(As part of our training, we have to undergo a three-hour session hosted by an external speaker on conduct, communication, and confidence. The speaker occasionally asks if someone has ever done or seen something and uses it to make an example…)

Speaker: “I mean …okay, does anyone here play a musical instrument?”

(After a few seconds of awkward silence, I stick my hand up.)

Speaker: “Great, and what do you play?”

Me: “I’m learning to play the timbal.”

Speaker: “Ah, the timbal. Uh huh.”

(He pauses.)

Speaker: “What on earth is a timbal?”

Me: “It’s a Brazilian hand drum used in samba reggae.”

Speaker: “It’s a what?”

Me: “It’s a Brazilian hand drum used in samba reggae.”

(After a second or two of stunned silence, the speaker starts to laugh. After about a minute or so of laughter…)

Speaker: “I’m sorry, it’s just, I’ve never had an answer like that before. I was expecting the flute or the piano. What did you say it was called?”

Me: “A timbal.”

(He laughs again and carries on the session. About ten minutes later…)

Speaker: “Has anyone here ever… except you—” *points at me* “—I’m not sure I can handle finding out what else you do in your spare time… has anyone else here ever done tai chi?”

(After the session, my colleagues and I go for lunch and chat about the session.)

Colleague #1: “I thought it was useful.”

Colleague #2: “It had some good tips. How about you, [My Name]? What did you think?”

Me: “Well… I went in there feeling all right, and then he laughed hysterically at my one answer and told me he was scared about what I do in my free time… D’you know, I actually think I might have come out of that feeling less confident than when I went in!”

(The training was actually pretty useful and to be fair to the speaker, he told me to keep on playing drums at the end. Rather unfortunately however, several years on, I only remember that incident from the entire session.)

(I live in a ground floor flat. The flat above mine has the same landlord I do. I walk into my hall to see an absolute torrent of water cascading out of my bathroom ceiling. I panic, hit the main fuse switch and turn all the electrics off, then run upstairs and hammer on the door of the flat above mine to get them out of the shower. Some hours later, the fire brigade have been out and told my landlord that I need an electrician out to sort out the bathroom fixtures… and my landlord has sent out a plumber.)

Plumber: “It turns out your neighbour has a leakage problem in the shower stall. We’ll come out at some point to fix that, but we can’t do it today. We’re on overtime.”

Me: “Sure, whatever. Where’s the electrician?”

Plumber: “You don’t need an electrician.”

Me: “Uh, yeah, I do.”

Plumber: “Look, it wasn’t that much water. Everything’s fine. They won’t send an electrician out just because it’ll make you feel better.”

Me: “…”

(My bathroom had been left in water several inches deep by the time the torrent had stopped, and it had come through the ceiling in two specific places – the light fitting itself, and the pull switch. The whole argument went back and forward and back and forward for ages before I left my dad to argue with him, and switched the main fuse back on. I stand at the door next to the light pull.)

Me: “So, we don’t need an electrician, right?”

Plumber: “I told you already. Everything’s fine.”

Me: “Cool.”

(I pulled the switch to the light that he was standing underneath. It immediately started sparking before I turned it back off again. I didn’t have to say another word; he agreed to get an electrician then and there. When the electrician turned up, I told him what had happened. His words: “People can be really f****** stupid.”)

(I work at a pretty nice restaurant in an upscale area of town. I’ve waited tables A LOT, but I also have pretty bad anxiety. This night, I am particularly frazzled. I have just served a large table their meals, and am coming back for the first check in.)

What I meant to say: “How’s everything tasting tonight?” OR “How are we doing?”

What I actually said: “How is everyone tasting tonight?”

(I work in a medical office which has an adjoining counseling office. We are owned by a large hospital group that includes dozens of doctors’ offices. One day someone from the counseling office calls and says she had a family emergency and asks if someone could cover the front desk for her for a few hours. Although I don’t typically work the front desk, I often cover others when needed. So, I go over. On this day there is a psychiatrist who comes to see patients there once a week, on loan from the behavioral health office (BHS). When I go to check in his first patient, I realize I don’t have access to his schedule. I call over to behavioral health to have someone check them in. He comes over to me:)

Doctor: “What is taking you so long?”

(I explain the situation and that I had found a workaround but it would take a few extra minutes.)

Doctor: “This can’t happen.”

Me: “I’m sorry, [Regular Worker] had an emergency. It’s a one time situation.”

Doctor: “This can’t happen.”

Me: “I’m sorry. I don’t have access to your schedule.”

Doctor: “This can’t happen.”

Me: “Well, although we share the same computer system, if you don’t regularly work at a particular office, you don’t have access.”

Doctor: “This can’t happen.”

(Now I’m getting pissed.)

Me: *somewhat sarcastically* “You know, you can check in your own patients?”

Doctor: “Well, someone could have at least given you a brief tutorial.”

(Now I’m fuming.)

Me: “Have you not heard a word I said? It’s not that I don’t know how. I have worked for this large hospital system for 20 years. I know what I’m doing. I DON’T HAVE ACCESS TO YOUR SCHEDULE!”

Doctor: “Why not?”

Me: “Because I don’t work at bloody BHS!”

Doctor: “This can’t happen.”

(My sister and I have just invested in a used sedan, which includes a dealership warranty up to 100,000 miles. Rather than go back to the original dealership we bought the car from, we decide to hit up its sister dealership in our hometown. The appointment is fairly straightforward – oil change, tire rotation, and the like – and is reasonably priced. I head back home after dropping off the car and receive a phone call about a half hour later.)

Me: “Hello?”

Sales Associate: “Hello, [My Name]! Just calling you back about your car. It looks like the transmission fluid is dirty, so we’re thinking it would be best to flush it out and replace it.”

Me: “Okay… how much extra would that cost?”

Sales Associate: “It would add $500 to your original cost.”

(I’m floored, and since I’m fairly new to this whole car owning thing, I decide to double-check with my father. My father promptly calls the dealership back.)

Father: “So, let me get this straight: We just got this car about a month ago, and you’re already saying the transmission fluid is so dirty, it needs to be changed?”

Sales Associate: “It’s a little bit dirty, and we just figured…”

Father: “A little bit? Okay, I know that you rate the transmission fluid quality as green for good, yellow for okay, and red for bad. What color code would you use for this car?”

Sales Associate: “Sir, the fluid is dirty and – ”

Father: “What. Color. Would you use?”

Sales Associate: *deflated* “Yellow…”

Father: “Thank you. We’ll hold off on changing the fluid.”

(After that, we decided to take the car back to the original dealership, and lo and behold, the transmission fluid was in the green! Unfortunately, they started trying to rip my sister and me off as well, so I’ve gone to a small local car shop in my hometown ever since. I’ve had my car for four years now, and besides a few minor issues, it’s in great shape!)