(The main exit looks like an automatic door, but it doesn’t open when you approach it; you need to press a button. This confuses a lot of people, despite the fact that the button is giant, right next to the door, with red and white stripes and a large “PUSH TO OPEN DOOR” sign.)

Visitor: *walks up to the door and stands there, silent, confused*

Me: “There’s a button, ma’am.”

Visitor: “This one?” *presses the tiny light switch two steps away from the door*

Me: “It’s the big button, right next to the door.”

Visitor: “Oh, here it is.” *places her hand on the button, looks expectantly at the door, nothing happens*

Me: “That’s the one. You just, um, need to press it now.”

Visitor: “Oh, you have to actually press it?” *finally presses the button*

(Not sure what else buttons are for, if not pressing them.)

The office where I work processes mail for several big corporations, by opening the envelopes and entering the data into the digital systems. Since these companies are quite big, there is, of course, the occasional angry ex-customer who tries to get back at the company by sending them nonsensical stuff — nude pictures, etc. — as if that would do anything to the company. However, in some cases, a joker goes much further by sending an envelope filled with powder, in order to create an anthrax hoax. Procedure is to put such an envelope down and warn everybody, after which no one who enters the room is supposed to leave.

One day, a coworker who works in a different room — and is known to be not very smart or hard-working — finds such an envelope. Instead of following procedure, he throws the thing into a garbage bin and takes the bin downstairs where he shows it to our manager in order to ask what to do with it. Afterwards, the coworker is berated by the senior emergency response officer (ERO) for not following procedure.

A few days later, I overhear the coworker talking with a few of his colleagues. As always, he is moaning and complaining about how he is treated. “Yes, there is a guideline, but you can’t expect me to read it every day.” The other coworkers seem to support him, with one of them even claiming she will go outside if it ever happens again — which you never should do. All of them speak demeaningly about the ERO, claiming he just wants to be important. I know the man as a very calm and friendly guy.

Several months go by. I am sent to the warehouse with one of my coworkers. The ERO is in charge of the task we are supposed to do, so he walks along to show us. On our way, we see the whiny coworker, who is working through the mail of another client of ours. He is doing this wearing gloves, which he always does; he’s the only person in the company who does this. The other coworker makes some small talk, asking what the guy is doing.

“With gloves on?” she asks.

His answer: “Yes, that’s necessary. You never know what’s in these letters.”

I couldn’t help but whisper to the ERO, “And if he finds something, he will walk through half the building with it.”

A few months later, I find an anthrax hoax myself in my department. We sere complimented on how well we handle it. At least the coworker’s blunder had some good use.

This takes place about ten years or so ago. It’s the fifth of December. It’s a holiday called Sinterklaas, originally a children’s holiday where they get presents, but at this point of time I still celebrate it with my parents for the fun, even though I’m already a teenager.

We have this big bag of presents, with most presents bought by my parents, a few by me, and also some by my grandmother. Since I was little, my grandmother has handed Sinterklaas presents to all her children to put in the bag for them and their children.

We haven’t realised it yet, but most likely at this point my grandmother is already suffering slightly from dementia and the first few quirky things have started to show up. One of them is the gifting of odd presents that don’t seem to fit.

That is also what happens this Sinterklaas. My dad opens a present that was clearly from my grandmother — we can clearly see it from the wrapping paper; my parents and I used the same stash of wrapping paper, but my grandmother had her own to use, of course. The gift is a can of deodorant spray. Now, my mother has been pushing my dad to use deodorant for years, but he has always refused. He’s always been that smelly man you meet on a hot day. My mother and I give each other an awkward look because we both realise that is not the best gift my dad could have gotten, and my dad puts it down and forces out a, “Thank you, Sinterklaas.” After the unwrapping, we talk about it, and we conclude my grandmother has forgotten my dad doesn’t use deodorant.

My dad, however, is not one to waste gifts, so he says he’ll use it only on special occasions or very hot days. At first, he does this. We expect him to stop when the can is done. Indeed, the first few months after the can is finished, there is no other, but all of a sudden another one pops up from a different brand.

Now, quite a few years onward, my dad is using deodorant every day. My mother and I talked about it recently and we realised that with my grandmother’s most likely dementia-induced, misguided gift… she actually got my dad to see the use of deodorant. We can’t tell her this, because now her dementia has gotten quite bad and she doesn’t take in any new information anymore, but my mother and I certainly are very grateful for this.

(My girlfriend and I decide to get married. Since we want to avoid unpleasant surprises, we want to have a prenuptial agreement — which in the Netherlands also covers property agreements during your marriage — and testaments, for which we have to visit a solicitor in a different town. We don’t have a car, so for the first meeting, I leave work early and take the train back to our hometown, where I meet my fiancée at the station and we take a bus to the other town. There, we are supposed to take a tram.)

Fiancée: “We must take tram three in the direction of The Hague, at platform two.”

(Unfortunately, we don’t see any signs with the platform numbers. I do, however, see a sign saying that on the nearest platform, tram three will come in. The direction is also right, so we wait for the tram and when it arrives, we get in. But after a few stops, I notice something is off.)

Me: “Wait… Are we going the right way? The names of the stops don’t end up.”

Fiancée: “What do you mean?”

Me: “Look, we are going out of [Town]. I think we’re going the wrong way!”

Passenger: “Where do you need to go?”

Fiancée: “[Town]’s station.”

Passenger: “This tram is going to The Hague.”

Fiancée: “Oh, dear, that’s all wrong!”

(We get out at the first stop. It turns out that tram three makes two stops at the station, since it makes a circle through the town before leaving for The Hague. But since we couldn’t tell the platforms from each other, we took the wrong one. We take the first tram back. Another passenger tries to help out.)

Passenger #2: “If you get out at the next stop, you can go to the platforms on the higher level and take tram five. That’s quicker.”

(This turns out to make matters worse for us, since we have to hurry and don’t know which platform upstairs is the right one. In the end, we miss this tram and have to wait for ten minutes, while it’s cold and rainy. My fiancée feels terrible from all the stress and is nearly crying. Finally, we get the right tram and manage to get to the solicitor’s office. We have notified them that we would be a bit late, and they do not mind. Finally, we take the bus back to our hometown.)

Me: “You know what the most given ticket in [Solicitor’s Town] is?”

Fiancée: “No?”

Me: “Excessive speed. Everyone wants to get out.”

(Months later, we have to go visit the solicitor again to sign our prenuptial agreement and testaments. Over the last months, we have left our small apartment and moved to a bigger house in a different village. Obviously we are delighted that we can get to the solicitor all by train now. No more trams! Instead, we take a train to a nearby town, and then we can board a regional train, which goes in the direction of The Hague and makes a stop at the station in [Solicitor’s Town]. When in the latter train, once again I notice something is off.)

Me: “Wait, I don’t see any stops on the screen. Is this the right train? I already thought it left a bit early.”

Fiancée: “You mean…”

Me: “I think we accidentally boarded the InterCity. This train won’t stop at [Town], only at The Hague!”

(After arriving in The Hague, we have to make a run to catch a train that will stop at our station. Again, we arrive a bit late at the solicitor’s office, but once again they are nice and polite and everything ends on a happy note. We leave the office and go back to our house.)

Fiancée: “I think [Town] is cursed.”

(At our wedding, I can’t resist making a joke about our trouble when giving a speech about how much I admire all the effort my fiancée — now wife — has done for the wedding:)

Me: “She even ventured out with me, two times, in order to visit the Accursed City! The Town That Does Not Live! Where ugly, tall buildings rise up around you and close you in. Where zombie-like troglodytes stumble around in the streets, mindless, joyless. I am, of course, talking about… [Solicitor’s Town]!’

(It was the best laugh we got during the speech.)

(While I’m shopping, I overhear the following exchange between a customer and one of the employees manning the till.)

Employee: “Excuse me, sir, what are you doing with that nail clipper? Are you actually clipping your nails?”

Customer: “Yes. I have to test if it works, right?”

Employee: “That is not very hygienic, sir. I’m afraid you’ll need to buy it now. I can’t sell it to other people like this.”

Customer: “But… I just needed to test it out. All right, how much is it?”

Employee: “It’s [amount], sir.”

(The customer paid for the clippers and walked away. As they left the shop, I heard his wife saying to him, “I don’t understand why you wanted another one. You have dozens of those things at home.”)