It’s early morning, and our store is setting up. A customer approaches the door, and when it doesn’t open, he starts banging on it. 

Coworker: “We’re not open yet, sir! Come back at 8:00 am.”

Customer: “I can’t open the door!” 

Coworker: “We’re not open until eight, sir! Come back then!” 

Customer: “Open the door! I need to buy my cigarettes!”

My coworker reminds him one more time to come back at 8:00 am and then walks off to continue his opening duties. At least, he is about to. We all stop at the sound of something hitting the door multiple times and then, finally, glass breaking.

This crazy MF has managed to find a pole that was holding up an ad and used it to ram the glass door. I rush over as he starts using the pole to clear away the shattered glass and casually bends down to enter the store through it.

Customer: “The door was broken.”

Me: “Sir… what the actual f***?! The door was locked, not broken! Locked, because we’re still closed!”

Customer: *Starts walking into the store* “Sell me my cigarettes.” 

Me: “Sir, we will not be selling you any cigarettes! In fact, we will be calling the police because you have willingly damaged the store!”

Customer: “Sell me my cigarettes, or I’ll use you as a punching bag!”

Threat of violence — that’s it. I call the silent alarm, which means someone has been tasked with calling the police. I follow the customer over to the tobacco counter. He is still so ridiculously calm and oblivious to his bad behavior that I am in shock.

Customer: “I’ll take [Brand, [size]. Two packs.”

Me: “Sir, I don’t think you understand. You broke down the door and threatened to assault my staff, and the police are on their way to arrest you. We will not be selling you cigarettes today!”

Customer: “Fine. What about tomorrow?”

He was still totally oblivious to the trouble he was in when the police arrived to escort him out.

An illustration brief includes lengthy and detailed instructions, which we are expected to follow “precisely and to the letter.”

Brief: “Depict a boy with a hand over his mouth (covering a cough), one hand holding a bag, and one hand holding a guitar case.”

The temptation to produce the three-armed monstrosity precisely as requested was overwhelming.

When I was probably six years old, I was playing “kick the crackerbox” in the kitchen with my older sister. I had my socks on, and I slipped and fell chin-first into a stool. I was taken to the emergency room and had seven stitches put in.

As this was the late 1980s, there were still cigarette vending machines in the hospitals. A guy had bought himself a pack of smokes, and with his change, he had gotten a pack of Reese’s Pieces. He gave them to me and told me he hoped I would feel better soon. Thirty-five years later, I still remember that moment.

I also remember my grandmother pouring the candy into a bowl for me the next day and how painful it was to eat them with my wound — but they were all the more pleasant because of it.

I seriously doubt that man remembers that day, but I will never forget that random act of kindness that a stranger gave to a little kid in a lot of pain.

My father’s ancient bar phone finally died; the battery won’t hold a charge. For some reason, he decided to buy a smartphone — without consulting me, the person who is expected to fix all things he deems IT-related.

Dad: “[My Name], can you come give me a hand with my new phone?”

Me: “What new phone?”

Dad: “The new phone I bought yesterday.”

He proudly shows off said device.

I decide to skip telling him off for buying it without asking me because he’s never listened before — why would he start now?

Me: “Ooookay. What’s up with it?”

Dad: “I just downloaded an app, and now I can’t find it. I’ve tried everything!“

The phone is thrust into my hands. I stare at an Android system far newer than anything I’ve encountered.

My Internal Monologue: “I have no f****** idea how this works. And I can’t see what’s on the screen very well because I’m colourblind, and the background image is making things hard to read. But I don’t think I can break anything unless I really try. I guess I’ll just start in one corner and randomly press buttons until I figure it out.”

I click on the first icon. Lo and behold, there’s the app!

Dad: *Watching over my shoulder* “How did you do that? I clicked on everything, and it didn’t do that for me!”

Me: *While adding the app to his home screen* “Clearly, you didn’t try everything, or you would have found the app. Was there anything else?”

Dad: “No. Thanks for fixing that.”

Tech-wizard image preserved.

I recently stayed at a hotel, where conference organisers had booked me into a wheelchair-accessible room. It was round the back of the building down a lane-wide ramp with no sides, handrails, or lighting. Even in a wheelchair, I wouldn’t have been able to get to or from it unless someone was there to push me.

The hotel’s answer was that there was a dedicated disabled parking bay nearby so I could just drive to the front of the building, hope to find suitable parking, and walk across the busy carpark every time I wanted to go to breakfast, reception, the coffee shop, meetings or anywhere.

When I pointed out I didn’t have a car and would need to call a taxi each way to take me from my room to reception and back, I got the obligatory “deer in the headlights” look.

It’s not really the hotel’s fault. Despite it being completely unsuitable for me, who can walk (sort of) and would be on my own without a car most of the time, I believe the room was quite spacious and well-equipped.

The requirement I had asked for was accessible washing and toilet facilities, so I ended up with a smaller and more basic (but still accessible) room, but at least I could make my own way around.

They were also good enough to provide a proper ergonomic computer chair so I could sit in my room and work.

Watching the cogs whirring was fun; I don’t think it had ever occurred to the managers that without a car, or at the very least a fairly meaty powered chair, there was no safe way to go to and from their premium “accessible” rooms.