(For a small grocery store, our checkouts are arranged oddly: a ring of five checkouts, two leading to the main door, two to the side door, and a fifth in the middle for when we are busy. I am stationed at the register nearest the main door. A customer approaches who is obviously underage.)

Customer: “Can I buy some cigarettes?”

Me: “Sure. I’ll just have to see your ID.”

Customer: “Oh. I, uh… I don’t have it on me. It’s out in the car; I’ll go get it.”

(The customer walks out the door, and I turn to serve the next customer. Ten seconds later, I hear behind me…)

Customer: “Hey, I need to get a pack of cigarettes.”

(He’d come back in the side door, somehow thinking I wouldn’t notice when I was still just ten feet away.)

(I’m in my computer room when I hear our landline ring, then my mum talking. After hanging up she tells me what the call was.)

Scammer: “Hello, I’m ringing to talk to you about a competition that you and your husband entered to win a holiday to Bali.”

Mum: “Really? That would be difficult for my husband to do.”

Scammer: “Really, ma’am? Why is that?”

Mum: “Well, my husband has been dead for 18 years, so you see that problem.”

Scammer: “Oh, really? Um, well, have a good night. Sorry to have taken your time. Bye.”

(I work in drive-through with a lot of immigrant workers mostly from Asia. I’m white.)

Customer: *pulls up to my window* “Oh, thank God, a real white Australian girl. Finally! You have too many Asians at this store; they can’t even speak English!”

Me: “Um… That’s [total]. Please drive forward.”

(I go up to my [white] manager to complain about how racist the customers are.)

Manager: “Okay, one second.” *speaking in headset* “[Coworker], can you hand these coffees out?”

(A Chinese coworker hands out the coffees to some very angry racist customers.)

Manager: “And that’s how you piss off racist people.”

(A pink and grey galah [cockatoo] turns up at my dad’s work site. He is obviously a pet, as he is tame and has clipped wings, so he can’t fly. He is very hungry, so he must have been lost for a while. We check everywhere we can to see if his previous owners are looking for him, and find nothing. So, we decide to keep him; we name him Wally and buy him a large cage. He has recently moulted, so my parents take him to the unusual pet vet to get his wings clipped, so he doesn’t hurt himself. When they arrive home, I ask them how it went:)

Mum: “Wally was good, even though the vets said that he was a bit naughty when they took him! But, we did meet a very strange woman. She was there with her 40-year-old galah called Lulu.”

Dad: “She was certainly what you could call a ‘crazy bird lady.’ Apparently, she had another galah at home, too. At dinner, they all sit together, with their own seats and plates. They even drink out of her cup!”

Mum: “She told us that when she eats things like yoghurt, she has a spoonful, then gives each of the birds a spoonful, too! And they’re free flying, so she’s secured half of her back garden off for them.”

(Though it seems like a weird relationship, I’m sure the galahs enjoy their life of luxury!)

(In our store we have three tills, side-by-side, on a reasonably long desk. The regional manager doesn’t allow us to use the left-hand till for transactions, so we only use it to search inventory. We are mid-sale, and the queue for check-out is as long as the store, and a coworker and I are frantically working away. I am on the right-hand till, and my coworker is on the middle.)

Me: “Next, please!”

(The next customer in line approaches the left-hand till, despite the fact that it was no more effort to side-step right instead of left.)

Me: “Can I just get you to come to this till for me, please, sir?”

Customer: “No! You’ll come to me, because that’s service!”

(It’s a tight squeeze behind the counter, especially with random bits of product from returns, holds, and such lying around while we’re busy, but I edge behind my coworker and take the first item the customer is holding up. I return to my till, and scan it, before edging past again to take his other item he is brandishing in my face. Again, I go back to my till, scan the item, and squeeze back to the customer)

Me: “That totals [amount]. Do you have a loyalty card?”

Customer: “[Amount]?! How much was [first item]?”

(I sigh, and my coworker stifles a giggle. I push past again and check the amount. Having lost patience, I shout to the customer remaining at my till. He agrees and shows me his bank-card before sliding it in the scanner at the non-functioning till.)

Me: “Sir, I’m going to need you to use this one, please.”

Customer: “Why? What’s wrong with this one?”

Me: “It doesn’t work.”

(The customer’s face dropped, as if he had lost the victory he thought he had over me. He quietly paid and left.)