Our shop has been open for about six months when the worst floods in years strike and the place is flooded. We are in the process of cleaning up, like all the other businesses nearby, when a man comes in. I’m cleaning the bar so I greet him.

Me: “Hi there, can I help you?”

Man: “Yes, I’m actually wondering if the owner is around. I’d like to talk to them about our point of sale and credit card processing system. I am confident that ours will be better than whatever you’re currently using.”

I look around. Tables and chairs are stacked on the upper ground floor, and my colleagues are hosing river mud off the lower ground. This is clearly not the time. We’re an extremely close team and this has obviously been incredibly upsetting for our owner. I make an executive decision that he doesn’t need to deal with this now.

Me: “I’m afraid he’s not available at the moment. As you can see, we’re dealing with a situation just now. But please leave your card and I’ll pass it on.”

I take his card and he leaves. The owner has been wiping tables a few feet away.

Owner: “I love you.”

Best job I’ve ever had. And we’re still going!

We bring cakes to work for our birthdays. I normally buy plenty as they never seem to last. I joke that it’s like feeding time at the zoo. [Coworker #1] is the worst; she’ll see you come into the office and you can’t even get the cakes out of the shopping bag before she starts eating. Then, she’ll go back several times trying to be sneaky, but she never is.

Honestly, it annoys me at first; she leaves nothing for the other shift, even if I mark up a box for them.

One birthday, as I am leaving, I notice that there are loads left. On my way out, I shout to the next shift that there are some upstairs and to grab what they want, and then I head home.

[Coworker #1] accosts me the next morning.

Coworker #1: “So, it was your birthday yesterday?”

Me: “Good morning, [Coworker #1]. Yes, it was.”

Coworker #1: “So, cakes?”

Me: “Oh, sorry, I didn’t realise you weren’t here. Yes, there might be something left in the kitchen. I’m not sure if they have been in the fridge or not.”

She mutters something under her breath; I catch something about saving some for her. She comes back in with the remaining boxes.

Coworker #1: “Well, it’s not my favourite, but I guess it’s something.” 

I ignore her. Apparently, she eats the rest of the cakes throughout the morning. She starts complaining more than usual, and then at lunch, she disappears.

Coworker #2: *Looking through the box* “[Coworker #1] doesn’t leave much for anyone else, huh?”

Me: “Oh, don’t eat the cream ones; they have been sitting in a warm kitchen all night.”

Coworker #2: “[Coworker #1] ate two full boxes already!”

Me: “Wow, I wonder if we will see her today.”

She took the next two days off. She blamed me, of course, but no one took her seriously.

My mum comes round to see our new flat.

Mum: “Why do all your candles have these little lids?”

Me: “Oh, I never really realised. I guess it’s to stop things getting on the candle, catching fire. I never really thought about it before.”

Mum: “Seems daft to me.”

Me: “Maybe. I just like them because they smell nice.”

Mum: “They do, they really do.”

I end up buying her one of the candles she likes the most, and the next time I visit her:

Me: “Smells nice in here. Do I smell your new candle?”

Mum: “Hmm, yes, it’s really nice. But have you noticed it smells a bit when you first light it?”

Me: “No? What of?”

Mum: “Well, burnt hair.”

Me: “Hmmm, do you check if Morris (the cat) gets his hair on it?”

Mum: “Oh, I was dusting the other day, and I saw hairs in there. I didn’t even think. They should make something to stop that.”

Me: “Yeah, I think they do, you know. Maybe you have one already?”

She figured it out pretty quickly; the little kids are no longer as “daft” as she thought.

A customer calls in with an address in an area with a strong Indian community. His name is Punjabi, as are most Sikhs’ names.

Me: “Thank you for calling. Can I have your name, please?”

Caller: “[First Name] Singh. I need [describes problem].”

That is his real surname, which is pertinent to the story.

Me: “I can help with that. Your security question is, ‘What is your mother’s maiden name?’.”

Caller: “Kaur.”

This is also relevant. I handle his query… and then I go off-script.

Me: “Mr. Singh, may I ask a personal question?”

Caller: “Yes?”

Me: “Are you a Sikh?”

Caller: “Yes… is this relevant?”

Me: “Well, I’m slightly concerned about the security on your account. Sikhism requires its believers to take a certain surname. Singh for men and Kaur for women?”

Caller: “Yes…?”

Me: “Well, if I wanted to hack into your account, guessing your mother’s maiden name would be very easy. If you are Mr. Singh or you wear a turban, your mother is like Mrs. Kaur. Your first name is also Punjabi.”

Caller: “Oh… oh! Can I change that?”

Me: “Yes, sir. You can change it to anything you like. For example, your first school or just a made-up password.”

He changes his password to something else.

Caller: “Out of interest, is that in your training?”

Me: “No, I’ve just had a few Sikh friends. I used to be able to name the 5 Ks.”  

Caller: “Kesh, kara, kanga, kaccha, and kirpan!”

Me: “Yes, the five things you must keep on you at all times. I’m glad to have been able to help you today, Mr. Singh!”

A while ago, we were trying to sell our home. I was working at home at that point, so I would go out when the agent had a viewing and come back afterward. Despite a lot of time wasters, things were going okay. A few low offers and plenty of interest.

The weirdest thing was that after one viewing, I started to notice that things were out of place. Knives were facing different ways, picture frames and candles were swapped around, and a small standing mirror was moved.

I thought it might have been the estate agent, maybe tidying up, although it didn’t look any better and he never did it before any of the other viewings. But it wasn’t a big deal and was easily fixed, so I never thought of it again.

A while later, there was a knock on the door. I answered it to find a middle-aged woman.

Woman: “Oh, hello. I am following up about the card I put through your door.”

Me: “I’m sorry, remind me what it was. I might have missed it.”

Woman: *Huffy already* “It was a card — a small yellow card about feng shui.”

I seem to recall throwing that straight into the bin.

Me: “Oh, yes, I recall. How is it I can help?”

Woman: “I came round the other week and noticed that your whole house was wrong. The energy was all wrong. It’s probably why it hasn’t sold.”

It took me a while to connect the dots.

Me: “Oh, you are interested in buying the house?”

Woman: “What? No! I’m a professional feng shui consultant. I help people to achieve harmony and balance.”

Me: “No, thank you.”

I shut the door as she was still arguing that I would “never sell the house,” and I let the estate agent know not to let her come round again.

A few weeks later, he told me that he had to ban her, as after I complained it made sense.  She was asking to view pretty much every house nearby, never made an offer, and never viewed a house twice, and her budget seemed to change weekly.

He let the other estate agents know to ban her, as well. It’s one thing to put the card through the door — completely another to waste everyone’s time!