(I am waiting for my car after an afternoon ballet performance of the Nutcracker. A couple and a young girl are standing next to me. While the woman and girl are dressed very nicely, and the man is just in worn jeans, boots, and a holiday sweater.)

Woman: “So, did you like your first ballet?”

Girl: “Yes! Thank you, Auntie!”

Man: “Yeah, I did. Wasn’t what I was really expecting.”

(The woman and girl both turned to look at him, wide-eyed.)

Girl: “You’ve never been to the ballet?”

Man: “Not really a priority with my family. Never even seen one before.”

Woman: “But it’s the Nutcracker! It’s a holiday tradition!”

Man: “Love, last year one of my brothers accidentally stabbed me during the family Christmas rugby game. Didn’t feel it because I had a blood alcohol level that would’ve ignited near an open flame.”

Woman: “How do you accidentally… Um, never mind. Yes, different traditions.”

Girl: “What’s rugby? Are we going to play it on Christmas?”

Woman: “No.”

(Somehow, I just don’t see that relationship going anywhere.)

Our class is scheduled to see a West End production. We dress in our formal clothes, and we get to the theatre early. Most of our class is happy to wait in the foyer or on the sidewalk, but three of us want to look around the area. One of our male teachers agrees to chaperone us on a walk.

At first, we’re cheerful and loudly discuss which way to go. We turn down a side street, which seems at first to be lined with small shops with neon marquees and neon-lit windows. There’s only foot traffic here, and some women are clustered around open doorways, chatting or leaning against walls. But as we near the closest marquees, we realize who the women are, and what the “shops” actually are. And we begin to realize we are a group of three young women wearing fancy dresses being escorted by a guy at least twice our age, and that this is not a place we want to be at all.

My eyes bug out, and we giggle nervously while our teacher turns red. We go quiet and focus on getting to the other end of the alley while the hookers watch us.

We head back to the theatre immediately. We never say a word about it to our classmates or the other teachers.

Me: “I’m afraid that we only have tickets available at either end of row X, at the very ends on either side.”

Customer: “Hmm, which side is better?”

Me: “Well, it’s the three end seats at either end of the row; there’s not much difference between the two.”

Customer: “But which has the better view?”

Me: “Like I say, the view is pretty much the same from either side.”

Customer: “But which do you think would be best for this show?”

Me: “The auditorium is perfectly symmetrical; there is no difference at all between either position.”

Customer: “Yes, but which would you pick? You know the venue better than I do.”

Me: *sighs internally* “You know what? The right side definitely has the better view. I’d go for that.”

I went to a performance of a Gilbert and Sullivan play at a community theater. In the front row, there was what appeared to be a mom with two adult children, likely in their 20s, a son and a daughter. It became apparent that the son had little experience watching live theater and knew nothing of theater etiquette, such as the rule that you don’t talk back to the actors. Besides that, he’d laugh at the wrong moments and look confused when others were laughing. Oh, and did I mention he’d talk back to the actors? All the while, he generated less than favorable looks from his sister.

At intermission, all three got up and left, and only the mother and daughter returned, sans son. I only wish I could have heard that conversation.

(I work at a big theatre, and since most of the people visiting are rich, they tend to assume all the ushers are stupid. I am working the guest cloakroom this evening, and it is the end-of-the-performance rush to give back all the coats.)

Guest: *with a heavy Italian accent* “These numbers, please.”

(I go to the back, get the coats for those numbers, hand them to him, and start serving someone else.)

Guest: “Excuse me. Something is missing!”

Me: “I’m sorry, sir. What is missing?”

Guest: “My wife’s coat! You didn’t give me my wife’s coat!”

(I go back again and check the numbers. The hooks are all empty. I look around the floor; nothing fell down. Sometimes on busy evenings I put stuff on the wrong number, so I go to the front and ask him.)

Me: “I’m sorry, sir. What does your wife’s coat look like?”

Guest: “I don’t know! But it’s not here!”

Me: “If you could describe it for me, then I could check again to see if I find it.”

Guest: “I don’t know what it looks like! Now give me my wife’s coat!”

Me: “If you can’t describe it, then please wait for two or three minutes; the cloakroom will be emptier and maybe you can identify it then.”

Guest: “NO! I want my wife’s coat now!“

(I have been having this conversation while serving other people, as well, the whole time, because getting the cloakroom empty is literally the quickest way to find a missing coat. Now he is starting a noisy rant about how they put me there and I don’t know how to do my job.)

Me: “Please, sir, could you get your wife so that she could describe her coat for me?”

(He comes back with his wife, who smiles at me and describes her coat. While I go check again and her husband continues ranting, she looks at the coats and starts speaking to him in their language. I don’t speak a word of Italian, but her tone is very clear, so I come back to the front just in time to see the guy’s face lose all color. Turns out, the coat has been in his hand the whole time.)

Me: “Did you find it, ma’am?”

Guest: *pauses, turning slightly green* “I am so sorry.”

(He left, giving me a 5€ tip.)