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.

CONTENT WARNING: Dead Animals (Taxidermy)

My aunt used to do free presentations using taxidermy specimens from the college where she worked. I’d help. These specimens had tags saying the dates they’d been stuffed — some back to the early 1900s. (The oldest I recall was a bear cub from 1903.)

The kids understood that the animals were dead and stuffed. On multiple occasions, we had parents ask what kind of drugs we had given the animals to keep them so quiet and docile.

THEY’RE DEAD!

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.

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.

I am working with a coworker, and we’re both experiencing a couple of blessed minutes of downtime. We’re both big anime fans, so we’re chatting about the recent episodes of a show we’re both watching, “Attack On Titan”. The show is known for being quite intense and putting its characters through a lot.

Me: “Can you believe everything that they’ve been putting up with this season?”

Coworker: “I know! I keep saying, ‘We just can’t catch a break!'”

As we’re talking, an older customer is walking past and is glaring at us.

Customer: “That’s the problem with your generation! Always complaining about how hard you’ve got it! You always need little breaks! I don’t know what you think you’ve got to complain about, but back in my day, we just got on with it and didn’t expect a pat on the back for the privilege.”

Coworker: “Oh, sir, we weren’t complaining about our jobs. We’re just talking about a show we watch where the characters have to endure a lot, and we were feeling sorry for them.”

Customer: “Let me guess. They’re struggling because they have to work a full eight hours and they’ve run out of mental health days?” 

Coworker: “No, they have to fight man-eating giants who have just consumed all their friends and family in increasingly violent and disturbing ways.”

Customer: “Hmph! Sounds stupid! Back in my day, shows were about real things! Starsky & Hutch! Hawaii Five-O! And the real one, not that new one where everyone is Asian!”

Me: “Sir, did you need help with anything in the store?”

Customer: “No! I can do it myself! You should all just stop moaning!”

Coworker: “We will… try, sir.”

And off he went, looking for new things to grumble about.