I am shopping for a couple of items in a supermarket chain with only one till open. I am happy to see only one person ahead of me — an old man in his sixties — and he seems to be done. However, he then unbags his goods and takes out his receipt.

Old Man: “I’ve been overcharged!”

The staff member looks at his goods and runs them through manually as they are all half-price discounts, and the amount tallies with what was on the receipt.

Old Man: “I’ve still been overcharged!”

I start looking at his goods and add up to the clearly-labeled price to £2.79, which is what is on the receipt. The man starts complaining even more that he is being ripped off, and three more staff arrive, but nobody can figure out what is wrong.

Old Man: “I should have been charged £2.60!”

Bear in mind that one of the items is 49p and all the rest are round numbers. By now, there is a long queue and I am sick of this bickering. I speak to one of the staff.

Me: “If he causing all this grief over 19p, then take this 20p coin from my pocket!”

I turn to the man with it.

Me: “Take it and please leave because the rest of us want to finish our shopping.”

Old Man: “No, I want my money from them.”

I pointed out that he was getting his items half-price or better, but he still argued that he was being ripped off. The staff sadly then gave in and gave him 19p from the till. I just hope I cheered them up when I shouted, “Miserable git!” at the man as he left.

Related:
A Cent-less Waste Of Time

Old Woman: “So, what kind of food do you do here?”

Literally the entire menu is behind me, but I begin going through it. One of our side dishes, the chicken tikka nachodoms, has been incredibly popular.

Old Woman: “How big is the chicken tikka nachodoms? I’m not sure I can manage a full meal.”

Me: “Oh, don’t worry, its mainly a side dish we do, but it’s incredibly popular! Here is a picture of it, too!”

I point to the menu board.

Old Woman: “Okay, that sounds nice. I’ll have that, please.”

I process the order, give her a table number, and show her to the condiments stand. The order is taken out by one of the waiters as I am busy manning the till. Not even five minutes later, one of the chefs and I notice we are getting dirty looks.

Me: “Is everything okay, ma’am?”

Old Woman: “Not really. I’m quite upset by this.”

Me: “Oh, dear, what can I do to help?”

Old Woman: “I’m a vegetarian and this dish has meat in it!”

Me: “I do apologise, but the chicken tikka nachodoms does contain meat.”

A few other customers start giggling at this point.

Old Woman: “I need a fresh one without meat as I’m vegetarian!”

Me: “Sure, no problem! I proceed to let the kitchen know I need the vegetarian version of the chicken tikka nachodoms!”

I hope she got the hint by the end!

Related:
Not So Tender About The Chicken

I am on my way to return a rental car to the airport before catching a flight. Due to traffic, I am later than expected and in a hurry to fill up the car at a petrol station right next to the airport. My total comes to £11.56 and I head inside to pay. I can see that the guy being served before me has the same total and I chuckle to myself. When it’s my turn:

Me: “Pump four, please.”

Cashier: “Eh, are you sure? That guy just paid for pump four.”

Me: “What? But my car is at pump four; my total is £11.56.”

I show him the key tag, which states the number plate and he compares it to the car at pump four, which we can see through the window. Then, he quickly gets the manager to chase after the other guy, who has filled up around the corner, at a completely different pump.

Cashier: “I can see you’re in a hurry. If you want, you can pay his total of £11.35 and be on your way.”

I thanked the cashier and paid, thinking to myself that the mix-up probably happened due to the similar totals. As I left, the other guy came in with the manager. When he heard that he actually paid a few pence more than he should have, he started ranting and shouting. Not having time for this drama, I drove away as quickly as I could. Sorry, petrol station employees, but I really had to catch that plane!

When I am fourteen, my grandmother takes a friend and me to Scotland. She usually takes a grandchild and my other grandmother, but my other grandmother wasn’t able to come this time. She is very much a planner, and every detail about where we will be staying and how we will get from one place to another is planned months in advance… Well, almost everything.

One night, we realize that we have no train tickets to get us to the place we will be staying the next night. My grandmother is very frustrated because she thought she had planned everything. This is before widespread Internet, and well before smartphones, so we decide to call down to the front desk and ask them about arranging either train tickets or a taxi for us.

My grandmother has a very soft voice that struggles to be heard over the phone, and the friend with us strongly dislikes talking on the phone, so the job falls to me. I don’t remember much of the initial conversation, but we are given some options and hang up to discuss them.

We get close to making a decision and realize that the lady at the front desk has forgotten to give us one crucial piece of information: the prices! So, I call back. There’s a different lady at the desk now.

Me: “Hi, this is room [number]; we’ve been trying to arrange either train tickets or a taxi?

New Desk Lady: “Yes, I believe my colleague was assisting you with that. She is just about to leave, but I’ll let her finish taking care of you.”

Original Desk Lady: “I already gave you all the information. Now you need to make a decision yourselves.”

Me: “But you didn’t tell us—”

The original desk lady hung up.

We ended up deciding that, for the distance we had to travel, three train tickets were probably going to be less expensive than one taxi ride. I waited a good long time before I called the front desk back, to make sure I didn’t get passed off to the original lady again.

Now that I’m older, I get that she just wanted to go home, but that’s no excuse for being rude to someone for wanting all the information.

This takes place about two weeks after I start a new job that involves managing various temporary properties and turning them around after each occupant. As a newbie, I’m still not quite up to speed, so I’m on the basic jobs for now.

A property becomes empty and I’m asked to go out, read the energy meters, and ring the company who supplies the property with the up-to-date readings. Easy, right?

Out I go. I walk onto the property and through the fire-resistant door into the living room/kitchen, not paying any attention to the door closing behind me.

I get the readings, go to leave, and call the company from the office and find that the very heavy, fire-resistant door that closed behind me doesn’t have a handle on the inside after the last occupant obviously removed it.

And that’s the story of how, on my second week in my job, I had to call the office and ask someone to drive twenty-odd miles to come and let me out of a property that wasn’t even locked.

They did suggest I climb out the window, but that wouldn’t have ended well.