(I work in a large, open-plan office. A colleague sitting on the bank of desks next to mine starts singing “The Twelve Days of Christmas.”)
Colleague: “FIIIIVE GOOOOLD RIIINGS! Four walking birds, three walking birds, two walking birds, and a partridge in a pear tree.”
Me: *almost crying with laughter* “I really don’t think that’s how it goes.”
(I’m working in the checkout at an entertainment store when a guy who is dressed in the “emo” style comes up to me.)
Customer: “This music is s***; you should get some MCR [My Chemical Romance] on!”
Me: “Sorry, we don’t decide the music. Also, MCR broke up last year, so they aren’t relevant enough for head office to choose them.”
Customer: “That’s f***** up. They wouldn’t know music if it hit them over the head!”
Me: “I suppose. But still, we can’t change it.”
Customer: “So, what music do you like?”
Me: “All sorts.”
Customer: “MCR?”
Me: “Once. I used to dress a lot like you, actually, only I had snake-bites instead of the one lip piercing.”
Customer: *eyes narrowing* “Once? What happened?”
Me: “I grew up.”
Customer: *scoffs* “You weren’t a real fan, then!”
(At this, I walk around the counter and lift up my trouser leg, revealing a large tattoo dedicated to MCR’s album “The Black Parade.” He stares at it, mouth agape.)
Me: “You were saying?”
(The guy blushed and ran out of the store. He had something in his hand, too, which he threw behind him as the alarm went off. Just because I’m not a fan now, it doesn’t mean I wasn’t at one point. Sadly, we get a lot of people like him, thinking they can openly pass judgment based on music tastes. I didn’t even think emo was a thing anymore until I saw him.)
(I’m in line for a coffee. The customer currently being served is paying.)
Cashier: “Sorry, you’re 50p short.”
(The customer picks up a handful of change from the collection tin in front of her, counts it, and tries to give it to the cashier.)
Customer: “Here you go.”
Cashier: *stepping back* “Umm…”
(Another employee behind him notices and takes over.)
Employee: “How much was it?”
Cashier: “£4.75.”
Employee: “Minus 50p.” *taking money out of the register* “Here you go, madam. Don’t come back.”
Customer: *affronted* “How rude!”
Employee: “You have just tried to pay with the charitable donations of strangers. I find that rude. Take your money and get out.”
Customer: *explodes* “HOW DARE YOU?! I WANT THE MANAGER. HE ALWAYS LETS ME USE THE DONATION TIN!”
(The employee puts her hands on her hips and shouts a name, and a man comes out.)
Employee: “You know this woman?”
Manager: “Yeah. She’s the one I told you about.” *to the customer* “I said you aren’t welcome here anymore. Get out before I call the police!”
(The customer turns red as the employee speaks to her.)
Employee: “So that’s the manager and the owner telling you to get out. But before you go…” *points to the ceiling corner where there is a camera* “I’ll be sure to stick your picture up, for future reference.”
(The woman turns and calmly walks out of the cafe, but the second she crosses the threshold she floors it.)
Owner: *to me* “Coffee, on the house.”
(It wasn’t the kind I wanted, but who am I to pass it up? I did put something in the collection tin, though. After that, it seemed rude not to.)
(I work in the bar of a restaurant. Part of my job includes receiving orders via ticket from the waitresses, making the drinks, and serving them. I get a ticket: orange and passion fruit J2O, and a Carlsberg. The J2O in question is served with ice and a slice of orange. I take the tray to the table.)
Me: “Good evening. The J2O?”
Man: “That’s hers.” *indicates woman next to him*
Me: “There you are.” *hands her drink and glass*
Woman: *pushes it away* “No, no, no! I am allergic; no orange!” *takes drinks bottle*
Me: “Oh, okay. I’m sorry about that. I’ll get you a fresh glass.”
(On returning to the table with a fresh glass without a slice of orange, it dawned on me that her drink also contained orange. Since she was there another hour or so without any need for medical assistance, I’m assuming she wasn’t actually allergic.)
(I am in the hospital, having an operation on my hand that requires me to be under general anaesthetic. I am fourteen years old and have previously had two generals, so I know I react well, if very strangely. The anaesthetist is prepping me for surgery, with my dad beside me.)
Anaesthetist: “Okay, now the next drug I’m going to give you is this [medicine], which [does something I now can’t remember]. Okay?”
Me: *already a little bit drugged up and very sluggishly cheerful* “Okay!”
Anaesthetist: *barely started administering the medicine* “Right, so, adults often say that it feels like you’ve had a little drink–”
Me: “Oooh, yep, got that! Wooowwwww! Dad, everything’s blurry!”
Anaesthetist: *trying not to laugh* “Yes, sweetheart, it does that sometimes. I always hear that it’s a bit like having alcohol from the adults, and some people say that it makes them feel very happy.”
Me: “It feels like I’ve had alcohol or something!”
Anaesthetist: “There she goes!”
Me: “And I feel really happy! Did you give me something?”
Anaesthetist: “I’m going to put you to sleep now, sweetheart, okay?”
Me: “Okay! See you in a bit! I like your hat!”
(Out like a light. I apologised to the anaesthetist afterward, while still a bit drugged, and asked where his hat was when he came to tell me that I’d made his day. He’d never been wearing one.)
