I was walking through this very long train to position myself for the optimal point to disembark, so I went through multiple interconnecting doors between carriages.

This was decades ago before interconnecting doors slid apart just by pressing a button, and on this train, it was a hinged door you had to push. Usually, these hinged doors would open easily, but sometimes they’d stick a bit.

With one door, I turned the handle and pushed, but there was some friction so I had to push a bit harder to open it. 

When I turned round to close it, I noticed a carrier bag full of shopping there, and I realised that this was what caused the friction. And someone sitting in the seat next to the door was glaring at me. 

Obviously, one of the stupidest places to leave a bag is in front of a door, so I just stared back at him for two seconds, silently closed the door, and sat down. I looked up a few seconds later, and the man was still glaring at me. I stared back for another couple of seconds and resumed reading my paper but not before noticing that he’d reinstated the bag in front of the door.

Thirty seconds later, a woman came through the door and apologised to the man for having pushed his shopping aside, but the man just silently glared back at her, and again, he put the bag in front of the door. He was also still glaring at me.

I stopped taking any notice until about ten minutes later. I looked up and saw the man picking the bag up while someone was turning the handle, and after that person came through, he put his bag in front of the door again.

This was a busy commuter train in South London, so the man must have been doing this continually throughout the journey — hearing the door handle, picking up his bag, and then putting it back again — instead of putting it in the overhead rack or between his legs like any normal person.

I work for a donation-based charity stop, so inspirational acts occur frequently in my life. A few stand out though.

Donator: “I’d like to donate this item to the shop. You’ll likely get a pretty penny for it.”

Me: “Sir! Are you sure? This… this is a PS5!”

Donator: “Haha, yes, I am sure. I got it for my son for Christmas, but his grandparents also got him one. And we were thinking over Christmas that if our family can afford to have two PS5’s there’s probably a family out there that can’t afford one that might be able to through you guys and a charity gets a nice little earner to boot.”

Me: “I… understand, I think. Would you like me to keep it in the back for a day or two in case you change your mind?”

Donator: “Does buyer’s remorse also apply to some people who donate.”

Me: “When it’s high-value items, then yes we do.”

Donator: “Well that’s a bit rubbish, but I assure you no such thing with me. Put it on the shelf right now I say! It’ll sell out fast!”

There is a slight “ahem” from a customer behind us.

Customer: *To me.* “I was wondering… maybe… if you were really going to accept the PS5 from this gentleman, that maybe I could get first dibs on it? My kids would be over the moon and I couldn’t afford one at the scalper’s prices.”

Donator: “Told you!”

It was sold for £50 under RRP and the original donator and customer walked out together talking about how much fun it is gaming with their children.

A middle-aged woman and an older woman are shopping and while I try not to stereotype what the average gamer looks like, these two are looking a little lost and bickering among themselves.

Me: “Can I help you, ladies?”

Middle-Aged Customer: “Yes, I want to buy one of these “Twitch” games for my son, but they all seem so violent.”

Older Customer: *To the middle-aged customer, her daughter.* “They’re Switch games, and like I told you, my grandson wants the Pokémon games!” *To me.* “Thank you, dear, but we’re fine here.”

Middle-Aged Customer: *To me.* “But they seem so violent! This game is all fighting, isn’t it?”

Me: “While the game does involve combat, it’s all child-appropriate and doesn’t involve anything overly violent. It’s mostly just cartoon-like animations.”

Middle-Aged Customer: “I’m… I’m just not sure.”

Older Customer: *To her daughter.* “Oh, for crying out loud! They’re harmless! Look, we discussed this. There are two games, Scarlet and Violet. You buy one, I buy the other: one happy grandchild!”

Middle-Aged Customer: “I’m just not comfortable with all the fighting. I think I will buy this game.”

She picks up a puzzle game, featuring sudoku, math problems, etc.

Older Customer: *To her daughter.* “Well if you want him to pretend to like your gift you can do that. I will be buying him what he actually wants!”

They continue their bickering but eventually make their purchases while I wisely step away. I explain the encounter to my manager, and we both get a good chuckle out of it.

A few days later, my manager and I have just opened the shop and a very angry-looking mother is standing outside.

Middle-Aged Customer: “You sold me a game that made me look stupid!”

Manager: *Wisely take over.* “Can you explain your issue, madam?”

Middle-Aged Customer: “I bought this “Twitch” game—” *Throws the puzzle collection on the counter.* “—for my son’s birthday and he hasn’t even used it! But you sold my mother those stupid Pokémon games and he hasn’t stopped playing them!”

Manager: “And what would you like us to do, madam?”

Middle-Aged Customer: “Make my son stop playing the Pokémon! It’s making me look like a bad mother!”

Manager: *Taking a moment to come to terms with the WTF-ness of this request.* “You would like me to stop your son, who isn’t here, from playing a game, that your mother purchased, that also isn’t here? This is the same game – that if my employee tells it correctly – your mother told you your son wanted for his birthday?”

Middle-Aged Customer: “Yes! Isn’t there anything you can do?”

Manager: “Madam, it sounds like your mother tried to use common sense on you, but it was not very effective.”

The mother grumbles loudly but struts out. My manager and I can’t wait to see Poké-granny again, though!

Related:
Switch Off Your Audacity, Lady

CONTENT WARNING: Eating Disorders

A woman comes in to buy a coffee, pays, goes and sits down with her drink, and takes out a book. No problem. A few other people start to come in to get English breakfasts and sit down to eat. I’d say we’re at about half capacity at this point.

The first woman looks around, slams her book shut, and comes up to the counter.

Customer: “Get rid of these. All of these. I can’t deal.”

Me: “Not sure what you mean. Get rid of what?”

Customer: “The people! The food!”

Her voice is rising in volume.

Customer: “All those fat slobs stuffing their faces is triggering my eating disorder!”

Me: “Please lower your voice. I can’t kick people out for eating food!”

Customer: “No, the thin ones are okay. I just can’t bear seeing fat people eating unhealthy food. I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to get rid of them.”

Me: “No.”

Customer: “Do you want me to starve myself and die?!“

She doesn’t know, and I don’t tell her, but twenty years ago, I nearly died from anorexia. I really don’t want to be in this conversation anymore, especially since I’m overweight and she’s glaring at me like she’s about to give me grief for that, too.

Me: “Look, just go. If seeing people eat food is triggering, then maybe a coffee shop isn’t a good place for you? I’ll put your coffee in a to-go cup.”

Customer: “No, I’ve got a right to be here. You have to accommodate me, or else I’ll die.”

Thankfully, at this point, my manager came over and quietly told her to go before shopping centre security arrived because she was being offensive to other customers. And apparently, the threat of security was enough to get her to just leave. I left early that day, half shaken from the whole fatphobia thing and half shaking with rage that I didn’t have telekinesis that could have punted her out the door the instant she started up.

My sister and I went to a local pub around the corner from our house to have a couple of drinks. I saw what I wanted in the fridge behind the bar.

Me: “Can I have the [Irish Cider], cherry flavour, please?”

Sister: “And can I have a dry white wine, please?”

For those who don’t know much about wine, white wine generally gets kept chilled in the fridge, not just left on the shelf.

Barman: “Eh… what was that, sorry?”

Me: “An Irish cherry cider. Also a dry white wine for my sister, please?”

Barman: “We have cider, but not the kind you want!”

Me: “Yes, you do.” *Points to the fridge* “Over there.”

Barman: “Oh, we don’t have cherry flavour. Also, what colour is cherry, anyway?”

Me: “Cherry can depend on the season, but on this occasion, it’s the dark red on the third shelf up, four in!” *Points*

The barman checked the location for what seemed an eternity.

Barman: “Oh, I did not know we had that…”

He placed it on the bar and went to get the white wine.

Me: *To my sister* “That was interesting. Even [Six-Year-Old Niece] and [Six-Year-Old Nephew] would know the colour of cherry!”

The barman came back from taking a bottle of white wine, not from the fridge beside him, but from a shelf further up the bar, and started pouring.

Sister: “Ehm, pardon me? What are you doing? White wine gets served chilled, unlike red wine. I see you have a bottle of [White Wine]. I will have that, please.”

The barman gave her a confused look.

Sister: “I see you’re still pouring. I won’t be having that. Please get the wine I asked for.”

Grumpily, the barman went and got the wine from the fridge and poured the wine as per request. Then, he left the bottle of white wine, from the fridge, on the bar with the lid off, not closing it or even putting it in the fridge.

Sister: “Can I see your manager, please?”

Luckily for us, the manager just happened to come out of the office at that time and walked past the bar.

Manager: “Hello, I’m the manager. How can I help?”

My sister explained the situation, and the manager, dumbfounded by this, turned to the barman.

Manager: “They are not paying for these drinks. Also, what did we teach in training? Do you not remember the brands we sell or how to store wine? I specifically remember [Other Employee] telling you this. One more mistake and you’re out.”

The manager directed us to a table to enjoy our drinks.

As my sister picked up the wine glass to drink, she noticed a lipstick stain on the rim.The barman sheepishly changed the glass over. We did notice that the white wine got moved to the fridge eventually.

We’ve been there a couple of times since then over the years and have never seen or heard of that barman again.