I work in a pub connected to a small, cosy hotel/inn. My coworkers are round the back cleaning tables outside, and I’m wiping down the counter and cleaning a couple of beer glasses.

It’s empty as we close earlier than normal pubs because ours doubles as a hotel. The “Closed” sign is on the door.

Suddenly, a lady waltzes in with her entire family with a huge grin on her face.

Customer: “A table! Get me a table so that my family can eat!”

Me: “I’m afraid I can’t do that as we are closing.”

I gesture around the empty and dark space to point out the obvious.

Customer: “What?! That’s stupid! It’s not even 10:00 pm yet!”

Me: “The pub doubles as a hotel, so we can’t stay open too late.”

Customer: *Starting a bit of an angry rampage* “I’m not coming here again! It’s that you close so early!”

She has two daughters with her who look around my age (sixteen), and the looks of embarrassment and sympathy they give each other and then me are the most memorable parts of the encounter. One of them mouths, “Sorry.” At first, I think she’s mouthing it for what her mum has said, but no, it’s for what is coming next.

Customer: “So, what are you going to do for me?”

Me: “Do… for you?”

Customer: “Yes, do for me! I’m a customer in your establishment, and I need service. You’re refusing me service, and that is unacceptable, so I require some form of compensation. What are you going to do for me?”

Me: “The next town over has a twenty-four-hour service station on the way. I can give you directions?”

Customer: “Are you being pissy with me?”

Me: “I’m doing something for you. I’m giving you directions to where you can get some food.”

Customer: “You just want to get rid of us!”

Me: “Well… yeah.”

Customer: “I knew it!”

Me: “The ‘Closed’ sign on the door didn’t make it obvious?”

Customer: “I’m going to complain about this place on Google!”

Me: “That we don’t cater to late-night loud customers so as not to annoy our paying guests? Sounds like free advertising to me.”

She harrumphed and stormed out with her still-mortified-looking daughters. I hope she wrote that review.

Me: “Thanks for calling [Pharmacy]. This is Technician [My Name]; how may I help you?”

Nurse: “I got a call yesterday, and I need to clear things up.”

She pauses.

Me: “Sure thing. What’s the patient’s name and date of birth?”

Nurse: “Are you going to let me finish?”

Me: *Shocked* “Yes, of course. I’m sorry, I thought you were done.”

Nurse: “Well, never mind. I’ll call back when you decide not to treat people this way. In the meantime, I’m going to report this conversation to the patient and tell him you delayed his medication by another day with your attitude.”

She hangs up.

A little while later:

Me: “Thanks for calling [Pharmacy]. This is Technician [My Name]; how may I help you?”

It’s a patient, who gives me their first and last name and date of birth.

Me: “All right, it looks like I have a call open to your doctor about your medicine, but I haven’t heard back.”

Patient: “The nurse called me and told me you were rude to her on the phone. She says she refuses to be treated that way.”

Me: “I’m so sorry about the confusion! I’ll call the physician’s office again to see if I can get some resolution.”

Patient: “I was very surprised when she called me and told me this. I’ve never had a bad experience at your pharmacy.”

Me: “There was some miscommunication between us, but she could have asked for a pharmacist and I would have handed the phone over.”

Patient: “She recommended that I switch to another pharmacy. I said I’ve been using this pharmacy for years, and the staff is always going through hoops for me. I was nice, though. Instead of telling her to shove it up her a**, I thanked her for the information.”

Me: *Hardly containing my laughter* “That was kind of you. I’ll put another call in when we’re finished. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Patient: “I’m good. Take care. You have my permission to call her a twit.”

Me: *Snorting* “I promise to remain professional out loud. Thanks for calling.”

When I attended university, I did a Creative Writing degree. In my first year, we had regular sessions with a local poet who would take various classes related to poetry or verse. This wasn’t my favourite element of the program, but I still found that some of the writing exercises were interesting.

During one class, he turned his attention to music and how song lyrics themselves are considered a form of poetry. To demonstrate this, he decided to play “I Wish Was A Punk Rocker” by Sandi Thom. Admittedly, this is not the song I would’ve chosen, but still, I could see why he gravitated toward it.

At the end of the song, one student in my class — a quiet, very introverted guy — suddenly stood up looking extremely offended and clenching both fists.

Student: “Are you kidding me? Why the h*** would you choose this song as an example? SANDI THOM IS NOT MUSIC! G**D*** IT!”

Then, he proceeded to storm out of the room and slam the door, leaving his bag and belongings behind. There was a very stunned silence afterward until the poet finally spoke.

Poet: “So… moving on from that…”

We never found out why [Student] was so offended by that choice, and he never explained his outburst ever again. One of the students mentioned that he’d gone to school with [Student] previously, and he was apparently known for pulling stunts like that and getting upset about random things. I’ve never been able to listen to that song the same way since!

I have just told the customer that I cannot process their refund without a receipt.

Customer: “I know the manager personally. It’s [Manager]!”

Me: “Yes, that is the manager’s name, but you still can’t get a refund without a receipt.”

Customer: “You’re gonna make me call him? You really don’t want to do that! I know him personally!”

Me: “You’re welcome to try.”

With that, I get my phone out and stare at it.

Customer: “What are you doing?”

Me: “I’m [Manager], so I’m waiting for your call.”

Customer: “Oh, I love your hair! It looks so natural!”

Me: “Thanks! Yeah, I don’t do too much to it.”

Customer: “What product do you use?”

Me: “Just the normal shampoo and conditioner, really.”

Customer: “No, silly! I mean what dye brand? To get that color?”

Me: “I don’t color my hair. This is its natural color.”

Customer: “But… it’s red?”

Me: “Technically, it’s called ginger, but yes, Irish red hair handed down to me from my dad’s side.”

Customer: “If you’re making a joke, I’m afraid I don’t understand it, but seriously, what coloring product is that?”

Me: “I swear to you this is my natural hair color.”

Customer: “Stop lying! All the original redheads died in the Irish famine!” *Storms off*

So, this woman is walking around thinking every redhead she sees is… pretending to be part of a genetically extinct line of hair color?