We work with councils and don’t do work for the general public. I am answering the phone during an office day.  It is 4.30pm and most rangers finish at 5pm.
Me: [Company Name], [My name] speaking.  How can I help you?
Caller:  What time do you close?  I want to hire a boat.
Me: I think you have the wrong number, we’re a ranger service.
Caller:  What?  You don’t do boats?
Me: No, we work for various councils.  We are a ranger team.
Caller:  You’re not [other Company who we work with occansionally]? (They also close at 5pm)
Me:  No this is [Company Name].
Caller:  It says you work in partnership on the website.
Me:  All our work is partner working.   Would you like [Other Company]’s Centre number?
Caller:  Yeah, I guess.
I gave him the number, which I had to repeat several times before he hung up muttering to himself.  This is a all too frequent occurence but not the strangest call we’ve had.

Let me start by saying that I am enormously grateful to live in a country that has safety nets for the unfortunate and the ill; without them, I’d be dead. Sadly, the way that the current administration handles applications and treats disabled people is criminal.

Sit tight; this one really sucks (until the end).

I had been called in for my PiP assessment, a test where an unqualified person asks you vague questions and then lies on a form about your answers.

I had to be at their offices at eight am in a city a full hour’s drive from where I live. After getting lost twice because of road work, I finally found somewhere to park and hobbled to the office.

The appointment was a nightmare. The woman clearly wasn’t listening to anything I said and did a “physical assessment” of my condition from across the room without leaving her chair — an assessment which took my specialist, with 40 years in the field, six months and millions of pounds worth of machinery to figure out. By the time she was finally done, I was emotionally and physically drained as I staggered out to the main office, only to be greeted with the news that there were yet more forms I had to fill out.

Once I was finally able to make my escape, I was barely holding it together as I headed back to my car, thinking only about getting home and hiding in bed.

Then, I tried to pay for my parking. It turned out that the only parking structure near their office had had a massive recent price hike, and I didn’t have enough money to pay to get my car.

I was in tatters, guys.

I was in so much pain I could barely stand, I was an hour from home, and I had no idea what to do. So, there I was, a 40-year-old guy with tears on my face, trying to explain to the lady at the other end of an intercom what was going on when a young couple who had, I guess, heard what was going on just rocked up and said, “Don’t worry; we’ve got this,” and paid for my ticket.

It wasn’t a huge amount — £20 — but the simple kindness of those two strangers gave me the strength to get home.

I doubt they’ll ever see this and I wish I’d been in any state to thank them properly for their help, but that gesture got me through that awful day.

(I work in a movie theater. I have just come back from my lunch break and am signing into my till again, ready to help get the queue down. A middle-aged woman angrily approaches my till with a bunch of girls and proceeds to talk to me in a very harsh tone.)

Customer: “I understand there was an issue.”

Me: “An issue? I’m sorry, I’ve just come back off my lunch break, so I don’t understand—“

Customer: “Yes! My daughter and her friends want to watch [Film], and apparently, there is an issue with one of them being 11.”

Me: “Well, [Film] is rated a 12A, so if one of the girls is 11, there needs to be somebody over the age of 18 watching the film with them.”

Customer: “Why is that such a problem? For God’s sake, it’s just a film!”

Me: “It’s also the law. I’m sorry, I cannot sell a ticket if there is no adult to accompany her.”

(The woman makes a phone call to her husband in front of my till, holding up the queue even more because there is only one more till open.)

Customer: “Fine! I’ll go, as well. Just sell me five tickets.”

Me: “One adult, four children, yes?”

Customer: “Yes!”

(I sell the tickets to her. The fact that she so obviously does not want to watch the movie as well cheers me up a little after the way she spoke to me.)

Me: *handing over the tickets with a smile* “Enjoy the film!”

Several years ago I had a summer job working as a clerical officer in an NHS Hospital. One of my reception duties involved checking patients into the antenatal clinics. The receptionist explained to me that when patients arrived for the clinic I had to take their name, and if it was their first appointment, I had to write “no file” on their letter and bring it down to the nursing station. Women who had previously been to the clinic did have a file, so I had to pull out their file, check their details were correct, and bring the file down to the nursing station.

The receptionist showed me how to do the first few arrivals and then said I could take over. The next patient arrived for her antenatal appointment. I smiled at her and her husband, greeted them warmly, and the woman handed me her appointment letter. “Okay, Mrs. [Patient],” I said, trying to appear professional. “Is this your first appointment?”

The woman looked surprised and glanced down at her belly. “No…” she said. She was quite large by this stage! Her husband just smiled, clearly amused. “Oh… Sorry!” I stammered, then retrieved her file, checked her details, and asked her to take a seat in the waiting area. As she and her husband walked off, the receptionist leaned over to me. “Yeah, it’ll be obvious to you if it’s their first appointment!” she said, smiling. I apologised again, but the receptionist told me not to worry, as we all make mistakes!

The receptionist went on holiday, and I managed to cover reception surprisingly well. And during the next three antenatal clinics, I never again made the mistake of asking a woman obviously in advanced stages of pregnancy if it was her first appointment!

(I’ve been working at this prison for a few weeks when I finally get my night shifts. It’s my first night and I’m alone — pretty standard — after finishing my count when a cell bell goes off. I wander down to the cell and open the little door covering the glass panel to find a distinctly Indian man staring at me.)

Me: “Yes?”

Prisoner: “What is your name?”

Me: “OSG [My Surname]. What do you want?”

Prisoner: “Nothing.”

Me: “Okay.”

(I close the hatch and make it all the way back to the office before another cell bell sounds; it’s the same cell. Annoyed, I head back.)

Me: “What?”

Prisoner: “How long have you worked here?”

Me: “Do you actually want something, or are you just trying to piss me off? No? Yes? Bye.”

(Growling, I head back to the office, hoping he’s had enough. I’ve been warned that inmates tend to try this on with “new blood,” so I’m prepped for it. Not five minutes pass before the bell goes again and — surprise, surprise — it’s my new friend.)

Me: “I will report this to the Senior PO and request your television be removed if you keep this up, inmate.”

Prisoner: *clearly realising that, despite being female, I actually have balls* “Erm… I just… Do you want a cup of tea?”

Me: “And how exactly do you propose getting it to me through the four inches of steel that makes up this door? Think about it and let me know when you come up with a solution…”

(Safe to say, I didn’t have any more issues that night.)