My girlfriend and I have just moved into a new flat, where we have an allocated, clearly-marked parking space.

We’re some of the first people in the new building to move in, and it’s clear that the owner of a business across the street has been using our car park to avoid the on-street parking charges while the building wasn’t occupied. She parks her brand new, but bottom of the range, BMW in our space. We leave her notes asking her not to do it again, and eventually as our paths cross, I confront her about it.

“But that space is the biggest, and I don’t want my pride and joy being scratched by parking it on the street,” she protests.

I make it clear that it is my space; I have paid for it, and will get her car towed if she does it again. Of course, she does. I don’t have time to call the management company, as we’re off on holiday, but I park my car directly in front of hers, so there’s no way she can get out.

Two weeks later, we return, and both cars are still there. I have a succession of notes through my front door, ranging from nasty: “If you don’t move your car I’ll SMASH IT WITH A HAMMER!” to pleading: “I’m so sorry; please just let me get my car out and I’ll never do it again.”

We pop out to the shops in our car, and when we return, the woman’s car is gone. We get a lockable post to stop it happening again, and I mention the story to the barber in the shop next to hers, who happens to be our neighbour. “Oh, that was you?!” he says. “This cut’s free. She’s been doing this to everyone round here for ages. For the last two weeks, she’s had to get the bus home. She won’t stop complaining about how someone like her shouldn’t have to ride the bus.”

(I am female, married, and have two bank accounts: one jointly with my husband, and one just in my own name. The phone rings and I answer.)

Bank Employee: “Hi, could I speak to Mr. [Name], please?”

Me: “Can I ask who this is and what it’s about?”

Bank Employee: “I’m from your bank, and I would like to discuss your account and perhaps saving him some money.”

Me: “It’s a joint account, and I’m his wife, so you can talk to me.”

Bank Employee: “I’d prefer to speak to Mr. [Name]. We’ve noticed that some of your standing orders would benefit from having their dates changed.

(He then names several standing orders, including three which go from my own personal account, NOT our joint one!)

Me: “Sorry, but did you say standing orders [#1, #2, and #3]?”

Bank Employee: “Yes, that’s right.”

Me: “You do realise they’re on my account? Would you have included them if my husband had answered the phone?”

Bank Employee: “Yes, certainly. It would be much more efficient if they all came from the one account instead.”

Me: “…”

(Hopefully, after I’d had a word with the manager, this employee will come to realise the consequences of being willing to discuss private, confidential account details with someone who isn’t the account holder. This bank also consistently asks to speak with my husband, even though he has nothing to do with the finances and doesn’t even have a debit card!)

(I work on the middle floor of a fairly large department store.)

Customer: “You don’t have any windows on this floor do you?”

Me: “No, sir, we don’t.”

Customer: “Well, then how do the staff get onto the floor to work?”

Me: “We use the stairs like you do.”

Customer: “Oh, right… Okay, then.”

The museum I love to visit has a huge central hall, with a big staircase at the back that splits to both sides about halfway up. On that landing, there’s a statue of Charles Darwin. Until quite recently, the view of the statue from the front of the hall was obscured by Dippy, a life-sized model of a Diplodocus skeleton, so to first time visitors, the Darwin statue would come as a surprise.

One time when I was visiting the museum, I was standing to the side of the hall near the stairs, not looking at anything in particular, when I saw three teenage girls passing Dippy on the way to the staircase.

As soon as they saw the statue of Darwin, their whole demeanour changed. They started squealing as if they’d just seen a boy band there, and then they raced each other up the stairs and took selfies with Charles Darwin.

Seeing that kind of happy nerdage at a time when mindless entertainment and pseudoscience seem to be on the rise everywhere really gave me hope for the world.

My friends and I went to a pub for a meal, as the boys wanted somewhere they could also watch the football while eating. The pub had a new menu out, and I ordered a grilled halloumi salad that sounded nice, but asked for no tomatoes.

The first time the salad came out, it had lots of tomatoes, had ingredients that weren’t even in the description, and the halloumi wasn’t grilled. I sent it back, telling them what was wrong. The second time, the tomatoes were gone, to be replaced by raw onions, which I don’t like either. Again, the onions weren’t in the menu description. The halloumi still wasn’t cooked. I sent it back yet again. By this point, everyone in the table was eating and enjoying their food, and I was so hungry I was picking off their plates. The third time the salad came, the halloumi was half-cooked, and the salad consisted of leaves and a few cucumbers. I was incensed; the poor waiter could see that and offered me something else off the menu. I opted for a hunter’s chicken, which is chicken, cheese, and bacon smothered in barbeque sauce. It came with chips and salad.

It was now over an hour since we ordered. I was ready to gnaw off my hand due to hunger, everybody had finished their food, and I had work in half an hour. When my plate came, the chicken was rubbery, the bacon was half-cooked, and the chips were soggy and cold. The kicker? There were tomatoes in my salad.