I worked for a betting shop in the UK for around five years. For two of those years, I was stuck with one of the absolute worst people for a manager. She was a power-tripping, egotistical bully who believed she knew best in any situation just because she had worked in the industry for more than a decade. Here are but a few of the terrible things she did.

She didn’t fully train me on how to use the shop systems and got irrationally angry when I asked for help on something she hadn’t trained me on. (I had to teach myself 75% of the job.)

She blamed any and all cash discrepancies in the shop on anyone besides herself because her till could never be wrong.

She refused to postpone her breaks and help out when the shop entered busy periods, yet she expected everyone else to drop everything to help her.

She abandoned me to work a nine-hour shift (12:30 pm to 9:30 pm) by myself as punishment for some minor infraction.

She would expect the shop to be perfect 100% of the time and would repeatedly scream at any employee, including me, over the tiniest mistake. The till was £0.50 short? Screaming. One small area of the shop was dirty? Screaming. We were unable to get the right marketing information out due to a high volume of customers? Screaming. We were unable to do something the instant she asked for it regardless of whether we were helping a customer? Screaming.

That last one caused my mental health to completely tank. I had to take three weeks of sick leave and be moved to another shop closer to where I lived in order to continue working. Some people have told me I should have just grown a spine and stood up for myself, but when this is happening daily, and I had very little confidence due to it being my first-ever job, that gets pretty hard to do.

The silver lining is that this manager was eventually suspended due to a not-so-significant amount of money — at least £250 — disappearing while she was on shift, leading to her leaving the company. Whether she was fired or quit I don’t know; I was with a much better manager who actually cared about her staff at the time. But she was left with a permanent black mark on her record.

Some years ago, I worked in a large call center as a department supervisor. One day, I was in a small office off the main floor. It wasn’t assigned to anyone in particular; all the lower- and middle-management people used it occasionally when we needed it.

I was working there alone when a Human Resources assistant who I knew quite well came in, supporting a young Customer Service Representative who we’ll call Annie. Annie appeared shaken and pale. [HR Buddy] helped her to a chair, and I went over to see what was up and find out if they needed me to leave to give them privacy. It turned out that Annie had tripped on the stairs and fallen — luckily only a couple of steps.

Me: “Oh, poor you! Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?”

Annie: “It’s just my wrist; it really hurts.”

Her wrist seemed to be swelling as we looked at it, and she could hardly move it.

HR Buddy: *To me* “I saw her come down on it hard. I think she’d better go to A&E and get it X-rayed.”

At this, Annie looked downright panicked.

Annie: “No! I don’t want an X-ray!”

[HR Buddy] and I were puzzled. Bear in mind, this is the UK, so Annie wouldn’t need to worry about a bill for a hospital visit.

Me: “I know it’s a hassle, and hospitals can be a bit scary, but your wrist might be broken. You really should get it checked as soon as possible; you might need a cast.”

Annie: *Almost in tears* “But I can’t stand needles! I’m terrified of needles!”

Gentle questioning elicited that Annie had no clear idea of what an X-ray actually was! She was frightened because she had some vague notion that it involved getting an injection, though she couldn’t explain why. I had to explain to her, as you would to a small child, that getting an X-ray meant the doctors would use a special machine to take a picture of her bones, no needles necessary, and that the doctors weren’t allowed to give her any injections without her permission anyway.

Eventually, we managed to convince her, and we called her mother to come pick her up and drive her to the hospital. I’m glad I was able to explain things to her so she could get the treatment she needed, and nobody knows a thing until someone teaches them — but wow, that’s a big one to miss for a whole twenty-something years of life!

Customer: “Why are these apples so green?”

Me: “Those are Granny Smith apples. They’re known for their vibrant green colour.”

Customer: “Oh, so you haven’t got like a TikTok filter on them or anything?”

Me: *Pause* “A TikTok filter on… on these apples. That are here right in front of you?”

Customer: “Yeah.”

Me: “No.”

Customer: “Are you sure?”

There’s a series of well-publicised national railway strikes happening in Britain at the moment.

The local commuter railway I work for isn’t on strike, but the national infrastructure provider (signals and track maintenance) is, so we’re running a skeleton service of one train an hour between 9:00 am and 6:00 pm; we usually run four trains an hour from 6:00 am to midnight.

I’m closing my local station after the last train has left. It takes about half an hour to do the books, clean the platforms, and lock the waiting rooms and entrances and exits.

Having done all that, I lock the main entrance and walk toward the nearest bus stop — the strike means even I can’t get a train home! Then, I hear several loud bangs and the smashing of glass.

I unlock the main entrance and rush back in to see the fire exit door almost off its hinges, the window glass from it all over the floor, and a woman using a fire extinguisher to try to break the lock off the doors to the platforms.

Me: “What the f***?! What on Earth do you think you’re doing?!”

Woman: “Finally! I thought you were hiding from me. The doors are all stuck and I’m going to miss my train!”

Me: “There are no trains. There’s a strike on. We’ve got posters up. What have you done? You’ve wrecked the joint!”

Woman: “I know there’s a strike! But my train is at 6:30 and the doors were stuck! Why didn’t you come to help me?”

Me: “The trains are off. There’s a strike. The doors were locked, you mad… The doors were locked. What have you done to the place? Look at this mess!”

Woman: “I asked on Facebook, and my friend said she knew there was a secret train at 6:30, so I’m getting that one. Why were the doors stuck?”

Me: “They were locked. The trains are off.”

Woman: “There’s a secret train at 6:30. My friend on Facebook knows about it because her son’s friend is a bus driver. Why were the doors stuck? You just want me to miss your secret train.”

Me: “There’s no secret train. Even the staff are getting buses home. You’ve caused hundreds of pounds of damage to this station. What’s wrong with you?”

Woman: “You just want to stop me from getting your secret train! It’s not my fault the doors were stuck!”

She starts bashing the platform doors with the fire extinguisher again.

Me: “That’s it! I’m calling the police!” 

Woman: “Call them! I’ll tell them that you’re stopping me from getting the secret train. I pay your wages!”

I dial 999 on my mobile phone.

Me: “Police, please.”

Woman: “Wait! Stop!”

She literally ran away through the main entrance, still carrying the fire extinguisher.

I was there for another hour cleaning up the mess, writing reports, getting copies of the CCTV, and dealing with the police. The station will probably be closed for most of tomorrow for repairs… a day when there’s no strike action.

I was on the bus, and just after I had given up my seat to an old man, another even older and frailer man boarded. I did something I had never done before; I tapped the shoulder of the teenager in a school uniform concentrating on her phone and asked her to stand. She obediently did, but the man refused her seat. I don’t know if it’s pride or old-fashioned manners, but some older guys are unwilling to accept a seat from a woman, no matter how able she is and how much he needs it.

I told the teenager to sit down again, but she declined. She clearly wasn’t ecstatic to be standing but was okay with it. While my grey hair gave me cover, I wasn’t going to take the seat, because that would mean I had imperiously ordered a child to give me her seat! There was another woman standing nearby, somewhere between our ages, and I guess she didn’t need it, either. Because of how we were standing, no one else could access the seat, so the three of us stood around this empty seat. The old man had found a seat further down the bus.

After a couple more stops, the woman standing beside me turned to the teenager, pointed at the ground, and asked:

Woman: “Is that your photo ID?”

It turns out the teenager’s photo Oyster Card (transport ticket) and ATM card had slipped onto the floor as she’d been sitting. If she had remained seated until her stop, she would have lost both cards, which at the minimum would have been a hassle, and depending on who picked them up, could have been an ordeal. 

It felt like a good example of Karma; the universe rewarded her good deed by returning her cards to her.