(I have a psychologist assigned to me at my hospital, where I am a frequent visitor and inpatient due to a chronic illness. She’s not very good at her job, at least when it comes to me; every conversation I have with her ends in frustration for me, and a completely warped assessment of my emotional and mental state for my doctor. Eventually, I get tired of it, and ask not to see her anymore, since I think she misunderstands and/or misrepresents my mental health. This is the last conversation I have with her, during a week-long hospitalisation.)

Me: “I’m sorry, but considering that I asked you not to come today, and you came anyway, and once again you haven’t really understood what I’m saying, I’m going to ask the doctors not to send you to me anymore.

Psychologist: “Oh… Well, I still have one more visit planned for the day before you leave.”

Me: “Please cancel it. I appreciate your help, but I just become too frustrated.”

Psychologist: “Well… if you change your mind, please let–

Me: “I’m not going to change my mind.”

Psychologist: “Well, if you do, just tell one of the day nurses and—”

Me: “I’m sorry, but I’m not going to.”

Psychologist: “Well, just in case you do—”

Me: “I’m not.”

Psychologist: “I know you think that now, but I’ll be here if you want to chat.”

Me: “I promise you, I won’t.”

Psychologist: “Well, if you change your mind…”

(Then, she just stood there smiling. I stared at her in disbelief until she left.)

(On the last Thursday of every month, I organise the archive room in my office. We have a fair number of interns in the office over the summer holidays, some of which are the children of full-time employees. I have spent the past six hours organising the archive room when a manager comes in. The intern in this story is said manager’s son.)

Manager: “[My Name], I am very disappointed with you today.”

Me: “What have I done?”

Manager: “Absolutely nothing! You’ve barely been at your desk.”

Me: “It’s the last Thursday. I always tidy up in here on the last Thursday.”

Manager: “No, [Intern] has been doing that.”

Me: “No, that’s wrong. The only time I’ve been out of this room is for my lunch and for the toilet.”

Manager: “[Intern] said you have been hiding from me all day. He saw you run in here five minutes ago.”

Me: “Well, you have a choice. You can either believe me or [Intern].”

Manager: “I believe [Intern]. He is my son, after all. There isn’t a person I trust more.”

Me: “Then, I’m sure you will be taking the appropriate actions against him.”

Manager: “What are you talking about?”

Me: “Interns aren’t allowed in here, because they aren’t contractually responsible if anything goes missing. If your son was in here, then it means someone either gave him the access code or a pass, which is a breach of company policy.” *seeing her going pale* “Don’t worry, though. I’ll be more than happy to report this to [Senior Manager] when I see him tomorrow.”

Manager: “No… I might go and ask him again, just in case I misheard. He probably meant [Employee with similar-sounding name that’s been on paternity leave the entire summer].”

(I saw her the next day, and she practically dragged me away from [Senior Manager] while shouting that her son made a simple mistake. [Senior Manager] was so shocked by the display that he suggested she take a few days off with stress. Her son completed his time with us, but he had the poorest productivity out of all the interns that year. It’s doubtful he will ever be taken on again.)

(This occurs on a warm summer evening in the middle of a busy period. I am working the checkout alone and serving a young woman who is inputting her PIN into the card machine. An older man walks in and stands uncomfortably close to her shoulder. I hand her the receipt from her purchase and she leaves the store. The man then proceeds to cut in front of the other customers waiting in line.)

Customer: “Give me cigarettes!”

(I am slightly taken aback, but I decide to serve him quickly in order to get him out of the shop.)

Me: “Sure. Which kind would you like?”

Customer: “WHICH KIND?! THE CHEAPEST ONES, OBVIOUSLY!”

Me: “Um… okay.”

(I quickly look through the prices.)

Customer: “Hurry up! I don’t have all day!” *mumbling* “Which kind of cigarettes? How would I know which kind? Stupid girl.”

Me: *grabbing the cheapest ones I can see* “Are these okay for you?”

Customer: “Are they the cheapest?!”

Me: *taking his response as a yes, I ring up the cigarettes* “Okay, that will be £4.50.”

(He threw a £10 note on counter and grabbed his cigarettes before marching out the door without his change, which he never came back for.)

(My boss has a common name with a very uncommon spelling. While she can be fairly forgiving about people spelling it incorrectly, it does annoy her when repeat offenders don’t learn even after years. Yes, years. She’s also pretty good at spelling other people’s names right.)

Boss: *snarls*

Me: *questioning look*

(She shows me an invoice from a supplier. Splashed across the top is her name, spelled incorrectly. We’ve been dealing with this supplier for at least half a year, if not a full 12 months.)

Boss: “Next time I email [Supplier, whose name has three common variations], remind me to spell her name wrong.”

(My friend and I are both girls, and we both do cosplay. I am at her house and we’re both working on costumes for an upcoming convention. She has finished most of the skirt prior to me arriving, and she’s fussing over what is essentially a wonky seam on the petticoat.)

Friend: “It’s just not going correctly!”

Me: “When you put it on, is it visible?”

Friend: “I don’t think so?”

Me: “Put the skirt on.”

(She puts the skirt on. The bit she doesn’t like is pretty much right between her legs and hidden within the folds of the skirt.)

Me: “That doesn’t matter, hun.”

Friend: “But what if someone notices it’s not right?”

Me: “It can only be seen if someone sticks their head up your skirt and puts their face in your crotch. You would have bigger things to worry about than a wonky hem in that situation.”