(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.

(It’s legal to purchase alcohol from the age of 18 in the UK. I am at my local liquor store purchasing a few drinks for a party later on that evening. I’m at the counter, which is being manned by a woman I’ve never seen before.)

Cashier: “Can I see your ID, please?”

Me: *hands over ID*

Cashier: “I can’t sell you these.”

Me: “Why not?”

Cashier: “This ID says you were born in 1989. That means you’re too young.”

Me: “It’s 2011.”

Cashier: “…”

Me: “I’m 21.”

Cashier: “No. Because you add twenty and take one. That means you’re too young.”

Me: “I… what?”

Cashier: *shrugging* “Kids today don’t know anything.”

Me: “But, you add twenty? Add twenty to what?”

Cashier: “Right, so 1989 add 10 is 1999, then adding another 10 makes it 2009.”

Me: “And then take one?”

Cashier: “From how old you’d be.”

(I take a second to double check what I’ve just calculated, as I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in my life.)

Me: “That would make me 18.”

Cashier: “Exactly!”

Me: “And still legally allowed to buy alcohol.”

(The woman stared at me for a second before putting on a strange expression, almost like she had shut down. Eventually the owner appeared after several other customers, upon seeing my ID, tried convincing her that I was in fact 21. He put through my purchase and I left swiftly after. The woman doesn’t work there anymore, but now every till has a small whiteboard next to it with whatever date it was 18 years ago and “CAN BUY ALCOHOL IF BIRTHDAY IS BEFORE:” above it.)