I’m fourteen years old and going to a convention. I’m going with friends but I’m also quite independent. I’ve made a costume that includes ribbons, but when I get it out at the hotel to steam before the con, I realise I’ve forgotten to seal one of the edges. I seal them by carefully melting the edge of the ribbon to stop it fraying. I also realise I’ve forgotten the lighter Mum gave me that I use to do this, so I decide to head down to the local corner shop and head straight to the counter.

Clerk: “Hi, how can I help?”

Me: “Could I just buy a lighter? I don’t mind what colour.”

The clerk gives me a funny look and a man walks up behind me. Totally oblivious to the funny look, I hold up my ribbon.

Me: “I need to seal this, or it might fray, and my fabric shop doesn’t stock this ribbon anymore.”

Clerk: “Yeah… but you have to be eighteen for me to do sell a lighter to you.”

There’s a really long pause.

Me: *Whispers* “But my ribbon…”

Clerk: “Sorry.”

They don’t really sound sorry. I step out of the store and contemplate my life; naturally, fourteen-year-old me feels that this is a disaster.

Man: “Hey, girl.”

I turn and it’s the man who came up behind me. He’s holding out a lighter.

Man: “Stupid enough not to be a lie, so I bought you one.”

Me: “Ooh! Thank you so much! Really! Thank you! How much do you want?”

Man: *Handing me the lighter* “Don’t worry about it; just sort your costume!”

He heads off and I head back to my hotel. I note that the lighter looks very different from what Mum uses; it’s heavier, generally bigger, and much much easier to use. I don’t think much of it. I fix my ribbon and pack away the lighter. I enjoy the con and head home.

Whilst helping me unpack my stuff, Mum comes across the lighter.

Mum: “How much did you spend on this?!”

Me: “Huh? Oh, a man gave it to me.”

Mum: “What do you mean, a man gave it to you?!”

Me: “I forgot to seal the ribbon and went to buy a new lighter, but the clerk said no. The man behind bought me one instead.”

Mum: “This is a [Brand] lighter. They’re £5!”

Me: “Oh… Is that a lot?”

Mum: “Mine are 50p!”

Thanks, random man who helped a random fourteen-year-old. I still have that lighter fifteen years later.

A young-ish guy has an issue with setting up his banking app on his phone. That’s okay; it’s usually a ten-minute walkthrough.

Me: “Can you please tell me your username and memorable answer?”

Caller: “I’ve forgotten the question; what is it?”

Me: “I don’t have that information.”

Caller: “Then how the h*** am I meant to answer a question I’ve forgotten?!”

He goes on a tirade but finally calms down enough and gives me a chance to speak.

Me: “Sir, if you use the website, it will give you the memorable question.”

Caller: “Well, why didn’t you f****** tell me sooner?!”

Me: “I didn’t want to interrupt you, sir.”

He went quiet, apologised, and got on with it.

I have been ordering a lot of things online over the last year for fairly obvious reasons. On this occasion, the delivery company provides tracking updates by email. At 1:30, I get an email saying that the package is with the local delivery agent and they will be delivering it between 2:00 and 5:00 pm. At 3:30, I get an email saying that they failed to deliver for the third time and will be returning it to the sender. 

I have been having issues with the wireless doorbell for my top floor flat, so I’m not too surprised at missing the delivery, but that was a first attempt, not a third. I decide to email customer services. Unfortunately, the company has made their customer service email address rather hard to find, so I am very annoyed by the time I find it. I try to remain polite in my email, I state my tracking number and what happened and then I ask if they intend to claim they tried to deliver three times in an hour and a half, which defeated the point of redelivery, or if their delivery staff were just being lazy.

I never get a direct reply to my email or any response indicating it has even been read, but the next day, I get a tracking update telling me there will be a delay in my package. The day after, another tracking email says it will be delivered the next day.

By this point, I have bought and installed a new doorbell, so the delivery goes smoothly, but when I get back to my flat, I notice that a new delivery sticker has been placed over the original one and the delivery instructions read, “3 comes after 1 and 2.”

I guess my email did get read after all!

I paid my way through my degree working part-time around my studies in a job that paid slightly more than minimum wage. Although I was staying with my parents, I was pretty much living from payday to payday.

It was coming up for my sister’s birthday and she asked for a loan.

Me: “I’m really, really skint at the moment. I could loan you £30, but your night out is a week before I get paid. If you don’t pay me back first, I can’t afford to go to your night out.”

Sister: “Of course I’ll pay you back; I want you there for my birthday. Thank you so much.”

The night out came along and I met her at the bar, gave her my gift, and used my last £10 to buy us both drinks. I waited for her to pay me back and the night went on and on and on without her mentioning it.

Me: “Hey, sorry to ask, but do you have the money you borrowed? Remember I told you I was skint? I only have my bus fare home left at the moment.”

Sister: “I can’t believe you are asking for money on my birthday! That’s really classy.”

Me: “Hey, I told you before I gave you the money that I needed it back or I couldn’t come. You promised it wouldn’t be an issue.”

Sister: “Whatever, f*** you.”

She took the money out of her pocket, threw it at me, and stormed off.

I’m visiting my friend in London; we’re both women who prefer to wear smart-looking clothes over casual. I’m a low-income earner whilst she earns much higher, but we are both working class. We’re walking down a street when we are approached by two men a bit older and a lot taller than us who appear to be homeless.

One man is looking somewhat hopeful whilst the other looks wary; both look very desperate. My friend immediately tenses and looks uncomfortable. The men stop.

Hopeful Man: “We don’t mean any harm or anything. We don’t want money. Just… can you spare anything? Please? A chocolate bar or… crisps… or even like… deodorant or something so we don’t immediately get shooed out for smelling when we do have some cash to buy stuff?”

Wary Man: *Almost inaudibly* “Come one, [Hopeful Man]. Look at them; they’re not gonna care.”

My friend is pulling at me to leave but I take my handbag off my shoulder.

Me: “I don’t carry cash, and I know it’s not much, but I’ve got some drinks and some chocolate?”

I offer the men two bottles of drink and two chocolate bars that I have in my bag. They take them.

Hopeful Man: “Thank you! Thank you so much!“

Wary Man: “Yeah… Yeah, thanks!”

They leave. I feel good. My friend, however…

Friend: “Why did you do that? They were probably druggies!”

Me: “I… What?”

Friend: “THEY WERE DRUGGIES!”

Me: “One, you don’t know that. Two, even if they were, that doesn’t mean that they should starve. And three, it’s £1.50 worth of drinks and chocolates — hardly breaking the bank.”

Friend: “Still!”

Me: “No. It was my food; I can do with it what I want.”

We still chat, just not nearly as much as we did before.