My favourite clothing shop has a strict refund/exchange policy: fourteen days, with a receipt. No receipt or over fourteen days, no refund, no exchange. They do have an extended Christmas return policy which starts in November, where you can return items up to seventh January but for exchange only.

In mid-November, I bought my mum a shirt for Christmas. About a month later, she showed me the lovely shirt she’d just bought herself. Yes, it was the same one! I went back to the shop to exchange the one I’d bought. The cashier took one look at the receipt and tossed it back at me.

Cashier: *Rudely* “You’re way outside our return date.”

Me: “I can return it up to seventh January—”

Cashier: *Interrupting* “It’s fourteen days. You should have brought it back earlier.”

Me: “You’ve got extended returns for Christmas. It says so on the receipt. I want to exchange it for this.”

I’d picked out another shirt for the same price.

Cashier: “You’re too late.”

Just then, a manager stepped up by the cashier; she had heard a bit of our conversation.

Cashier: “She wants to get a refund but she’s too late.”

Me: “No, I want to do an exchange, and I’ve got until seventh January to do it.”

The manager looked at my receipt

Manager: “Yes, that’s fine. Just scan it in.”

Cashier: “It won’t work; it’s a month old.”

Manager: “The returns are extended because of Christmas. Just scan it.”

Cashier: “But it won’t work; it’s outside fourteen days.”

The manager sighed, stepped around the cashier, and ran the exchange for me. As I was packing up my bag and leaving, I heard the manager say:

Manager: “Right, let’s go over this one more time. And this time, please listen.”

We are eating lunch in a nice restaurant away from home. It’s not our type of place, but it was the only option as everywhere else was fully booked. We opt for the only thing that looks normal: a sharing all-day breakfast — sausages, bacon, eggs, etc.

When it finally comes, it’s served on a flat board. It looks pretentious and a right mess. Worse is that the eggs have been cooked over easy, so the yolk has flooded the board, and it’s dripping off and everywhere. The beans are soaking into the bread and falling off of the board.

Me: “Can we get some plates or something?”

Waiter: “This is the way it’s served, sir.”

Me: “It’s a mess; I’m getting egg all over my shoes. Everything is getting soggy.”

Waiter: “This is how you eat our breakfast meal.”

Me: “Take it back, then.”

Waiter: “Excuse me?”

Me: “Take it back. First, it’s a mess. Second, it’s dripping everywhere. And third, I specifically asked for no beans and for my eggs to be scrambled.”

Waiter: “Well, I could ask the chef to remove the—”

Me: “No, take it back. Refund my money, please.”

Waiter: “Maybe we could do something else? I could put the breakfast into a baguette?”

Me: “Nope, refund in full.”

The waiter reluctantly refunded our money, making some snide comments as we leave. We managed to find a little cafe. They had all local ingredients, they were reasonably priced, and they tasted great.

The fancy restaurant was bought out a year later but still went under.

People: “Oh, my God, you’ve really slimmed down. Like, a lot. Can you please tell me your secret?”

When people say that to me, I have to resist the urge to slap them, which is rather problematic, given that I hear that line on average thrice a day.

I was on the pudgy side for most of my life. I was rather sedentary. And a liking for booze, dairy, and snacking meant that I wasn’t the slimmest person in the world.

Then, I got pregnant when I was eighteen, and my father disowned me for that. Oh, and my boyfriend literally fled the country to avoid paying child support. When I tried to approach his family, they told me to f*** off.

Still, I found myself a room to rent and a part-time job and tried my best to raise my newborn little girl.

When I first started out, I had a full bank account and summer sunlight behind me. I was confident that I could do this. Then, the costs started mounting and my bank account began growing depleted. Winter was encroaching, and babies were expensive, even with welfare.

I had a choice between coats or good food. I chose the coats and started eating takeout. The price of baby products went up. I halved my sleep and got a second part-time job. Babysitters began charging more because of the health crisis. I dropped ice cream and chocolate to afford them.

Then, my daughter fell sick. I dropped alcohol to afford the medicine.

The heating bill was more than expected. I used my food money to pay for it and spent a month eating my coworkers’ leftovers.

I had to buy new school supplies — textbooks and the like. I cut down from three square meals a day (plus snacks) to just one, convincing myself that it was about time I started dieting.

Final exams arrived. I took time off from my two part-time jobs to study for it, depleting what was left of my bank account in order to feed and clothe my daughter and myself.

My bank account was completely empty after finals. I took three part-time jobs during the school holidays to partially replenish it. Sleep was basically nonexistent by this point, and I was surviving off one meal a day.

But even so, no matter what I did, bills and costs were slowly but surely strangling me. I’d gotten to the point where I was seriously considering some… less wholesome methods of earning cash, when my grandmother passed away.

She willed me quite a bit, and although she was barely coherent toward the end, her last words were apparently for my father to reconcile with her favourite granddaughter, so that’s what he did. He rescinded my disownment and invited me to come in from the cold.

The first conversation we had went something like this.

Father: *Stunned look* “You’ve slimmed down so much! Can you please tell me your secret? I’ve got a couple of inches I’d like to lose from my waistline.”

That’s an understatement. I lost almost an entire stone and was pretty thin and haggard by that point. On more than one occasion, I couldn’t afford to feed both my daughter and myself, and every single time, I chose to starve so that my daughter had food.

And hearing my father ask about something as frivolous as weight loss really made me come THAT close to committing murder.

Me: “It’s called being a single mother with no family for over a year. Guaranteed results.”

I’ve seen it before: some people don’t want you to succeed. Sometimes it’s envy; other times just pure malice. I’ve had it before at work but never from someone that I considered a friend.

I was making my lunch one night in our shared kitchen. I’ve been trying to eat more healthily, so it was a simple salad that I was making a little more interesting. 

Housemate: “Is that what you’re eating? It’s a little… plain.”

Me: “It’s okay. I have tuna, egg, cheese, and onion to put in yet. I think I have some croutons somewhere, too.”

Housemate: “Someone got a raise at work, then!”

I sigh to myself. Whenever money is involved, she gets super defensive and acts like I’m a millionaire despite earning a very similar salary to hers.

Me: “Nope, I worked it out; it’s a little over £1 a serving. It’s not just you that struggles with money, you know.”

Housemate: “That can’t be right! You’re just trying to make me feel bad.”

Me: “Okay, fine.”

I get out my phone calculator.

Me: “One egg, an eighth of a multipack of tuna, one-third a bag of lettuce, and one-tenth a block of cheese.”

Housemate: “You didn’t add on the sauce!”

Me: “Whatever, like 5p of sauce. See? £1.10. Happy?”

Housemate: “Well, it looks s***, anyway.”

I tried to reconcile a few days later. I offered to help plan meals or share ingredients if she wanted help. She seemed interested until I made it clear that didn’t mean I would make all her lunches for her. She suddenly “couldn’t be bothered,” so that was the end of that.

Customer: “I’d like to buy some [wine] but I can’t find it.”

I look it up.

Me: “We don’t have it in stock, but we can order it for you. It’ll be between £11 and £13.”

Customer: “Okay, thank you.”

I take her information. It ends up being £12 when it comes in. The lady is irate when she picks it up.

Customer: “I was told it would be £11.99!”

Me: “All of our wine and spirits have pence in multiples of twenty-five — so £5.25, £5.50, £5.75, etc. Nobody said £11.99, and nobody would ever say £11.99.”

She blew a gasket and spent a good ten minutes going off at me, calling me a liar, insulting me and my job, and telling me she’d never buy from us again. Then, she paid and left, making all sorts of threats. Shocker, she continued to buy from us.