I unwittingly take a job that was hotly contested by many of the people that already worked there.

After a few months of proving myself, many of those who’ve been cold to me come around, seeing what I can do, and accept that I was a better choice.

I eventually make many friends in that company — all but one person.

Before I was hired, [Coworker] thought that the job was hers; she had been here the longest, and in her mind, she was the glue that held the team together. Actually, most of her job is administrative, helping out here and there.

She takes this out on me, being cold and distant, not passing on or withholding information, and criticising my decisions. She takes delight in going to my boss and complaining about anything she can. These complaints are mostly untrue and I just provide evidence that completely shows I am in the right. But [Coworker] thinks she is winning some sort of game.

One thing she does “get” me on was my USB stick. I bought my own and use it for work, not realising that in the company policy, this is deemed a security risk. 

Little does she know that this will be the start of her own downfall.

I talk to my boss about the USB drive.

Boss: “It’s an old policy that doesn’t really apply anymore. In fact, most of the management team, including me, uses a personal USB stick out of necessity on our old systems. I don’t feel right disciplining you about this.”

Then, he goes to the IT manager.

Boss: “I need you to write both [My Name] and myself an exemption so that we’ll be in the clear until the policy is changed.”

I go back to my desk, pretending nothing happened. I make a bit of a show of taking out my USB and placing it on my desk where [Coworker] can see.

After a busy day, I return to my desk to find the USB missing. I know where I left it, and I haven’t used it since. Someone must have moved it. I panic; it has over forty hours of work on it with no way to recover it. In desperation, I ask the team. They haven’t been in the office all day; only [Coworker] has and she has gone home for the afternoon. 

Stealing seems a bit far-fetched, even for her, so with the team’s help, I turn the office over twice before going back to my boss. He gets the maintenance team to open her desk, and sitting on top is my USB. I plug it in to prove it is mine and maintenance closes her drawer.

With all the interruptions, I end up finishing two hours late. As I leave, I’m surprised to see my boss’s light still on.

The next day, [Coworker] is in on time — not unusual — but an hour later, my boss asks us to come into the office and explains that [Coworker] is currently off work and no one is to contact her. 

It turns out that the USB was last in a long line of issues since not getting the job. She had started to complain about everyone and her work was getting worse. When she was brought in to human resources this morning, she lied about everything, complained, and blamed it all on others, ultimately leaving the company no other option but to let her go.

As I’m working on the downstairs shop floor, a customer approaches me on her way to the exit.

Customer: “Well, I don’t know where all your rugs went. Last time I was in here, there was a big display, but now they’re all gone.”

Me: “Aren’t they upstairs?”

Customer: “No, I just came from there. Oh, well.”

Without another word, she walked out the door. I don’t visit the upstairs department very often, but, intrigued by the mystery of the missing rugs, I went up to take a look. Sure enough, the rugs were not in the rack where they used to be. However, twenty seconds later, I found an even bigger display with some laid out on top of each other on the floor and others in a rack on the wall behind them.

The customer either didn’t want to walk past where the original rack had been or was suffering from selective blindness that day.

I work at a pensions and investments company in their call centre. I answer a call with the standard company greeting, asking for the customer’s name.

Caller: “Hi, I got a letter for [Customer] but he doesn’t live here no more.”

Me: “Okay, can you let me know your name and address, and did you open the letter?”

Caller: “Why do you need my name? And no, I didn’t open the letter… You’re not supposed to.”

Me: “Okay, great. If you send it back to the address on the back of the envelope, just cross off your address and hand it to your postman.” 

Caller: *Pauses* “Can’t. I shredded the letter.”

Me: “Okay, well… not much I can do, I’m afraid. I only have a name… and no policy details, so there’s nothing I can log on the system. Sorry.” 

Caller: “Oh, okay!” *Hangs up*

We’re at the height of the second wave of the health crisis. I have a job in food retail and am thus classified as an “Essential Worker.” We are not permitted to challenge customers on mask-wearing due to an incident in another store where a colleague got punched in the face for stopping a maskless customer from entering the store.

A customer with a full trolley comes into my lane and starts unloading. She’s not wearing a mask, but I am. I’m also behind a Perspex shield. I start scanning through her shopping as soon as it reaches me.

She ducks below the belt and picks up some plastic bags, showing them to me so I can charge her for them. So far, so good. She then stands at the end of my line with her trolley, opening the bags up, licking her finger for each and every bag. I quickly point out a trick that gets our — admittedly finicky — bags open quickly and easily make a throwaway remark about how licking one’s fingers right now is probably not the best of ideas.

She rolls her eyes and scoffs, and starts rattling off conspiracy theories, calling it a “scamdemic” and the works. I groan inwardly and just silently continue checking out her shopping whilst she waffles on. I half-expect her to start on 5G next.

I finally finish and she’s loaded everything into her trolley, I give her the total and she pulls out her wallet.

Lick, ten, lick, twenty, lick, thirty…

I page for a manager.

Me: “I am sorry, but I cannot accept that money from you. Do you have an alternative form of payment? A credit or debit card, perhaps?”

Customer: “What do you mean? This is money. Take my money!”

Me: “I cannot accept money covered in spit. To be frank, it’s gross at the best of times, and unacceptable during a health—”

Customer: “How rude! I demand to—”

My manager walks up just as she’s about to blow a fuse and asks what’s going on.

Customer: “This little snot won’t take my money!”

Manager: “Is this true, [My Name]?”

Customer: “Of course it is! I demand that he take my money!”

My manager raises his hand at the customer and turns to me again.

Me: “It is true; she’s been licking her fingers through the whole transaction. I am not taking cash off her.”

Manager: “Okay… Ma’am, do you have an alternative form of payment?”

Customer: “I have cash! Take the cash! I don’t have a card! Take my f****** cash!”

Manager: “Your cash has already been refused on account of it being a biohazard. If you do not have alternative means of payment, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

The customer just splutters and stammers for a moment before turning and grabbing her trolley full of shopping and attempting to push it out the door, resuming her unhinged ramble about the crisis.

Manager: “HEY! You can’t walk out with that without paying!” *To me* “Page security, now.”

I rapidly pressed my page button, setting off the alarm in the warehouse. Two colleagues came sprinting down the store and my manager pointed them at the woman now trying to run out the door with her full trolley.

The police eventually got called when the customer decided that the best course of action when being challenged over the attempted theft of over £100 worth of shopping was to spit in my manager’s face.

You see all sorts in retail.

The animal rescue/sanctuary charity I volunteer with also serves as the helpline for a national bird of prey charity. We only have the resources to go to local cases but have a directory of rehabilitators across the UK so we can put callers in contact with someone close to them. For those unfamiliar with the UK’s counties, many are named after the most important city in them — Derbyshire, Leicestershire, Staffordshire, etc.

In this instance, I’m helping a caller who came across a wounded peregrine falcon and I have reached the stage of finding someone who can help them.

Me: “All right, let’s see if we can find anyone close by. Whereabouts are you?”

Caller: “I’m in Cambridge.”

Since this is one such city as I mentioned before, this would be enough for most people to go on. But in this case, my brain completely fails me and I respond before I can stop myself.

Me: “Right. My geography’s not very good; what county is that?”

There’s a slight pause, just long enough for it to sink in.

Caller: “Cambridgeshire.”

Unsurprisingly, the feeling of idiocy strikes me hard as I realise how incompetent I sound and I try to think of something to say to get things back on track.

Me: “I rest my case.”

For what it’s worth, that did get a chuckle out of her and helped lighten the mood of an otherwise serious call. Mercifully, I was able to find a rescue center close by that the caller could take the bird to for treatment, without even forgetting the layout of my own country again!