I work in a luxury boutique hotel. The building dates from the sixteenth century in a town with cobbled streets and antique shops. People come for the charm of the good ol’ days.

A guest left an online review.

Guest: “I feel the need to complain about the floorboards. They creaked.”

My manager responded. 

Manager: “I feel the need to point out the age of the building. Next time, maybe you would be more comfortable staying at a [Hotel Chain].”

I have another guest check in a few weeks later.

Other Guest: “I saw your manager’s response to that review online, and that convinced me to come and stay at the hotel!”

We have sweet biscuits with icing on top. Every weekend, this lady comes in and wants them fresh, with extra icing. But every time, something is wrong. 

Customer: “These are too cold!” 

Me: “That’s due to the extra icing on top of it.”

We have told her this repeatedly. This time, we give her the biscuit fresh out of the oven, loaded down with icing. But still: 

Customer: “These are too cold!” 

Manager: “The only way to get it any hotter would be to melt the icing in the microwave, which we will not do.”

Customer: “Why?!” 

Manager: “Because sugar is hotter than the seven sons of Hell when it’s heated up like that, and no matter how much you deserve it, I’ll be d***ed if I’m giving you an excuse to have a lawsuit against us.”

I just read this story and thought I’d share my own experience.

In the early 2000s, my wife and I went on holiday to Spain with my wife’s family. This was not long after the World Trade Centre attack, and airport security was a little bit crazy.

As we were going through security in the UK, I got stopped. There was a screwdriver in my bag: a small one, about two inches long, for repairing my glasses. It was in a case WITH my glasses. (I also wore contact lenses.) The security guard insisted that it had to be dumped into their sharps bin. I argued that it was for my glasses; no, it still had to be dumped.

Me: *In exasperation* “Look, I’m not going to do anything with that. I could do more damage to someone with a fistful of my housekeys. Are you going to confiscate them?“

Well, that got me a warning and the threat of being barred from the flight, so I complied. And, in case anyone is reading this and thinking racism, no; I have Celtic ancestry, so I’m as pasty white as they come (and I was ginger in those days).

So, I surrendered my tiny screwdriver, and we passed through security into the departure lounge.

In the departure lounge, there was a gift shop. One of the things it sold, for about £5, was a combination corkscrew/bottle opener — with a two-inch, foldout knife blade — which I could have bought and carried on to the plane without anyone to stop me.

Related:
White Privilege Is Screwed Up

Last night, I stopped at a motorway service place in the UK. I’m not going to be more specific because I bet what these guys did is against policy, and I don’t want them to get into trouble.

I had had a long day and was looking for something to eat. All the concessions were already closed except for the [Famous Fried Chicken], and as I approached their counter, it was clear that they, too, were trying to close.

Worker: “We’re about to close. Would you mind ordering quickly, please?”

Me: “I don’t mind. Is there anything you don’t have? I don’t want you to have to start cooking something new and make you stay later.”

Worker: “We have most things.

When I ordered, he told me they had everything I wanted.

Five minutes later, I opened up my bag and found that the chips were a little old, but the box of chicken pieces was CRAMMED to the top; it would barely close. They had loaded it with as much of the stuff they would otherwise have had to throw away as they could fit in.

Guys, be nice to retail staff; they’ll be nice to you!

I had to take my toddler in my car whilst my wife drove her car to the garage to get the exhaust fixed. I was going to pick her up, and we would all then go shopping. While I was strapping [Son] into his car seat, he asked where Mummy was going, so I told him. He tried to say “exhaust” but failed completely, so I tried to help him.

(Just a brief note: this happened in England, and we pronounce words differently here.)

Me: “Say ‘Ex’.”

Son: “Ex.”

Me: “Now try ‘Orst’.”

Son: “Orst.”

Me: “Very good. Now try them together: ‘Ex… orst’.”

Son: “Ex… and bacon!”

It took about a minute or two before I was safe to drive, as I was crying with laughter so much, and my son’s giggles at my condition only made me howl all the more!