I’m a kidney transplant patient, and as such, I’m considered extremely clinically vulnerable to the pesky illness that’s doing its world tour.

Wales has been in its third lockdown since December — it’s now January — and patients such as me have once again been advised to “shield” by the government, i.e. not leave the house if you don’t absolutely have to. That’s fine by me; I’ve chosen to continue to shield since the first lockdown anyway.

Our boiler is due for its annual service, and as it’s still reasonably new, the service has to be carried out in order to maintain the warranty. I call the company that we usually use to book it in.

The young lady taking my call is extremely slow at doing so — it’s a bit like dealing with Flash the sloth from “Zootopia” — but all is going smoothly and the service is offered for a few days hence.

Then, we get to the fun part.

Me: “Could you please let the engineer know that I am shielding, so I will require him to wear a mask while in the house and follow precautions?”

Employee: “Oh, do you have any symptoms? We can’t come if you have symptoms.”

Me: “No, I’m not infected; I’m just shielding.”

Employee: “So you’re isolating but no symptoms. I’m not sure if we can come, really.”

Me: “No, I’m not isolating. I’m shielding. I just need the engineer to know that, for safety.”

Employee: “So you’re saying it’s not safe to be in your property? Is someone else there showing symptoms?”

Me: *Getting frustrated* “No, no one here is infected. No one here is isolating. It is completely safe for the engineer to be here. I’m just shielding as I’m vulnerable, so he’ll need to keep away from me.”

Employee: “Oh, you’re vulnerable? Are you elderly? You don’t sound elderly!” *Giggles*

Me: *Ready to scream* “No, I just could get really ill if I catch it. So all I need is for the engineer to be made aware that I am shielding and that he needs to wear a mask at all times. Please!”

Employee: *Sounding more confused* “But you’re not elderly…?”

Me: *Sigh* “No. You don’t have to be elderly to need to shield.”

Employee: “Are you sure you don’t mean you’re isolating? Because we can’t come if you’re isolating.”

Me: *Trying not to yell at her* “Please, just pop on the notes that I’m shielding. Show your boss. If he doesn’t want to send anyone, just call me back. Will that be okay?”

Employee: “Okay, but I’m still not sure.” *Pauses while she types* “How do you spell shielding?”

I just wanted to bang my head against the table. If they weren’t a reliable and reasonably priced company, I’d have given up on that phone call. I was under the impression that shielding was a common enough term in the UK now, but maybe I’m wrong?! Anyway, after all that, the engineer is coming tomorrow. Phew!

We send out tyre fitters to work on a heavy plant. I have to collate their reports and send out to customers for invoicing. Sometimes I have to be a little… creative when interpreting what they write down.

A report comes in:

Report: “Once fitted, tighten nuts and run round yard.”

As soon as I finished snorting I rewrote it for the customer as, “Once fitted, tighten wheel nuts and run machine.”

We’re holding a late-night Christmas shopping event with a free glass of champagne for customers upon entry and sparkling juice for non-drinkers and children. There’s a sign up stating one per customer, and so far everyone has accepted this.

I’m a supervisor, and one of the only staff members over the age of eighteen, so I am the only one handling the alcohol. A man comes in to browse and takes a glass of champagne. About five minutes later, he comes back to me. 

Customer: “I need another glass of this.”

Me: “Oh, sorry. We’re only allowed to give out one glass per customer. You could have a glass of sparkling juice if you’d like?”

Customer: “But I don’t want juice. There are glasses on the table and no queue, so I’m having another.”

Me: “We can’t give out more than one per customer; otherwise, we would have to charge the minimum unit price, and we’re not licensed to sell alcohol.”

The customer huffs and walks away to keep browsing.

Two minutes pass, and I notice he’s talking to an underage member of staff who joined two weeks ago. He walks back over.

Customer: *Triumphantly* “She says I can have another glass!”

Me: “Sir, I’m sorry but you can’t. I’ve already told you why. We only have a limited amount and it’s not fair on other customers.”

Customer: “But she said I could, so you have to! I’ve just bought £120 of pyjamas, too!”

Me: “I’m her supervisor, and she’s under eighteen so she can’t serve alcohol. So no, you can’t.”

He turns around and storms to the counter and returns the pyjamas. 

He storms back towards the front of the store to leave, and as he walks out, he turns over his shoulder. 

Customer: *Sarcastically* “Merry Christmas!”

The bottles of champagne were literally the cheapest available. He could have bought one from the shop right next to us for under £5 and drunk the whole bottle!

Related:
Forgetting The Juicy Details

It’s a dreary Tuesday in South Wales. My wife and I are looking around the local town, and, having had a big breakfast, go for a late lunch at half-past two. We choose a chain pizza restaurant, known for its “express” service, as we have a 50% off coupon. They’re not busy, but it takes five minutes or so to find a host to seat us.

Ten minutes pass. Fifteen. A waitress finally arrives to take our order. Ten more minutes. I can see our drinks waiting on the bar, no staff around, so I stand up and take them back to our table.

Another ten minutes pass. I manage to flag down a waitress from another section who promises to follow up on our order. She returns almost immediately with our order, which has obviously been sitting under the heat lamp for a while. Too hungry and British to complain about it, we dig in, resigning ourselves to the fact we’ll definitely not be able to order any more drinks to go with it.

We don’t see any more staff for the rest of the meal. Diners from other sections of the restaurant walk past us on their way out, until we’re the only people left.

Twenty minutes since we’ve seen anyone, I get up to look for someone. The place is deserted. There’s not even anyone in the kitchen.

We wait another quarter of an hour, then decide to leave. We’ve got to get ready for an evening trip to the theatre, for one. So, we get up, put our coats on, and have one last check around to see if anyone wants to take our payment. Doesn’t look like it. We don’t have any cash on us, other than change.

Given the poor service and mediocre food, we don’t feel too bad about leaving. I wonder if anyone even realised when they got back to work that we’d gone?

I’m a member of my school’s horse riding club. This happens before a riding lesson, while we are putting on my mount’s bridle and saddle in the stable. It’s not the first time I’ve been stuck with [Horse].

Instructor: “So, how do you find [Horse] so far?”

Me: “She’s like my grandma.”

Instructor: “How so?”

Me: “Old, fat, and stubborn.”

The instructor is not sure whether to be offended or amused.

Me: “And lazy.”

My horse then swings her head around, clubbing me with her head. I’m wearing a helmet, so it doesn’t hurt, but I still get knocked aside.

Me: “Yeah, I deserved that.”

Somehow, that day, [Horse] is unusually active, requiring less nagging from me to move and more willingness to obey my commands. We even do jumps, after which, she goes into a canter, nearly throwing me off in the process. Much screaming is involved, to the delight of my girlfriend, who still refuses to let me live that down to this day.

After the session, we are taking the horses back to the stable and removing their saddles and bridles.

Instructor: “Good job, [My Name]. I think that that was the most exercise [Horse] has gotten this year.”

Me: “Yes, so maybe she isn’t as lazy as we thought, but I still think she’s like my grandma: cranky and bad-tempered.”

We pack up and I walk out of the stable. Just then, another horse trots past. The rider, horse and I are all looking in the wrong direction, so I get rammed and knocked into a puddle of mud. Thankfully, not only am I wearing a padded jacket and a riding cuirass, but I am also wearing a suit of motocross armour underneath, so I am fine, if only a bit stunned. Everyone rushes up to us, making sure that everyone is fine. The horse is panicking, but the instructors are all calming it down.

Me: *Getting to my feet* “Yeah, I definitely deserved that.”