(I’m a girl in year seven — sixth grade — and we’re learning about the reproductive system in biology. Everyone is really embarrassed, which isn’t helped by the fact that our teacher is a 40- to 50-year-old man. Naturally, there are some funny and memorable moments.)

Teacher: *labelling a diagram of the female reproductive system, pointing to the uterus* “Who can tell me what this part is called?”

Male Classmate #1: “Vagina!”

Every Female Student: *cringing*

Teacher: “No.”

Female Friend: “It’s the uterus.”

Teacher: “Correct.” *pointing to cervix on the diagram* “What about this part?”

Male Classmate #1: “Oh, I know this one… Vagina!”

Every Female Student: *cringing more*

Teacher: “No, this is the cervix.” *pointing to vagina on diagram* “Finally, who can tell me what this part’s called? [Male Classmate #1]?”

Male Classmate #1: “VAGINA!”

Every Female Student: *dying of embarrassment*

(Later:)

Teacher: “Now, what about the male reproductive system?”

(The slide changes to a cartoon side view of a penis and testicles.)

Male Classmate #2: “Why do we have to learn about this in front of the girls?”

Female Classmate: “We didn’t complain. We sat through [Male Classmate #1] shouting, ‘Vagina!’ multiple times; why shouldn’t you have to deal with the same embarrassment?”

(We girls spent the rest of the lesson answering every question with, “Penis?” Even our male teacher thought it was funny.)

(I get a call to go and pick up my very independent girlfriend from a nightclub because her overprotective work friends won’t let her leave without either getting in a taxi or having me come pick her up. The club is roughly a ten-minute walk from the house. I start to head to the club, carrying only keys, and clock a stranger on the other side of the road. He is walking in the opposite direction until he spots me and crosses over. I am rather tall and, according to my girlfriend, rather intimidating… until I open my mouth, because of my posh accent. I am always wary of people, as I was bullied at school by short people wanting to pick a fight, wanting to make their mark.)

Stranger: “Hey there!”

(He starts walking in the direction I am going, walking fairly quickly to try and keep pace. I am crossing a long bridge without any possible escape routes, putting me on edge.)

Stranger: “Where are you going?”

Me: *still walking, but determined to remain polite and non-provocative* “[Nightclub].”

Stranger: “Meeting someone special?”

(There is a creepy tone in his voice, which makes me even more wary.)

Me: “Yep.”

Stranger: “It’s a girl, right?” *gives a cocky grin* “I’m going there, too! Let’s get a taxi!”

Me: *thinking how he was initially walking north when the club was south, setting off more alarm bells* “I’m all right, mate; it’s not far.”

Stranger: “I don’t mind. We’ll get a taxi!”

Me: “You can get one if you want, but I don’t have any cash on me. It’s not far, though.”

Stranger: “Don’t worry; I’ll pay for it!”

(We get to the end of the bridge as he repeatedly tries to get me to flag down a taxi. I carry on down one side of the road whilst he starts to cross over to the other. My route involves crossing a road south, then going east; his route involves going east and then crossing the road to go south.)

Stranger: “Where are you going, mate? It’s this way!”

Me: “I’m going this way. Have a good evening!”

Stranger: “It’s this way, [gay slur]!”

(He continued walking his way to the nightclub, which was retracing the direction he originally came from. I can only assume he wanted to stiff me for a taxi fare. As it was so close, it was not worth getting a taxi to go a distance of two streets.)

(A customer walks in and approaches my colleague.)

Customer: “You’ve stopped the fuel pumps; you’ve done it on purpose.”

Colleague: “No, the pump won’t work because you took it out of the car and tried to put it back in to refuel again.”

Customer: “No, you stopped it on purpose.”

Me: “No, sir. You tried to refuel again from the same pump; it won’t work as we have to authorise it first.”

Customer: *turns to my colleague and calls him a c***, and then threatens to break his legs*

Me: “Are you threatening him, sir?”

Customer: “No, but it would be good if his legs were broken.”

(The customer walked out of the shop. It was my colleague’s first day in the job. Apparently, the customer is always right?)

(I work in a bank. We have a system where each client takes a ticket as they come in, which needs to be scanned when they reach the front desk. It is mostly used to record waiting times but is a requirement to do banking with us, as our system doesn’t allow us to access client accounts without first scanning a ticket. There are workarounds, but generally, we aren’t allowed to use them. The average wait time at the moment is fifteen minutes. I finish with one client and a gentleman approaches my desk immediately after.)

Me: “Hello. Could I have your ticket, please?”

Gentleman: “I need to cash this cheque, please.”

Me: “Certainly, sir. Could I please have your ticket?”

Gentleman: “I didn’t get one. Can you hurry? I need this cheque cashed.”

(Before I can say anything else, he turns to the man being helped by my colleague and mutters, “Women,” in an unimpressed tone. I take an instant dislike to it.)

Me: “Actually, sir, you need a ticket in order to continue.”

Gentleman: “No, you don’t.”

Me: “Yes, I do. In order to access the computer, a ticket first needs to be scanned.”

Gentleman: “Listen, sweetheart. You must be new. You can work around the ticket lock. The manager does it all the time.”

Me: “I am aware of that, sir. However, as this is the second time you have spoken out of turn in relation to my gender, I have decided not to make that exception for you. You will need a ticket to continue.”

Gentleman: “Oh, really? I’ll just get this young man to help me once my good friend here has finished.”

Colleague: “No ticket, no service.”

(He blushes, but reluctantly takes a ticket and waits in line. Fifteen minutes later, he returns.)

Gentleman: *throwing the ticket and cheque at me* “Money. Now.”

Me: “Of course.”

(I cash his cheque.)

Gentleman: “I also want something extra for making me wait twice as long.”

Me: “I wasn’t the one who neglected to take a ticket.”

Gentleman: “You’re just angry at me because I’m a man who refuses to cower beneath your lesbian feminism.”

Me: “Well, you have certainly lost any chance of getting something ‘extra’ from me.”

Gentleman: “I don’t need a woman to give me extra. I can get a man… umm, manager. Get me the manager.”

(I call the manager.)

Manager: *before I can speak* “The guy’s an a**. He jumped in front of a pregnant woman the second he came through the door. Call security if he gets hostile.”

Me: *smiling* “The manager isn’t interested in taking your request, and would like you to please leave.”

(To my surprise, he didn’t become aggressive. He just took a step back, stared at me for a short while, and left. I haven’t seen him since.)

(A customer comes to my register with two tins of paint.)

Customer: “I’d like to return this paint, please. I don’t like the colour.”

Me: “Of course. Would you like to exchange or… How much did you use exactly? This one feels empty.”

Customer: “It is, and the other is half full.”

Me: “I’m sorry, but you won’t be able to return it given the amount you have used.”

Customer: “But I don’t like the colour!”

Me: “Did you try a test patch?”

Customer: “No, I had to paint the entire room to see if I liked it, and I didn’t.”

Me: “I really am sorry, but I can’t return it. You’ve used a considerable amount of paint already.”

Customer: “But I had to!”

Me: “Again, I’m sorry, but there really is nothing I can do.”

Customer: “Then you will call a manager down who will sympathise with me and have you fired?”

Me: “I can, but he will just tell you the same thing. You’ve used most of the product and it is impossible for you to return it. Our policy is very strict about this.”

Customer: “YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND. I HAD TO USE IT!” *storms away, leaving the paint behind*