I’m applying to the University of Amsterdam, in the early days when the EU was very much a thing, but most students still went through Erasmus. The rules were clear, however: Any high school diploma allowing entry to university in your own country should be good in another EU country, too.

Me: “…and here’s my high school certificate.”

Registrar: “I cannot read it. Why is it not in Dutch?”

Me: “Because I finished high school in Finland. You’ll find the authorized and apostilled translation right next to it.”

Registrar: “But that’s not the original. I need the original.”

Me: “The original is in your hand. The other is the legal, authorized translation.”

Registrar: “But I cannot read it.”

Me: “No, you wouldn’t, because it is in Finnish.”

Registrar: “Why is it not in Dutch?”

Me: “Why would it be? I’m a Finn, and that’s a Finnish high school certificate.”

Registrar: “But I cannot read it!”

Me: “I figured as much, which is why you have that authorized, legal translation.”

Registrar: “But it’s not the original!”

Me: “I KNOW! FINNISH HIGH SCHOOLS DO NOT ISSUE CERTIFICATES IN DUTCH!”

Registrar: “Why not?”

…and on and on it went, until someone else returned from their lunch.

Other Registrar: “Oh, a foreign diploma. And a translation. Thank you, I’ll process this for you, you should have the papers in the mail in a few days.”

Me: “Thank you very much!”

Registrar: “But I cannot read it!”

During elections, I frequently volunteer to help at the polling stations. In the Netherlands, you are allowed to enter a polling station with other people, but once you’re handed your ballot paper, unless you have a very good reason to (for example, a blind person, or someone who can’t tick the right box because of Parkinson’s), you’re legally mandated to enter the booth on your own, so that your vote is kept secret and no one can force you to vote a certain way.

It’s not illegal to say who you voted for, but it is illegal for someone to be able to check, in case of abuse or vote-buying.

A crucial piece of background information: I am autistic, and as I look like a relatively well-put-together woman, I do not fit the “stereotypical” look.

During the last elections, I was at one point stationed next to the booths to ensure no one entered together and to provide help in case someone needed it. Enter two women who come in together. They hand in their voting passes, receive their ballot papers, and move towards the booths, the younger of them going in first, at which point I notice the older woman moving to enter the booth right alongside her. I step in.

Me: “Pardon me, ma’am, but you’re not allowed to enter the booth with someone else. The next one over is available.”

Woman: “Oh, no, it’s okay, I’m her mother.”

Me: “I’m very sorry, but because of the right to keep your vote a secret, that would be illegal.”

Woman: “Oh, but she needs my help! She’s autistic, you see!”

Me: “Oh, so am I! But you’re still not allowed in!”

The woman stared at me, completely shocked at what I just said. I think she was looking for a new excuse, but by then her daughter had already left the booth, ballot folded tight, so the woman deflated and went to cast her own vote. I hope the daughter is doing okay, and I’m glad that at least that day she managed to vote for whoever she chose.

We have a shiny new bathroom, and we’re looking for a floor squeegee. Since our around-the-corner stores don’t have one, my husband goes to a hardware store. It’s on his way home after work, so it’s no problem.

Except… that day turns out to be the worst traffic in ages. Long traffic jams, people going left and right without signalling… Completely frustrated, my husband gets to the store, enters the store, can’t find the floor squeegees, asks an employee (as nicely as he can, considering he knows he’s frustrated), and the employee brings him to the place where he looked three times already.

Completely done with it all, he grabs the first one he sees and heads to the cash register.

Cashier: “That’ll be 99,95 euros, please.”

My husband freezes. He didn’t check the price. His brain pretty much shuts down. All he can think of is to get out of there so… he pays and leaves.

When he comes home to his safe, silent place, he hesitates to tell me about the floor squeegee. Eventually, he does.

Me: “A hundred euros?! What is that thing made of, platinum?!”

Husband: “I’m so… so sorry. I didn’t know what else to do!”

Of course, there are plenty of other things he could have done, but you know, hindsight is 20-20, it’s easier to be a keyboard warrior and the likes. We are financially well off enough that such an amount does not bring us to ruin.

Me: “Well, what’s done is done. But it had better be the best floor squeegee ever!”

One year later… still the best floor squeegee ever! I did talk to my husband about what happened and what he could have done, but honestly… whenever people come to see the new bathroom (is that a Dutch thing?), we always gush about the floor squeegee. We’ll always find a way to ‘squeeze’ that into the conversation.

I was taking my daughter to her swimming lessons and sat in a separate room with my son, with windows overlooking the pools, thoroughly enjoying seeing her making progress. Enter another mum, also with her son, taking a call from someone.

Now, I don’t know whether this occurs in other countries as well, but in the Netherlands it’s sadly no rarity to see people, often in their twenties, taking calls in public with the other person on speakerphone. I suppose they’d defend it by saying it’s no different from two people talking face-to-face, but I disagree (and I know many people do).

The speakerphone is often way louder, sounds abrasive, and honestly the person taking the call talks way louder too because of it. It’s never just a call about what time someone is home for dinner either, but just endless chit-chat. I hate it and I was done with it.

So I took the polite but direct route.

Me: “Excuse me, ma’am, would you mind taking that call with the phone on your ear?”

I was expecting her to switch over, either with an apology, annoyance, or nothing at all out of embarrassment that someone decided to say something about it.

Instead, she immediately became hostile and defensive.

Annoying Mum: *Snappy.* “Why? It’s not bothering you.”

Me: “Yes. It is.”

Annoying Mum: “Why? Is my son bothering you too?”

Me: “No, just your phone.”

I still have no clue why she said that. Her son was quiet as a mouse, just playing with a toy table nearby. Perhaps she wanted to use him as a decoy, change the subject, daring me to take a step back or something?

Annoying Mum: “Well if it’s bothering you, why not just go somewhere else?”

Another mother from a kid in my daughter’s class piped up.

Nice Mum: “Excuse me, but what gall! I’m glad he spoke up about it, because it’s annoying me too, and I’m fairly sure others as well. Why don’t YOU move?”

Annoying Mum: “I am not going anywhere and I’m not changing my phone call for you.”

Nice Mum: “It’s incredibly rude and disturbing for other people here, take a hint.”

Then, [Annoying Mum] inwardly said something along the lines of “it’s just because I’m speaking another language”. Indeed, she was on the phone speaking a mix of Dutch and what I thought was Portuguese, and she was a person of colour.

It didn’t matter the slightest in the whole ordeal; she could’ve spoken a local dialect and been white for all I care. But at the time I definitely didn’t want to touch the subject.

I decided to let it go and just suffered through it while she was ranting to the person on the other side about the clash. Which of course was extra enjoyable (not) because we could hear the other person sympathise with her very vocally. Luckily, she hung up after a few minutes and that was the end of it for the time being.

But it left me seething. I’m incredibly vocal and activist about racism, bigotry, migration, socialism, gay rights, you name it. No one gets left behind and every person gets equal treatment. But when someone, who may very well be or have been a victim of racism or anti-immigration rhetorics, pulls a race card just to defend themselves out of a position where they’re just being rude and selfish, it boils my blood. You’re undoing so much that others like you, and myself, are fighting for.

In 2005, the housing company I work for renovated a couple of houses. The people who lived there did not get a raise in rent, didn’t have to pay anything, and even got paid for living accommodations when certain things could not be done with tenants present. Part of the renovation was that gas would no longer be possible as a cooking solution, only electricity or induction. If people selected induction, my housing company would arrange that, free of extra charge. They wouldn’t even have to pay for the shiny new cooking hob, and got 50 euros extra to buy new pots and pans. Sure, the renovation did not go smoothly, and mistakes were made, but everything was solved, and no complaints at the end.

In Social Housing, appliances that are not nailed to the walls and ceilings from the start are the responsibility of the tenant. Mechanical ventilation and heating = Housing. Refrigerator, dishwasher, and cooking hob = Tenant. This has been decided in the Social Housing Law, though you can make exceptions in your contract.

And now, in 2025:

Client: “Hello, my induction hob broke down.”

Me: “I’m so sorry to hear that. According to my system, the hob was placed in 2005 and was a gift, so I am afraid we can’t place a new one for you. But you can pick out whatever hob fancies you.”

Client: “No, you placed that hob, not me.”

Me: “That is true, but I see the letter you got and signed, which states this is a one-time gift, to replace your old system.”

Client: “Correct. But it’s broken now.”

Me: “And I’m sorry to hear that. However, we will not be replacing it. I’m afraid you have to buy one yourself.”

Client: “What?! How dare you! You should replace this thing, you bought it!”

Me: “We did, and then we gifted it to you.”

Client: “But it broke!”

Me: “Yes, after twenty years of use.”

Client: “So you should replace it. You gifted it to me and now it’s broken.”

Me: “We don’t have to replace a gift after twenty years of use.”

Client: “But now I don’t have any means to cook! This is a basic living condition!”

Me: “I apologize, but I can’t help you. You need to buy a new one yourself.”

Client: “But it was a gift!”

Me: “A gift, indeed. Could you imagine giving something… for example… an electric kettle to your neighbour. That would make them very happy, right?”

Client: “Of course!”

Me: “Now, ten years later, your neighbour knocks on your door. The electric kettle is broken.”

Client: “Yeah, so? That happens!”

Me: “Would you replace that electric kettle for them?”

Client: “Of course not!”

Me: “Why wouldn’t you?”

Client: “Because it was a gift! I didn’t break it! It’s not my responsibility.”

Me: “That’s exactly the reason why we can’t replace your hob.”

Client: “What?! But have you seen how expensive a new hob is?!”

Me: “I am well aware, but maybe you can find a nice deal somewhere?”

Client: “I can’t pay that!”

Me: “Maybe you can get a smaller hob while you save up for a big one? You have these two-pit sets for a decent price.”

Client: “How rude! How can you suggest such an embarrassingly small thing?! Seriously, why can’t [Housing Company] pay for it? They have plenty of money!”

Me: “We are Social Housing, ma’am, we don’t make any profit. I’m sorry, but we can’t help you.”

Client: “I’ll go to the Social Housing Commission!”

Me: “You are free to do so. If you don’t have any other questions, I wish you… oh, she hung up already.”

We’re still waiting on that e-mail from the Housing Commission telling us to replace a twenty-year-old gift.