I’m a twenty-year-old woman, and I’m currently dating a rather sweet guy — also twenty-one — and we’re thinking of taking things to the next level. As such, he’s invited me to come back to his hometown and meet his family.

I’ve met a few of his relatives before, like his maternal cousins or his older siblings, but given how large his family is, that’s not a lot.

We get off at a train station, where his grandma and aunt will be picking us up to drive the rest of the way to his parents’ hometown.

[Aunt] is essentially the bane of [Boyfriend]’s existence. He spends most of the ride — good-naturedly — grumbling about her. I’ll sum up his complaints into three things: blackmail, mischievous prankster, and always get away with everything. He also warns me to never tell [Aunt] that he said any of that because she’ll definitely take revenge.

We get to the station and I go to buy coffee when I get stopped by a girl who looks around fourteen or fifteen.

Girl: “Hi, are you [My Name]?”

Me: “Ah, yes.”

I notice her hair and eyes, which are the same as my boyfriend’s older brother’s.

Me: “Are you [Boyfriend]’s younger sister? Uh, [Younger Sister], was it?”

Girl: “Close enough. So where is [Boyfriend], anyway?”

Me: “Let me buy some coffee and then I’ll bring you to him.”

We start up some small talk while waiting in line, and we basically become friends. She brings up [Aunt] and I share with her my boyfriend’s complaints about her, with which she commiserates.

Afterward, we go find [Boyfriend], who’s talking to a middle-aged woman who looks exactly like [Girl].

Me: “Hi there, [Aunt]. I’m [My Name]. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

Both of them suddenly look at each other, seemingly surprised.

Boyfriend: *Horrified* “Oh, no.”

Woman: “Dear, I’m not [Aunt]. I’m [Boyfriend]’s grandmother.”

I blink in surprise.

Me: “Wait, if you’re the grandmother, then…”

Girl: “Hi, I’m [Aunt]! Nice to meet you!”

She turns to face [Boyfriend], who’s rapidly paling.

Girl: “She’s told me everything.”

Boyfriend: “You told her?!”

Me: “You didn’t tell me that she was younger than you were!”

I don’t think [Boyfriend] ever forgave me for that. But in my defence, the word “aunt” conjures up an image of a middle-aged woman, not a fifteen-year-old teenager.

I live in a very rural area of Wales. At the time of this story, I was sixteen and had just started college, which was a good hour and a half away. Thankfully, there was a special bus program that went through my village that consisted of two separate connecting bus routes.

I was on the second bus back one evening and my friend had gotten off, so it was me and a couple of random people. I had my headphones in and was zoning out when I suddenly realised it was taking longer than normal to reach my stop. I am very socially awkward, so I waited for a while, but eventually, I made my way up to the front.

Me: “When will we reach [My Village]?”

Driver: “This bus doesn’t go through [My Village].”

Me: *Shocked* “What bus number is this?”

He told me. It was the right bus route, but the driver insisted that this bus NEVER went through my village. We were already past the turning for the village, so I went to my seat and checked my phone. However, it was an old piece of garbage, and I’m a little forgetful, so it had gone dead. 

In the end, I got off at the next stop — a small town a ten-minute drive from my home. I planned to find a phone box, but the only one around was out of order, so I walked into a pub and asked to borrow their phone. The people were very nice and let me stay there until my parents arrived since it was pretty dark out. 

My parents were furious at the driver, and my mum called up the next day to complain. Turns out the bus only goes this route at certain times for the school run. The driver must have not worked that shift in a while and didn’t bother checking the route. I don’t know what happened to them, but hopefully, they will be more careful in the future.

I’m kind of a pet peeve for Grandpa. He doesn’t like me. Like, at all.

You’d think it’s because I was born out of wedlock, but no. It’s because he insists that if it weren’t for my birth, Dad could have done way better in his A-levels and not have gone to what he calls a “garbage university”.

Back when they were teenagers in boarding school, Dad and Mom accidentally got pregnant with me. Mom didn’t find out she was pregnant until literally three weeks before my birthday. I’ve seen the photos, and yes, Mom really didn’t look like she was pregnant. Sure, she put on a bit of weight, but I was born in spring. It just looked like the regular Christmas and New Year weight gain.

As for the other symptoms — morning sickness, mood swings, and the like — both my parents were studying for their A-levels. They were way too stressed out to realise.

And thus, Mom gave birth to me, when she and Dad were both international students half a world away from home and their families — a pair of clueless nineteen-year-olds saddled with a newborn daughter to raise less than 100 days before the A-levels.

They both achieved straight As and got their courses of choice: medicine for Dad, computer science for Mom.

Both of them also raised me rather successfully (though not without their fair share of bumbling mishaps) while being full-time students in a foreign country three continents away from home.

Also, that “garbage university” they both went to? Birmingham University.

And Grandpa still claims that Dad could have done better if he “hadn’t wasted time looking after a kid.”

I swear, there just isn’t pleasing some people.

I’ve been staying with a friend in Cardiff and have just arrived at the station to catch my train home. An international rugby match has recently finished, and the traffic caused by this meant it took longer than anticipated to get to the station, and I’m in real danger of missing my train. As such, I am sprinting full pelt through the concourse, carrying my overnight bag over my shoulder.

As I run, I approach a group of rugby fans walking in the opposite direction. One of them, evidently thinking they’re about to pull the prank of the century, jumps out in front of me, yelling, “Boo!”

There’s absolutely no way I can stop in time, and I barrel straight into the hapless moron, sending him flying. I lose my balance, too, but somehow maintain my forward momentum, turn my stumble into a roll, get back to my feet, and continue on my way.

Behind me, I hear my wannabe roadblock protesting that I’ve hurt him, but one of his friends, laughing, tells him off for being a d**k and says that it was his own d*** fault.

I am working as an investigator for a National Health Service project. We are dealing with client claims but we aren’t client-facing. It is very rare that the phone rings.

The phone goes off and everyone freezes like naughty meerkats. I’m nominated to answer it.

Me: “Hello, NHS Wales, [Project]. How can I help?”

Caller: “Hello? I want to pay my bill!”

The old fella is after [Gas Company]. He politely excuses himself and all is well.

Two minutes later, the phone goes off again.

Me: “Hello, NHS Wales—”

Caller: “[Gas Company]?!”

Me: “Ah, no, sir, here’s the number for [Gas Company].”

I Google the number and pass it on, and it’s fine.

Two minutes later…

Me: “Hello, NHS Wales—”

Caller: “But I’m looking for [Gas Company]! My bill!”

Me: “Okay. Hang on two ticks, please, sir.”

I put him on hold, dialed up [Gas Company] customer service, waited until it was connected, and forwarded him through.