Sometimes working is just... that. Working. You know that.
Except when the same old lady tells you four different times about the lace she's crocheting to sew onto aprons for Christmas presents, and keeps tugging on the hem of your apron with gnarled, arthritic hands to "give you an example". She takes the bodice of your apron in her hand, just a little too close for comfort, and tells you for the fifth time that she was going to do red, but she thought it was too flashy. How much is the white crochet thread again?
Then you just want to cry. Or pat her on the hand, go home, and take a very long bath.