Me: “Hey, [Coworker], you’re into gardening. There’s a bush with purple berries in my garden. Do you think you could help me identify them?”

Coworker: “Absolutely. Bring some in.”

The next week, I do so.

Me: “Here’s a bag of those berries I mentioned. Let me know what you think they are.”

Later that day:

Me: “Oh, hello, did you get a chance to look at those berries?”

Coworker: “Yes. I think they’re either blackcurrant or deadly nightshade. Now please excuse me while I go wash my hands.”

A woman wants to open a student account because she’s going for her PhD. I make small talk as I’m bringing up the procedure for account opening pre-checks. All is well until she mentions that it’s going to be a joint account with her husband.

Terms of the account state that it’s only available as a sole account because the usual holder is eighteen to twenty-one years old and not married.

Me: “If you’d like, I can open the account as a secondary account, and you can use Internet banking to send money between the accounts as needed. You’ll still reap the benefits for yourself.”

Nope. She goes on a rampage.

Caller: “I want to speak to your manager!”

My manager comes over, I explain, and it’s a new one to my manager. She explains to the woman what I’ve explained, tries to find a workaround, and even tries the account-opening team for their workaround, and gets nothing.

Caller: “In that case, I want to complain.”

That was okay — quick and easy and would get her off the phone quicker. She was still ranting and raving, trying to make it seem like the banks didn’t want married women going into science, proper head-bashing stuff.

I hope the complaint team had fun with that case.

I go to an unfamiliar coffee shop. A server is at the counter but she’s facing away from me.

Me: “Excuse me.”

She doesn’t even turn around; she holds up a finger indicating for me to wait. I wait and I wait.

Me: “Can I order? Or not?”

Server: “Oh, I’m so sorry. I thought you were someone else who works here.”

Me: “Okay. I’d like a medium latte to go, please.”

Server: “What size?”

Me: “Medium.”

Server: “Sitting in?”

Me: “No. To go, please.”

Server: “Any syrups?”

Me: “No, thank you.”

Server: “Can I interest you in a cookie or cake?”

Me: “Just the coffee, please.”

Server: “We have a range of cups on offer at the moment.”

Me: “I just want my coffee, please. I’m trying to get to work.”

Server: “We’re all busy, buddy.”

I look around the shop; we are alone and the car park was empty.

Me: “You’re clearly not. I wonder why.”

I’m helping set up a stand for my family’s business. I’m carrying heavy boxes and trying to get through the many idling people waiting to get in as normal ticket holders. One woman, in the way and on her phone, drops her ticket. It’s one of the ones you print at home, and she has just dropped in a puddle.

Me: “Excuse me, I—”

Woman: *Abruptly* “I’m not interested.”

Me: “What?”

I suddenly realise she must think me a creep

Me: “Oh, no, it’s nothing like that. You dropped your—”

Woman: “I said leave me alone!”

Me: “Sure thing. Good luck getting in!”

She looked at me with disgust and flipped me off.

I moved past her and they let me in. I took several trips back to the van to collect more stuff. On the last one, I saw the woman frantically trying to search for her ticket; it wasn’t where she dropped it. Then, she tried to con her way in as part of the trades setting up. They weren’t having any of it.

I’ve been working with a graphic design company for a few months. Apart from the initial concept I provided, I think I’ve been in touch with them twice: once to approve a draft and again to confirm a revision, both times via email. It’s taken a long time, even with clear initial instructions and a very minor revision, so we are already late against their schedule.

My main contact, Andy, convinces me to go down to their office as they have the first test prints back from the printer. I don’t like taking the afternoon off work, but Andy tells me it will be worth it as they can rush through any changes needed.

Me: “I’m here to meet Andy.”

Receptionist: “Andy?”

Me: “Andy [Last Name].”

Receptionist: “We don’t have anyone who works here by that name, sir.”

Me: “What? How can that be? I don’t have my laptop with me, but look, I have an email on my phone. Look, Andy [Last Name].”

Receptionist: “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t call someone who doesn’t work here. Maybe try emailing them?”

Andy is always slow to answer emails and always makes an excuse when I ask for a phone number. With no other option, I emailed Andy and hoped they’d see it.

Twenty minutes later, the receptionist told me she didn’t know who else to call — it was a common last name and I guess she had too many to call all of them — and that I should probably leave. 

I wrote an angry email to Andy for wasting my time. Two hours later, I got a one-line apology. Andy is actually Andrea, but everyone knows her as Andy. She admitted that she “probably” should have let the receptionist know.

I got the prints eventually, and they didn’t have the revision we agreed on, so there was another delay.

I found another company to work with after that.