I call this issue “Spouse From Hell Syndrome”. There you are at work, assisting people with their glasses, and a couple comes in with a problem. The wife has the problem, but the husband speaks for her and she doesn’t say a word.

Husband: “There’s something wrong with her glasses; she can’t see with them.”

I smile at the wife.

Me: “Okay. What do you use them for?”

Husband: “She’s meant to use them for reading, but she can’t.”

Me: “Okay. I’ll look them over.”

I check the fit and check the lenses against the prescription given. The husband starts huffing and shifting impatiently.

Me: “Everything looks correct as to the prescription.”

I then whip out a reading card.

Husband: “I already said she can’t read with those. We want some she can read with!”

Me: “Yes, I am working through all the checks I have to make, sir. I want to pinpoint the issue here.”

Husband: “ARE YOU STUPID?! SHE CAN’T READ WITH THESE!”

I ask the wife various questions, but I am drawing a blank all the way! She can see the print perfectly at a distance suitable to read from. Then, I ask her to read out the bottom line. And she can’t.

Because she cannot read. She was never taught.

The irate husband is by now shrieking at me:

Husband: “The ads are misleading! THEY SAY YOU CAN READ CLOSE UP!”

Me: “The true name for reading glasses is ‘near vision glasses’. The words ‘reading glasses’ only apply if the person can already read!”

The man stomped out with his wife in tow. She never said a word.

I had that happen three times in a ten-year career.

Customer: “I want the salad with no toast. I’m highly allergic to toast!”

Me: “Madam, that salad contains croutons. They’re made from the same bread as the toast.”

Customer: “Oh, that’s fine. Once you make the toast into croutons, it changes.”

I work at a museum that depicts how Britain used to look during Victorian times. We sometimes have mannequins dressed up in period-appropriate clothing. We tend to stick with the Dickensian part of the nineteenth century, as this was before most of the laws concerning the poor’s rights were introduced in our country.

On this particular day, some Americans are visiting. One of them approaches me after I have given a talk about life for the poorest citizens while I am standing in a mock street.

Tourist: “Hey, we were wondering why y’all don’t have any Black mannequins?”

Me: “What do you mean?”

Tourist: *Scoffing* “I can’t see any Black mannequins. Y’all got the costumes right and everything, but if you wanna be accurate, why don’t y’all have Black people? They matter, too, you know.”

Me: “There were very few Black people in the Victorian era. Even then, I think that most Black people would have been servants, rather than living in slums.”

Tourist: *Taken aback* “Really?”

Me: “Yes. Even as late as 1945, there were only about 20,000 non-white people living in Britain.” *Pauses* “How many Black people lived in America during the nineteenth century?”

Tourist: “About one-fifth.”

Me: “That would explain it.”

To be fair, he did seem to become interested in how different our countries are.

I am teaching a fairly rowdy class of Year Nines (fourteen-year-olds) how to do average speed calculations.

Halfway through an explanation, one of the kids puts his hands up. 

Student: “Miss, I have a question!”

Me: “Okay, what’s up?”

Student: “If the shop is two miles away, and people walk at three miles an hour… why has it taken my dad seven years to go buy his tabs [cigarettes] and he’s not back yet?”

I lasted three seconds before I cracked up.

His dad still lives at home; the kid just likes to wind me up!

I am browsing solar-powered lights to put on my garden fence. I have picked up a box and am reading it when an elderly woman steps up next to me.

Old Lady: “I’ve bought those. They’re no good; they’re not bright at all. I had to bring them back.”

Me: “Oh, uh, thank you?”

I pick another box up to compare them.

Old Lady: “They’re useless.”

Me: “I’m just comparing them. Thanks, anyway.”

I kind of turn my back on her, and she moves away. I don’t need bright lights; I just want a dim glow to show my fenceline, and these lights look perfect for what I need. I get four boxes. On my way to the checkout, I go past the old lady and she looks at my trolley.

Old Lady: “Oh, you got those? They’re really rubbish. Honestly, you can’t see a thing with them. You’d be better with the other ones.”

Me: “These are fine.”

I walk away and behind me, I hear her say loudly:

Old Lady: “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

I won’t.