My flatmates and I are finishing University, and between us, we decide to sell off everything we won’t need to pay off some damages to our rented flat. We bought everything evenly and have all been responsible for the flat, so it’s nice and easy to work out.

Flatmate #1: “So, how do we do this?”

Flatmate #2: “I want to keep some bits for myself.”

Me: “I’m happy to sell everything. We need the money and we are going to have to sell everything we have to get it. Tell you what: we price everything up, and if we want to keep anything, we ‘pay’ that out of our own pocket.”

Flatmate #1: “Sounds fair.”

Flatmate #2: “Wait, can’t we just all take an item?”

Flatmate #1: “I’m not taking anything.”

Me: “Me, neither.”

Flatmate #2: “Fine, I guess.”

We price everything up and list the stuff we don’t want. [Flatmate #2] clearly tries to lowball all the stuff he wants to keep, but we don’t let him. Eventually, we are left with the stuff to get us by until we leave — kettle, fridge, TV, and mattresses — but we are still short on the cash.

Me: “Hey, has [Flatmate #2] paid for his things yet?”

Flatmate #1: “No, I thought he gave it to you.”

Me: “Typical. Hey, [Flatmate #2]! We need that cash from you!”

Flatmate #2: “What? Can’t we just sell something else?”

Me: “No, we need everything. What are you taking, anyway?”

He has put aside more than we realise, but it’s all tat — stuff from charity shops, stuff we found in skips being too drunk to know what we were doing, etc.

Flatmate #1: “Come on, mate. You’re leaving before us; we need the cash before you go.”

Flatmate #2: “I’ll get it, all right?!”

Weeks later, [Flatmate #2] still hadn’t got us the money. Then, out of the blue, I got a message from him. “Left what I owe on the side. Leaving now.”

“Great,” I thought. “At least he’s done the right thing.”

But then, I got home and the kettle and TV were missing, and the exact amount we had agreed to sell it for were left on the side.

I hope he enjoys his tatty garden chair and old sports gear he will never use.

I’ve never worked at home before; I wasn’t prepared mentally or physically set up for it. I’ve been hands-on, even in office jobs, for twenty years; sitting at home at a laptop felt alien to me.

But by far the person who had the hardest time adjusting was my wife; she couldn’t understand that “at home” meant “at work”. She couldn’t understand how all the chores weren’t done, why I couldn’t stop what I was doing and chat every time she wanted me to, or how difficult it was sometimes.

This was frustrating at the start but still completely understandable; I still didn’t really get it and I was the one working.

I managed to score a free day off. At the same time, her work was asking her to sit a lot of online courses. We figured that it would be a perfect opportunity for her to not have to go into work and use the home office for a change.

Not thirty minutes into her work from home:

Me: “You didn’t last long.”

Wife: “Oh, yeah. Does the office always get so stuffy?”

Me: “Yeah, that’s actually better than it used to be. Try keeping the window open.”

Wife: “I did, but the road is so loud.”

Me: “Yeah, I know.”

An hour later:

Me: “Oh, hey, you’re down again?”

Wife: “Yeah, bit lonely on your own up there.”

Me: “I know. Want a coffee?”

Wife: “Yeah, but I should get back to work.”

Me: “I could come up and chat?”

Wife: “No, I really need to get on and do this. I won’t do any work if you’re there.”

She almost made it to lunchtime but came down again.

Me: “Oh, hey. I’m not finished with lunch yet. I didn’t expect you so soon. How are you getting on?”

Wife: “Terrible. How does anyone concentrate at home? I mean, the noise, the emptiness. Oh!”

Me: “Yep.”

Wife: “Yeah, working from home isn’t for everyone, huh?”

Me: “Nope.”

Wife: “Probably shouldn’t expect you to do everything as well as your job?”

Me: “Nope. Lunch?”

After just one morning she got it, while, of course, I still work and tidy or use my lunch to prepare dinner. She gets that working from home is still working.

I’m thirteen and we’re having a Halloween party. I’m sitting in my room with three friends when my older sister knocks and enters.

Sister: “Mum’s going to make garlic bread. How many want some?”

Me, Friend #1, & Friend #2: “Yes, please.”

Sister: “[Friend #3]?”

Friend #3: “Oh, no, I’m allergic.”

We all look at [Friend #3] in confusion, as she’s known for scarfing all the garlic bread. Having gained the attention of the room, she gestures to her costume.

Friend #3: “Obviously.”

She was dressed as a vampire.

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My little sister is sick and my dad’s busy helping her, so he asks me to fetch the paracetamol from the fridge. I’m no older than ten, so I have not been allowed to open the box it’s in before. However, I have seen the outside of the box many times and it advertises in large bold letters that it is SUGAR-FREE.

I pass the bottle that was in the box and one of those double-sided medicine spoons to my dad, and I look at the inside of the box in confusion. Throughout this conversation, I’m almost oblivious to the fact that my dad is a little preoccupied with a less-than-happy toddler.

Me: “Where’s the sugar?”

Dad: “Why?”

Me: “I can’t find it.”

Dad: “It’s where you won’t be able to eat it.”

Me: “But I wanna.”

Dad: “Not now, [My Name].”

Me: “But I wanted to eat the free sugar.”

Dad: “Free? What?”

Me: “The free sugar. It says it right here, see? But it’s not in the box.”

Dad: “That’s not… Look, I’ll explain later. Put this away, please?”

Me: “Can I have some?”

Dad: “I said no sugar.”

Me: “I know. Can I have some of the parry-seat-moll?”

Dad: “Are you sick?”

Me: “No.”

Dad: “Then no. Just put it away.”

To my dad’s credit, he did explain later that “sugar-free” didn’t mean it came with free sugar. I was very disappointed.

We love Halloween, both taking our kids out door to door and handing out sweets, particularly to the little ones.

Last year, we got a lot more older kids. They pushed in front and grabbed handfuls of sweets, and when it was getting late, we put the rest of the sweets on the doorstep only for them to be thrown down the street.

This year would be different. We went out with our children. When it came to handing out sweets, we had two big buckets.

The first to the door were two older children, not even in costume. I picked up the orange bucket and made a point of putting sweets into their hands. Some smaller children were up next. I picked up the white bucket and put sweets into their hands.

As the night continued, I kept up the same trick. Then, two older boys rang the bell; they looked familiar.

Boy #1: “Yeah, trick or treat.”

Me: “Hmm, sure.”

I grabbed the orange bucket and gave them a large handful.

Boy #2: “Where’s the chocolate?”

Me: “The what?”

Boy #1: “You gave my little brother chocolate bars. How come we get this?”

Me: “Luck of the draw. Sorry, guys.”

I shut the door. Oh, well, they figured it out: older kids get the cheap sweets and little kids get the mini chocolate bars. I figured that would be that. Then, the door opened and a young boy was stood there.

Young Boy: “Trick or treat!”

Me: “Brilliant costume.”

I grabbed the white bucket and gave him some sweets.

Young Boy: “Can my brother have some, too?”

Me: “Where is he?”

Young Boy: “Hiding around the corner.”

Me: “Sure, some special sweets for big kids.”

I gave him a double helping from the orange bucket. I’m guessing that wasn’t appreciated as, only a few seconds later, I heard them thrown at the house. Next year, we might just hand out fruit!