(Driving for Uber late one night, I pick up a rider after the bars close.)

Me: “So, how was your evening?”

Rider: “Well, it started out pretty good. Then, it got bad. Then, I poured tequila on it.”

I was meeting a friend for breakfast one morning, and rather than drive I decided to get a taxi using a well-known taxi app.

Everything was going fine until I innocently mentioned that my weekend plans involved visiting my baby niece. The driver asked if I had kids or was married, and I happily said no and that I had no intention of either.

Big. Mistake.

I was treated to the remaining fifteen-minute journey listening to a lecture on how his culture’s children were better than mine because they stay with their parents, care for them, and don’t leave them. He said I probably moved out as soon as I could, because that is what “my culture” encouraged. He was genuinely shocked when I said I visit my parents weekly and we all live very close to each other.

As I seriously considered how painful it would be to ditch out of a car doing 40 mph on a busy road, he then started extolling the benefits of arranged marriage, how well it worked, and why it was the best thing ever. He said I should really consider it because I need to have kids, because who would look after me when I am old, otherwise?

Throughout, his tone was calm and reasonable, and he kept asking if I agreed with him — prompting non-committal noises from me. I was honestly worried at making him angry if I disagreed, like he was waiting for me to say something.

When we arrived at the restaurant, he parked about as far away as he could manage. It was raining. I didn’t care. 

Next time someone asks me about my personal life, I’m going to stick to the tried and tested “Yes, I have a son! He is three and moves very quickly! He’s a fussy eater, though. Want to see a picture? Yes, I know that’s a snake… Where are you going?”

(I live in an apartment complex with four buildings. They are called A, B, C, and D. One day I phone the local taxi company to get a ride.)

Me: “Hi. Can I get a pickup at [complex address], please?”

Dispatcher: “Sure thing. Which building?”

Me: “A.”

Dispatcher: “Which building?”

Me: *a little more clearly* “A.”

Dispatcher: *more clearly* “Which. Building.”

Me: *drawn out* “A.”

Dispatcher: “I need to know which building!”

(It finally dawns on me that she thinks I am saying, “Eh?” as in, “Didn’t catch that, please repeat yourself!” in true Canadian fashion. I just thought our phone connection wasn’t the best and she couldn’t hear me.)

Me: “Oh! Building A. The first one at the top of the hill!”

(We both had a good laugh about it. I’ve been a regular for a few years now, so by now they already know where to come as soon as my number pops up on their caller ID in the mornings.)

My husband & I are British so sometimes the accent poses problems but not this much.

Husband (en route to the airport). ‘Terminal A please,
Driver ‘Terminal E’
Husband ‘ Terminal A’
Driver ‘Terminal E’
Husband ‘No terminal A, as in A for Apple’
Driver ‘E for Apple?’

(I’m a male student walking home from a night out, when some girls I vaguely recognise call me over.)
Girl 1: Hey, you’re in the same halls as us. Like to share a taxi? We can split the fair.
(It’s common for people at the taxi rank to grab anyone who happens to be heading the same way, so as to spread the fair over more people. I prefer to walk, but I feel like helping them out so I agree. Unfortunately, when we get there…)
Driver: That’s £15.
Me: So £3 each.
Girl 2: (Flutters her eyelashes) I thought you were paying.
Me: No. You said we were splitting the fare.
Girl 2: But I don’t have any money!
Girl 3: Or me!
Girl 4: Or me.
Me: So you decided to trick me into paying the whole thing when I didn’t want to come.
Girl 1: Well… I have a fiver.
(She places it on the tray. I only have a 20 so I put that down and pick up the fiver.)
Girl 1: Hey, that’s my money!
Me: Yeah. Just taking it as change.
(The driver hands us a fiver change, which I take despite the girls trying to snatch it form me.)
Girl 1: But it’s my money! You can’t have it!
Me: You put in 5. I put in 20. By taking 10 change, I paid twice as much as you in total.
Girl 2: We all saw you steel it!
(I decide to walk away from this, but the girls follow me through the car park.)
Girl 1: You took my money!
Girl 3: I can’t believe you’re being so petty about ten pounds!
Girl 4: We all saw you grab it!
(I know that the surrounding flats will be able to hear them so I turn to confront them.)
Me: Now look here! I have paid two thirds of your fair, you ungrateful brat! And that’s after…
(However, as I’m gesturing with my arms, Girl 1 abruptly clutches her face and screams, before grabbing some hall wardens. They take us all to separate rooms for questioning. A process which takes half an hour, during which I’m terrified that I’m about to be arrested for assault.)
Warden: Look, this is something you’d need to take up with the police. But you should wait until you’ve sobered up first.
Me: Thank you.
(The police never got involved. The girls later came up to me and apologised. I offered to give them the money back, in case I misjudged something. I never joined a taxi pool again.)