(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.”

(I’m at home when the doorbell rings unexpectedly. It’s a pizza delivery driver. I haven’t ordered pizza.)

Driver: “Your pizza!”

Me: “I didn’t order pizza.”

Driver: “This is number 20, right?”

Me: “Yes.”

Driver: “So, it’s your pizza.”

Me: “I didn’t order any; it’s not for me.”

Driver: “20 [Address] Street?”

Me: “Sorry, this is [Address] Road. [Address] Street is the first on the left there.”

Driver: “You’re number 20?”

Me: “No, you’re on the wrong road. Take the first on the left.”

Driver: “You are number 20, see?”

(He points at the number by my door.)

Me: “Yes, but this is the wrong road. Sorry.”

Driver: “Is something wrong? Why don’t you want your pizza?”

Me: “It’s not my pizza! This is the wrong house!”

Driver: “Number 20, right?”

(I shut the door. A couple of seconds later, he rings the bell again, holding it down for at least 30 seconds until I open the door again.)

Driver: “You must take your pizza! I have more deliveries to do.”

Me: “It is not my pizza. You are at the wrong house.”

(He thrust the pizza into my hands and got back into his car. I walked the 30 seconds around the corner and gave the pizza to the people who’d ordered it. We do sometimes get deliveries for [Address] Street, but I’ve never had a driver refuse to admit they’re wrong before!)

Our store is having quite a large refurbishment and my manager asked me to create some signs for the cafe and deli counter which read, “Due to the refurbishment of the store, the cafe and deli areas will close on [date] and reopen on [date]. We apologise for any inconvenience caused.”

I’m not the best speller. I type the sign, spell-check it, print it, and show it to my manager, who okays it. I put the signs out all along the deli counter and on the tables, till, and the counter in the cafe.

About two to three hours later I get a phone call from the cafe manager about my signs. Apparently, where “inconvenience” usually appears at the top of the list on the spell check, this time I’d spelt it so badly that the spell check came back with “incontinence” as the top choice. My sign read, “We apologise for any incontinence caused.”

(I work as a pool lifeguard. I am 18, but I know I look younger. As part of my job, it’s necessary for me to question someone’s swimming ability if I believe they may not be capable of swimming in the deep end, for their own safety. This altercation takes place when I spot a boy who looks like he is struggling, swimming with a float in the deep end.)

Me: *to the boy’s dad* “Excuse me. Can your son swim?”

Dad: “What?”

Me: “I was just asking if your son could swim. He has a float in the deep end, and it looks like he’s finding it difficult. If he can’t, then he needs to stay here in the shallow end.”

Dad: “Who are you to be asking if my son can swim?!”

Me: *slightly taken aback* “Erm, I’m sorry? I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Dad: “Who do you think you are? Yes, my son can swim, and probably a lot better than you can!”

Me: *getting agitated* “I’m only doing my job. It looked like your son was struggling, and as a lifeguard, I have to make sure that—”

Dad: *cutting me off again* “He’s just not very confident at the backstroke at the moment; my wife is helping him with that. He probably has more swimming certificates and qualifications than you! And what makes you think you have the authority to tell me what to do? How old are you, 16?!”

Me: *getting pretty angry now, but trying not to lose my temper* “Actually, I’m 18. And I’m a lifeguard, so it’s in my job description to care for and manage the customers who swim in the pool. And since you said yourself that your son isn’t comfortable swimming on his back, can you please keep him in the shallow end while he does so?”

Dad: “How dare you?! I’m going to be complaining about you to your manager! You have no f****** right to speak to me like that!”

(Having run out of patience with the dad, I radio through to my manager and ask him to come onto the poolside and deal with the situation, so I can get back to watching the pool and doing my job. As the dad gets out of the pool to talk to my manager, his wife, son, and daughter gather around the poolside watching the argument. My manager argues with the dad for a good few minutes, until I hear this sentence.)

Dad: “I don’t care if he’s a lifeguard; he looks 16 years old at the most, and I, therefore, won’t let him tell me what to do. My wife’s a f****** certified swimming teacher, so she knows what she’s doing!”

Me: *deciding enough is enough* “First of all, I am 18, as I told you before. Secondly, will you stop swearing? It’s rude and unnecessary. Finally, if your wife is a certified swimming teacher, she should know better than to let your son swim in the deep end if he isn’t confident or strong enough, which you already clarified he isn’t.”

(The dad stood in a stunned silence for a moment, then left the pool, his family following behind him. Later, I spoke to my manager, and discovered that not only had the dad and his family caused trouble at the pool before, but that his wife was actually fired from her job as a swimming teacher a few months back for, funnily enough, consistently allowing kids who weren’t yet capable enough swimmers to swim in the deep end to boost their confidence, despite being told multiple times not to.)