I am working in the kitchen utensils department, and a couple approaches me.

Wife: “Hi, I’m looking for a good fish slice. I only used mine to scoop pizza, but for some reason, it keeps getting scratched.

(Editor’s note: a “fish slice” is a spatula, usually metal, with slots in it.)

Me: “We have some good-quality ranges here, ma’am.”

I show the couple the range, and the husband’s eyes go wide.

Husband: “That’s what a fish slice is?! I thought it was something else!”

Wife: “No, it’s always been… Wait, have you been using it?”

Husband: “Well… I thought it was for something else.”

Wife: “What have you been using it for?”

Husband: “I’ve… been using it to scrape the limescale from the bathroom.”

Wife: “But… we have limescale remover… and… and this thing is in our kitchen! What would make you think it’s a bloody limescale remover?!”

Husband: “The limescale remover is in the kitchen, too!”

Wife: “Oh, so you know we have a dedicated limescale remover, but you still used the bloody fish slice to scrape at it? That wouldn’t even bloody work!”

Husband: “Don’t shout at me because you don’t keep the kitchen organised!”

This was going to go on for a while, so I slowly walked away. At least we solved the mystery of why her fish slice kept getting scratched!

I was very, very early in my pregnancy when this happened — like a single-digit number of weeks, way too early for anything to be showing. However, I did already have some super fun pregnancy symptoms. Namely, I was liable to burst into tears at ANYTHING, the ligaments in my hips had fully checked out and refused to do their jobs, and being on my feet, especially walking, for more than an hour would bring on a wave of fatigue so severe it would often genuinely make me feel that I physically couldn’t take another step. The latter was especially unhelpful as I have always been a very active person and my favourite way of getting anywhere is to walk, so I have overestimated myself a few times already.

I’ve spent the day house-hunting and exploring the new city that I am relocating to. I get to the train station to head back to the suburb where I am staying with friends until I find somewhere permanent, and I am standing on my platform when I am suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of fatigue. “No matter,” I assure myself. “The train will be here in two minutes, and then I can sit down.”

The train does arrive; however, due to the systematic gutting of our national rail system, the two trains before were delayed, meaning this one is heaving with people. I struggle down the aisle until I come to a set of two priority seats. All are occupied by seemingly able-bodied men in shirts and ties, already with laptops out on the tray tables. As the train moves off, I ask them:

Me: “Excuse me. Is there a possibility I could have a seat here? I’m pregnant, and…”

This draws sniggers from one, who seems to be the ringleader.

Me: “…and I’m struggling to stay upright if I’m honest.”

Ringleader: “You’re not pregnant.”

Me: “And you’re not a doctor. Could you please let me sit down?”

I’m holding onto a rail for dear life and feeling seriously close to fainting when this shocks me back:

Ringleader: “If you’re pregnant, where’s the father?”

Now, this is already an obscenely personal, presumptuous, and judgmental question for anyone, but for me, it hits where it hurts. See, my baby-daddy and I are in a relationship and very much in love, but he is currently studying for a year abroad. We both really want him to finish and enjoy the experience, so we decided that he’s going to finish the year out there. While he will be back before our baby is born, I am doing the majority of pregnancy, including packing up and moving to a new city, by myself.

Unfortunately, thanks to those lovely hormones, instead of becoming ragefully articulate, I feel myself start to dissolve into tears.

Me: *Through tears* “Look, I…”

This is when the angel that is Mrs. T comes into my life. She is the teeniest, tiniest, oldest West African woman you have ever seen in your life. She looks like she could have been school friends with Father Time.

Mrs. T: *Putting her hand on my arm* “You take my seat, darling.”

All my emotions are replaced with mortification that I might take the seat of someone who so clearly needs one.

Me: “No, no. Really, please, I can’t. It’s only three stops. I can stand.”

Mrs. T: “No, no, you should sit.”

Mrs. T guided me into her seat with that special blend of force and gentleness that only wonderful old ladies seem to possess. She then stood staunchly in front of the shamed business boys in the priority seats until one of them shuffled up and mumbled something about her having his seat. She watched over them in extraordinary silence the whole time while I was able to recover in the next row.

We ended up getting off at the same stop, where she told me that the house next to hers had just gone on the market. She set me up with a viewing, and I moved in three weeks later.

Mrs. T came over and checked in on me every single day while my partner was away. She brought me home-cooked food and did little bits of cleaning and tidying when I didn’t have the energy. I taught her how to use video calling to keep in touch with her grandchildren at university and friends in Ghana. When her nephew came out as non-binary, I sat with her and talked through her feelings about it and recommended some resources to help her understand.

When my partner finally returned and moved in, she threw her arms around him and kissed him on the top of his head like he was an old friend she’d been missing.

And when our baby was born, at home, she was downstairs the whole time and was one of the first people to come see me and the baby when we were ready for visitors. When I gave her the baby to hold, she turned to my partner, beaming, and declared, “‘Dis my fourteenth grandbaby, you know?”

I hope every single one of you has a Mrs. T come into your lives; she is a treasure.

This story is part of the Best-Feel-Good-Stories Of-2023 roundup!

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My husband and I booked the same week off of work and decided to have a “staycation”. We mostly used the time to relax and take it easy, but we also got a few bits done that we had been meaning to do for a while, like redecorating the living room.

After a hard day of painting, we decided to take a break. My husband offered to go to the corner shop across the road to buy some cold lemonade.

On his way back, a woman glared at him.

Woman: *Scoffing* “Oh, so you can afford those, but you can’t afford to get a job?”

Perplexed, my husband ignored her and carried on home. When he returned home, he told me about what happened. Neither of us could make sense of what she meant. Obviously, she had assumed that as he was out during the day, he must be unemployed. But we couldn’t figure out how buying lemonade would hamper a job seeker from finding employment. Any ideas?

I work in the kitchen of a pub. Because I’m autistic, I need earplugs to deal with the noise of the kitchen. My immediate boss informed me that is their responsibility as an employer to supply them.

Actually getting them has been a bit of a nightmare. 

The first type I was given didn’t work, but I was told (by the pub’s deputy manager) that there was another version they could order. 

On a Saturday several weeks ago, I had a small meltdown. The team lead let me know she had spoken to one of the managers, and one of the bar coworkers was being sent to [Store] to grab me some earplugs to use for today. They worked great! They were kept in the office, so I had to keep asking the manager on duty to get them, and not all of the managers knew the password for the safe they were kept in. When I had about a week’s supply left, I let managers know, “Hey, I’ve got [number] of these left until I’m out.”

The shift after I ran out, I asked where they were, and the manager on duty said that he didn’t know. I tried to power through my shifts without them until I was on at the same time as the deputy manager who was ordering them. When I was, I asked her and was told they were arriving “tomorrow”, a day when I wouldn’t be working. When I asked her what to do for today, she suggested I use blue roll (a harsh tissue-like paper) and complained that she couldn’t keep sending people to [Store] because their earplugs were too expensive. I tried to power through my shift, though she came up sometime later to give me some [Store] earplugs. She also told me to hold onto them myself.

That was two weeks ago.

On Monday, I asked a manager where they were. He looked around the office but couldn’t find any.

On Friday, I asked a manager I like better. He said he didn’t think they’d been ordered. I kind of had a bit of a freak-out because they were meant to have arrived a week or two ago (I couldn’t remember on the spot), and while I did still have the [Store] earplugs, I wanted to keep some as a backup in case these new ones don’t work like the first ones didn’t, and if I used up all the [Store] ones again and needed to ask the deputy manager for some, she’d sulk at me again. He reassured me that he’d look into it and sent a message in the manager chat asking about them.

Yesterday, the deputy manager came into the kitchen to say goodbye to people at the end of her shift. People were giving her hugs, which I thought was weird, but I was too focused on trying to ask her where these flipping earplugs were. I was told they’d arrive “tomorrow”. I gave her an eye-roll and said, “Whatever,” because I was getting a bit fed up.

This morning, I received a group text from the deputy manager about how she’s leaving for good (which explains the hugs) and she’ll miss us all.

On the one hand, I feel a little bad that I was kind of rude to her as she was leaving. On the other, she started the message with, “Morning, my work family :)”, so eff that. Hopefully, whoever’s replacing her is more competent.

Our call center is much busier than usual, and we are having to apologise to callers who have waited eighty minutes to get through to us.

Me: “Thank you for calling [Company]. I’m incredibly sorry for the long wait, but you are now through to me, so please let me know what I can help you with.”

Caller: “With nothing! I only stayed on the phone to tell you that I am sick of [Company]’s services!”

And with that, he hung up the phone. I’m paid to be here on a Saturday afternoon, mate, but how you spend yours is up to you, I suppose? 

Related:
Some People Just Want To Watch The World Burn, Part 25
Some People Just Want To Watch The World Burn, Part 24
Some People Just Want To Watch The World Burn, Part 23
Some People Just Want To Watch The World Burn, Part 22
Some People Just Want To Watch The World Burn, Part 21