Customer: “Hi, I need to dispute a charge on my card. It’s from a nail salon, but I never got any service there.”

Me: “Alright, ma’am. Let me pull up your account.”

After going through the security stuff, I can see that this is the third charge she’s disputed in the last six months.

Me: “Can you confirm the date of the transaction?”

Customer: “It’s [date]. I wasn’t even there! I’ve been scammed!”

Me: “The salon was called [Nail Salon], correct?”

Customer: “Yes! That’s the one! Total fraud.”

More than a little suspicious, I put the customer on hold while I looked up the company’s website. It seems legit, and they even have a link to their Instagram page. I look at maybe the first ten images or so, and then see something that sparks my interest.

Me: “Thanks for holding, ma’am. I just needed to check a few things, such as the nail salon’s Instagram page.”

A pause.

Me: “If you look at the ninth image posted, you will see the caption says ‘Thanks to [Customer’s Name] for trusting us with this design.’ Those are some gorgeously pink nails, by the way.”

Another pause.

Me: “If we were to contact the nail salon about that specific customer, what information would they give us?”

Customer: *Click.*

I sighed, and forwarded her account to the fraud department. I wish that nail salon were local to me, they do good work!

Many years ago, I had some hospitality tickets for Formula 1 at Silverstone (I think it was the year Hamilton won his first season).

I decide to get some binoculars to take with me, so I go to the local electronics shop and talk to a very nice sales lady, who seems genuinely excited at the idea of going to F1 at Silverstone. She suggests some binoculars, and I get my wallet out.

At which point, the sales guy comes bounding over, pushes the sales lady out of the way, grabs the binoculars I was going to buy from her, and asks:

Sales Guy: “What are you thinking of using them for?”

He barely lets me answer as he grabs some that my sales lady had already discounted (because they were twice as much) and suggests that they would be a much better option. 

Mildly irritated at this point – I was enjoying chatting to the sales lady – I listed some of the reasons that she told me they weren’t a good fit.

Sales Guy: *Rolls his eyes.* “She’s just a trainee, and the [expensive model] is really the one you want.”

Eventually, it takes quite a stern ‘no’ to stop him from trying to upsell me.

At this point, I really just want to walk out of the shop, but I suffer from the occasionally debilitating condition of being English, and that kind of embarrassment is just too much to take. Instead, I’ll buy them and go home fantasising about all of the cool things I should have said.

So, card in hand, I’m just about to pay, and he asks:

Sales Guy: “Do you want insurance?”

Me: “No, just that thanks.”

Sales Guy: “You really should have insurance. They are very delicate; it doesn’t take much to knock a lens out of alignment.”

Me: “No, it’s fine. Just the binoculars, please.”

Sales Guy: “You probably shouldn’t buy them without the insurance.”

Finally given a way out, I nod and agree, and he runs out the back to get the paperwork for the insurance. He comes back and asks me for my name ‘for the insurance.’

Me: “Oh no, sorry, I was agreeing with you that I shouldn’t buy them, not if they are that delicate. I’m quite clumsy, so I’d definitely break them.”

He tries to backtrack on some of the ones that the sales lady had suggested, saying that they would actually be perfect for me. I reminded him that he said they weren’t very good.

Then I thanked him for helping me see that I really didn’t need to spend all of that money on binoculars and walked out.

I’m an intern, handling animals for live shows at a local museum. We bring out three or four creatures a day to show guests, usually hissing cockroaches, armadillos, maybe a hedgehog or two, but today’s special guest is the big girl: our anaconda.

She’s massive, easily more than the length of the display table, and it takes three of us to lift her. Her head’s almost the size of mine. She’s calm, used to being handled, but still… she’s an anaconda. 

We’ve just finished setting her up on the display table when it happens. A high-pitched squeal cuts through the crowd.

Little Girl: “EEEEEEEEEEE!”

Before anyone can move, this tiny blur of toddler energy rockets up the stage stairs and makes a beeline straight for the snake’s face.

She’s two feet away when our director lunges forward and snatches her out of the air like a linebacker intercepting a pass. The snake doesn’t even flinch, but all of us do.

For a solid five seconds, the director just stands there, holding this kid at arm’s length in sheer disbelief.

Then, from the audience, we hear the most tired, disinterested voice imaginable.

Mom: “Oh… honey, don’t do that.”

That’s it. No panic. No apology. Just mild disappointment.

To be honest, I think the mom was low-key hoping the anaconda would eat her kid.

A customer passed out right in front of our meat section (we’d later find out it was a heart attack). We were trying to give her some dignity and guard her until the EMTs got there.

Customer: *Tries to get through.*

Me: “Sir, we’re keeping this section clear due to an incident.”

Customer: “I just need one thing.”

Me: “Sir, the EMTs will be here any second, and we need to keep this area clear—”

Customer: “—I want bacon.”

Me: “Sir, please come back later.”

Customer: “But… my bacon.”

Me: “Sir! Please… come… back… later!”

Customer: *Scoffs.* “Ugh! I hope the b**** dies!”

He storms off, leaving all of us shocked and appalled. My manager was rushing over and heard the customer as he approached.

The first thing he did after making sure the EMTs had everything they needed after they arrived was to ban the ever-living f*** out of that customer.

Now, every time we’re joking among ourselves about the worst customers of the day, we say “but… my bacon!” as an inside joke.

P.S. The woman was fine, in the end. She came back to say thanks to those who helped her!

I’d ordered a set of blackout curtains online for pickup. The site showed the colour as “Deep Charcoal.” When I collect them, the colour is definitely not that.

Me: “Hey, I think there’s been a mix-up. I ordered charcoal, but these are purple.”

Manager: “No, that’s just the lighting. They’ll look darker once they’re hung.”

Me: “They look like eggplants in daylight. I don’t think lighting’s the issue.”

Manager: “Hmm, well… fabric dye lots vary. You probably got a slightly different batch.”

Me: “It’s not a slightly different batch. It’s a different colour family.”

Manager: “We don’t make colour guarantees, sir. The photos online are representative.”

I open the box and show him the label on the curtain itself, printed in bold letters: “Lavender Bloom.”

Manager: “Ah. That’s… uh…”

Me: “It’s kinda funny, because the box also says Lavender Bloom, but someone’s stuck a “Deep Charcoal” barcode over it.”

He glances at the barcode, then at me. His smile’s doing a slow crumble.

Manager: “Well… we can exchange it, but technically our online system marked this as charcoal, so…”

His voice trails off as he has nothing to say that can save himself. They process the exchange and fetch me the correct colour. As he hands me the new receipt, he tries for one last scrap of dignity:

Manager: “Of course, we’ll be reviewing this internally.”

Me: “Maybe start with whoever thinks purple is a shade of grey.”