy playing various games. Across came many of the “cool kids” from the class I was teaching for the day, about ten eleven-year-olds. They were chatting to me about various pleasantries when the notorious “bully” of the year shouted, “Heads!”

This all happened in a millisecond. The girls screamed. A couple of the boys shouted, “Miss, look out!”

I looked up. A tennis ball was hurtling towards my head, incredibly fast.

I lifted my right arm. I caught the ball right before my face.

Ten or so jaws dropped to the ground and then immediately burst into chatter. Everyone was congratulating me and asking if I used to be in the Olympics and so on. One of them asked, “How on earth did you do that?”

Being in some sort of twilight zone where I was actually cool, not to mention witty enough to say the right thing at the right time — which I really am not normally — I turned to them with a serious face and said, “That’s nothing. I’m actually left-handed.”

And that’s the story of how I accidentally became the cool teacher who held the best record for keeping the difficult class on task.

Our little, independent, local supermarket has a shelf near the checkout for items marked down: things close to the use-by date, things with slightly damaged packages, weird things that clearly no one wants. (Most Australians remember the “Lamington-flavoured chips” debacle.)

There has been, on this shelf, for six months now, an opened packet of tampons with one missing. It’s only marked down to about 10% of its original price.

I know it hasn’t just been forgotten because I see them tend to the shelf often.

Seriously, how are they so cheap that they think they are actually going to sell an open packet of tampons and profit a tidy $2.50? What is their end goal here?

I have asked the teenage cashiers who work there a few times, because I just find it fascinating, and they just shake their heads and say, “I know, I know.”

I’m going through a serious mental health crisis and am required to get an evaluation from my doctor to then receive a mental health plan which will help out with the costs for a therapist. The doctor I go to has been treating me for years and is walk-in only; you go in, they check out your Medicare card, and you’re put in the queue. It’s first in, best dressed, but it’s only a small office that not many know of, so it’s rarely crowded and the wait time is rather short. I’m twenty years old but look very young for my age.

On this particular day, I’ve been having a really bad round of issues. I am incredibly miserable and spent the last night and this morning crying. I decide to go right to the doctor’s office at opening to get things over and done with.

The office itself is a house that’s been renovated on the inside. Like most houses, there’s a steep driveway leading up to the entrance; however, they’ve also added stairs along the side. The driveway is much steeper than the stairs, which are the long type where you have to walk a couple of steps in between to reach the next stair.

I can see a middle-aged woman walking slowly up the driveway. As I start on the stairs, I see her glance at me and then quicken her pace. I still reach the entrance before her and enter right as she reaches the top. I hear her “hmph” as I hold the door open for her behind me.

She then walks really close behind me and tries to steer her way around me to get in front, but the hallway leading to the waiting room is too narrow. I reach the receptionist first, who is on the phone, so I stand a little way behind the desk, waiting to be called on. The lady stands next to me, a little bit in front, to make it seem like she got there first. I’m in no mood for a fight so I pretend not to notice.

The receptionist hangs up the phone and asks who is next, but she looks right past the lady and at me. At the same time, I can see the lady glaring at me out of the corner of my eye, as if expecting me to let her go first. Normally, I would let her, but my miserable mood mixed with her microaggressions have left me really not caring about her, so without looking in her direction, I go up to the desk. I get my card checked, fill out the general information slip, and sit down. This really only takes two minutes, yet the whole time I can hear the lady muttering and grumbling behind me.

After sitting down, the lady approaches the desk and loudly says, “Don’t you remember the days when kids respected their elders?”

The receptionist — in her mid-twenties — stared at her incredulously and replied, “No. I don’t.”

Working in a bookshop, I will occasionally get a very, very vague request, somewhere along the lines of “The cover was blue,” “It had a dog and the dog died,” and so forth. This particular customer told us that he had read the book in high school, and it was about a guy who had lost part of his soul in a ritual and was kicked out of a magic academy, only to gain his soul back in an epic battle in the end. I was delighted because I knew exactly what book he meant.

Me: “Oh, you mean [Book #1]!”

Coworker #1: “No, isn’t it [Book #2]? I swear it was [Book #2].”

Me: “Are you sure? It sounds exactly like [Book #1].”

Coworker #2: “What book are you talking about? It sounds familiar.”

The customer explains again.

Coworker #2: “Oh! That’s [Book #3]! Let me show you.”

Customer: “The cover had a man with a stopwatch or pocket watch on it, I think.”

Me: “It sounds exactly like [Book #1]!”

Coworker #1: “It sounds exactly like [Book #2]!”

Coworker #2: “It sounds exactly like [Book #3]!”

Customer: “I guess it’s a popular plot or something. No one else has known, either. I’ll go try some other shop, I guess.”

Me: “Please, let us know when you do find it! Have a good day!”

We have a wager going for the book. The prize is a cookie from the café next door.

I worked at a boutique hotel in Sydney where I dealt with A LOT of bulls***.

Customer: “I’d like to book a room for two hours for myself and my partner.”

Me: “You’ll have to book for a full night.”

He became extremely irate, screaming at me and then hanging up and calling back again, still screaming.

I was trying to organize multiple bookings as it was a busy day. I kept my cool for as long as I possibly could. I’m a VERY patient individual.

He called back one last time, still yelling, and this time his partner was screaming in the background. I lost it. As calmly as I possibly could, but with a firm tone, I said:

Me: “Sir, with all due respect this is a professional hotel, not a f****** brothel.”

He hung up and never called back. My manager and I laughed our a**es off.