About ten years ago, I worked at a bookshop. There was going to be a changeover with the website, so I created a very simple placeholder webpage that listed the contact details for the store. I double-checked all the contact details and, satisfied it was correct, put the page online.

The next day, I received a call while at home.

Me: *Answering on autopilot* “Hello, [Bookshop]. How can I help you?”

As I spoke, I realised what I had done and readied myself for an explanation.

Caller: “Ah, yes, hello. Can you tell me if you have [Book] in stock?”

Me: “Uh… of course! However, can you please call this number, instead?” *Gives the actual store number* “I’m afraid the number on the website isn’t for the shop front.”

Caller: *Slightly confused* “Okay… Thanks!”

After the call ended, I immediately contacted my colleague, who managed to update the site. Somehow, in checking the contact details, I hadn’t noticed that I’d entered my personal address and landline instead of the bookshop’s! In fairness, however, they were on the same road and shared an area code.

Thankfully, there were no other calls to my home number… and I never answered the phone in the same way again!

I used to work in a managed office space building. We had a communal conference room where I handled the bookings. The rule of thumb was that I would receive the booking by email, and I would either confirm or decline the booking. This also ensured that I had seen and received their email.

One day, one of the tenants from the office came down to my office.

Tenant: “Oh, we have the meeting room booked today.”

Me: “Um, no, another tenant has it booked for the entire day today.”

Tenant: “But I sent an email to reserve it.”

Me: “I’m sorry, but I didn’t receive an email from you about that booking. As I’ve said before, the general rule is that you send an email to reserve and I send one back either declining or accepting the booking. On this occasion, I guess you didn’t receive a decline or confirmation as I hadn’t received the email.”

The tenant disappeared for a few minutes and reappeared with a printed copy of the email they’d sent me.

Tenant: “Here! This is the email I sent you!”

Me: “I’m sorry, but I did not receive this email!”

Tenant: “Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t receive it?”

Me: “Would you like to walk away for a few minutes and think about what you’ve just asked me?”

I have a very Irish name that’s tough to spell, so I normally accept that “Mave” or “Maeve” will be written on my coffee orders, and honestly, that’s fine.

I order a coffee in the UK using my thick Irish accent.

Barista: “And the name?”

Me: “M is fine.”

Another customer behind me speaks up, definitely not Irish.

Customer: “You shouldn’t do that! It’s their job to get your name right; it’s not your job to make it easier for them.”

Me: “First of all… wow. Second, if you can spell my name right the first time, I’ll buy you your coffee.”

Customer: *All smiles* “Easy! What’s your name?”

I say the proper pronunciation of my name, and the customer looks all smug.

Customer: “M-A-E-V-E.”

Me: *Producing a student ID card* “Wrong. It’s M-E-A-D-H-B-H.”

The customer is staring at “Meadhbh” in disbelief. He then looks up at me and then at the barista smiling, and then he just slowly saunters out of the coffee shop.

Barista: “Wow.”

Me: “It’s okay. All those consonants. He didn’t have a chance!”

I drive a taxi in London — not the traditional black cab that you see in films, but an ordinary large (by our standards) saloon car.

I was sent to Heathrow to pick up an American couple and take them to a West End hotel. We mostly hated Heathrow because it often meant a long wait (not on the meter) and bad traffic back to town, but with Americans, we expected a larger than usual tip. 

This job was okay, though. The plane was on time, and my passengers were quick off the blocks and saw me with the usual sign well ahead of the bulk of the passengers getting through customs and immigration.

We loaded their considerable luggage into the boot and, with them in the back seat, we set off, straight into a jam on the motorway. My passengers had strong accents and I found it hard to understand when they asked questions, but it was obvious that they had a problem. We were stopped at some lights when they explained that they urgently needed “a bathroom”.

That’s not easy in central London, and public conveniences were no great advert for our city, so I detoured to a well-known department store and let them out. I wasn’t concerned that they would run off because I had all their luggage.

It took them ages, and I had to drive around the block to avoid getting a ticket, but eventually, they came back clutching some of the department store’s bags. I took them to their hotel without further problems and they seemed grateful. 

When they got out, I helped with the bags and then told the man what the fare was. He seemed surprised, but there was half an hour waiting time, so I suppose it was a bit more than our office had quoted. He pulled out his wallet and counted out the notes, and then he opened a change purse so he could find the exact money before walking off without leaving me a tip.

I wouldn’t have minded so much except that the uniformed flunky from the hotel who did nothing but hold the door for them got a good tip for his trouble.

I am the third customer in the queue. The first customers are a middle-aged couple and their kid who looks like he could be anywhere between sixteen and twenty. There are two bottles of beer among their other items, which I only pay attention to because the cashier is refusing to scan them.

Cashier: “The problem is he looks legal age, but I can’t sell it to you if he can’t show ID.”

Mum: “But it’s not for him; it’s for us.”

Cashier: “But he’s with you, so I can’t sell it to you.”

Mum: “I don’t see why I can’t buy my beer just because I have my son with me.”

Cashier: “Look, he looks old enough to drink, but he also looks under twenty-five. I have to ID him.”

Mum: “This is ridiculous!”

Cashier: “I can’t sell it to you. I don’t know that it’s not a proxy sale.”

Mum: “But I am telling you that I’m not going to give it to him!”

Cashier: “If I am caught selling this to you, whether or not your son drinks any, I could lose my job. I could be facing jail time. I will not sell this to you.”

Dad: “Well, how about this. I’ll just pick up those—” *points at the beer* “—and head to the back of the queue, yeah?”

Cashier: “I can’t. I already know that you’re together. I can’t take that risk.”

Dad: “But it would be just me buying beer.”

Cashier: “No. If my supervisor catches me. If he saw on the security footage, I would be in a serious amount of trouble. You are not buying this beer.”

There’s a bit more back and forth, but eventually, the family buys the rest of their things (without the beer) and leaves. The cashier calls over for another employee to put the beer away, and the next customer addresses him.

Customer #2: “Some people…”

Cashier: “For all I knew, that kid could have been sixteen, or he could hate the taste of beer, but it’s not a risk I can take.”

Customer #2: “Oh, I know, sweetie. I just can’t believe their nerve!”