Missed four physiotherapy appointments in a row, no notice, each slot held open just in case, before finally ringing in high dudgeon to complain the clinic "never has any availability" when he tried to book urgently. The availability was there. It was, specifically, the four slots he'd already burned.
Asked, gently, to wear a mask while visibly unwell in a shared waiting room — a request that somehow transformed into a shouted accusation of "discrimination," aimed at reception staff who had precisely zero say in public health guidance and were simply trying to keep other patients from catching whatever he had.
Claimed an injury from elsewhere had actually happened during a treatment session, and pursued both a complaint and a refund with real conviction. Unfortunately for the narrative, the session notes and timeline showed the injury predated the appointment by several days — the paperwork, annoyingly, remembers everything.
Sat through a full course of private treatment, said at the very last session how pleased he was with the results, shook hands on the way out — then disputed the entire lot with the bank two months later. Satisfaction, it turns out, has a shelf life.