I have had vertigo on and off since I caught a bug in 2017. I usually bed rest and it goes away after a few hours. I have a bout of it in May 2019; it’s just not going after two days and my anxiety over it is making it worse.

I call the doctor and his receptionist says as it’s an existing condition I can have a telephone consult. Two minutes after I put the phone down, the doctor calls back and says he’ll send an electronic prescription to the local pharmacy. I can’t drive. I can only just stand, but the pharmacy is seven minutes’ walk, so I figure I’ll stagger up to the pharmacy, get the meds, and then stagger next door to the tea room, take the tablets with a drink there, and wait for them to kick in so I can walk home. My friend runs the tea room and will let me sit quietly in the corner.

So, the plan is made, and after fifteen minutes of stumbling up the road with the world spinning, I get to the pharmacy and hang off a display unit for another ten minutes until it’s my turn.

Assistant: “How can I help you?”

Me: “I’ve come to collect a prescription that the doctor has just sent through electronically as urgent for me.”

Assistant: “I’ll go look.”

She disappears for ten minutes. By the time she returns, I’m almost lying on the counter as my head is spinning so much.

Assistant: “No, there’s no prescription for you.”

Me: “Can you check, please? The doctor said he would send it through as urgent.”

Assistant: “Well, if you insist.”

Me: *Through gritted teeth* “Yes, I do!”

She goes away again and comes back after another ten minutes, by which time I’m starting to feel nauseous.

Assistant: “No prescription. When did the doctor send it through?”

Me: “As I said, he has just sent it through as urgent. Just now.”

Assistant: “Why didn’t you say?”

Me: “I did.”

Assistant: “Oh, we don’t look at the electronic ones until the afternoon. Can you come back in two days?”

Me: “I have chronic vertigo. I can’t see too well, and I can’t stand up, walk, or lie down. The doctor has prescribed these as urgent. No, I can’t come back in two days!”

Assistant: “Are you insisting that you have your prescription made up now?”

Me: “You think?”

She looks blankly at me.

Me: “Yes, I am. Please make it up now or I will throw up and collapse here.”

Assistant: *Sighs* “If you insist. Can you go sit over there?” *Points at a chair behind a pillar* “You are stopping other people getting their prescriptions.”

I looked at her as if she had lost the plot and went to sit in the chair and lean on the pillar which was nice and cold on my head.

After another thirty minutes, still no prescription. I staggered over and asked the assistant how much longer it would be as it was now nearly an hour since I’d gotten there. She told me to go sit down and wait.

I stumbled back. After another thirty minutes, a different assistant came over with a clipboard and asked me to fill out a customer satisfaction surgery. I must have looked shocked and possibly homicidal at this point, as she said in a caring way, “Are you okay, love?”. I explained that I’d been there all morning waiting for my urgent prescription. She grabbed the clipboard out of my hands and dashed off. She came straight back with my prescription made up.

She explained that the pharmacist had started to make it up but had been called to the telephone. Then, it was given to the assistant pharmacist who started it, too, and then went to early lunch. The assistant I’d been dealing with had gone out on her break and it had been forgotten, and because I was behind the pillar, they had forgotten me.

This different assistant had been filling a display up, saw what looked like a dead woman on the chair, and brought over the survey as a way to talk to me. I dry-swallowed two of the tablets as she spoke, staggered home hours after I had left, and finally collapsed in bed. About thirty minutes later, the tablets kicked in and I filled the survey out in line with very honest replies.

Two days later, I moved to having my prescriptions filled by post — they come three days after you request them — and for urgent, I now send my husband.

I volunteer in a charity-run café in a hospital when I am fifteen. It is pretty close to the psych ward, which leads to some… interesting encounters:

Customer: “I’ll have two sausage rolls, please.”

Me: “Okay, so that will be [total].”

Customer: “F*** you! This is my last £20!”

The customer waves the note in my face.

Me: “Miss, please calm—”

Customer: “I HAVE TO FEED MY BABY YOU ABSOLUTE C***!

(note, she was obviously over 60, and could not have had a baby)

Me: I cannot lower the price. I can cancel the transaction or return one of the sausage rolls if you want.

Customer: *screeches and swears at me, demanding a discount*

I repeat what I said before, which is what I do when I get stressed/overwhelmed. The customer continues her screaming fit.

Coworker: I’m sorry, but you cannot speak to my coworker like that. She has no control over the price, and also is a child. I need to ask you to leave.

The customer runs away screaming. I later see her being put into a wheelchair by a nurse wearing the psych ward uniform. After she left I burst into tears, and my co-worker bought me a slice of cake and sent me through to the back to calm down.

I suppose I should start with a mild warning as this story, while funny, is also kind of gross. Welcome to my life.

Allow me to start with a little back story. My father’s wife appears to have done all of her research on how to be a Step-Mother in certain children’s books. I don’t mean she could be a little grumpy; I mean she got cease and desist letters from The Mouse.

On the Sunday evening in question, I had just gotten home and was trying my d***edest to get out of my boots, an effort hampered by the fact that, despite being fifteen, I had worked thirty-six hours in the lambing sheds that weekend and was so tired I had walked home, right past the motorcycle I had ridden to work.

As soon as she heard the front door, she started in on me through the door that separated the kitchen from the front hall, screeching at me that I hadn’t done my chores and I had better get caught up right now or no supper for me.

I said, “I’ve been at work all weekend; you know that. You insisted I take the job.”

As soon as I said the words, I knew it was a mistake, and sure enough, she ripped the door open and took a deep breath to engage in her favourite pastime: berating me for being a waste of skin and air.

Sadly for her — but not me — she took the deep breath after she opened the door.

After thirty-six hours in the sheds, I was covered in… I’m not going to be specific, but suffice to say that if it was liquid and could be found inside a sheep, I was wearing it. (I ended up having to throw all of my clothes out because even a boil wash couldn’t get the smell out.)

Her eyes bugged out, she went green, and she dived past me to throw up in the downstairs bathroom. I finished undressing, threw my clothes and boots out the front door, and went upstairs to scrub myself down with Swarfega: proper manly, gritty cleanser.

You’d think that would be an end to it, right? Wrong.

As I fell asleep — passed out — it was to the sound of her howling at my father because he wouldn’t let her wake me up to vacuum the downstairs and do the dishes.

I’m in a large local park, it is a large open space with a few shops here and there, i’m waiting to buy some drinks behind a particularly difficult person.

Customer: Wait you overcharged me.

Cashier: I’m not sure i did.

Customer: Yes you did! those drinks are 80p you charged me £1,20!

Cashier: (looking the shelf he picked it up from) I’m sorry sir, the small bottles are 80p the big bottles are £1,20.

Customer: well i want my money back!

Cashier: Ok sir, if you put all your items on teh tray i can refund you.

Customer: No.

Cashier: I’m sorry? i can’t refund you for items if you don;t return them

Customer: what if i don’t want to give them back.

(The cashier starts to look very worried, none of the staff seem to know what to do. She tries to pull the tray and what items are left on there towards her. Suddenly the customer lurches forwards over the counter, without thinking i manage to grab his collar pulling him away, he falls hard on his backside.)

Customer: You , you i’m calling the police. (Runs out waving his phone around.)

Me: Are you ok?

Cashier: Yes, i think so. Thank you for helping i thought he was going to hit me.

Me: I didn’t actually think, i grabbed him and he sort of fell over.

Cashier 2: oh i saw that too, he fell over.

Cashier: Oh yes! he fell over of course he did.

Me: No i meant, oh of course. I will take a seat and see if the police show up.

(They did, they asked everyone what happened, and came to me. I answered honestly, but thankfully no charges where ever brought against me. The angry customer, was last seen getting force ably carried into a police van.)

Me: “Good afternoon, [company]”
Caller: “Can I speak to [common first name]”
Me: “I have four [common first name]s; do you know his surname?”
Caller: “Yes.”
Me: “…”
Caller: “…”
Me: “…”
(Happens four or five times a day)