'Front door suffering and Thai macaroni'

A windy and cold evening in March.
I'm just about to start the hot meal, after a long and equally cold day at work, when the doorbell rings. I sigh. Always during dinner. Like they care. Which probably is.
Woman Oy opens the front door and immediately sails back into the living room.
And says: 'for you'.

I didn't expect otherwise. Because it's always for me. If it's not a neighbor who lets my piece of simmering meat get tough because he wants to borrow some tools, then it's the DHL driver who wants to deliver a package to us for the same neighbor. And who then leaves it cold or my potatoes will be too.

Mrs Oy invented the standard phrase 'you talk to my husband' for ringers, and that's the end of it for her.
Even if Máxima appeared at the door, she would still speak to her in this way. But Máxima does not come to my door, and that is a pity. Because she's one of the few who could mess up my plate of sauerkraut with sausage.

If it's not for me, I'll know right away. Because then the hall explodes in cheerful Thai chatter and immediately afterwards one of Oy's girlfriends comes whirling in. Whether or not loaded with Tupperware containers, full of rice, vegetables and smoldering chicken.

This time it's a thin young man with a wild curly hair who is occupying my doorstep. Type of working student, with a smooth chat and canvassing as a field of study. Large Unicef ​​letters on his snow-white coat immediately indicate what this time is all about.

The curly head indeed turns out to be a speech waterfall. Who immediately starts and asks if I am aware that there are about five million refugees, and that UNICEF would like to do something for them. The fact that I've been hearing about refugees for years, and that I don't live under a rock, I keep to myself. Because it is clearly a rehearsed story that is being spooned up here, and not meant to get a reaction.
Except a financial one.

While the young man showers me with his flood of words, I stand numb in my thin T-shirt in my own doorway. Asking myself two things at the same time: where is my wallet, and how much am I going to give this beleaguered servant of Charity so that the door can be closed again?

After which a renewed acquaintance with my plate of Thai macaroni can begin. (Difference to regular macaroni is the addition of a touch of Vesuvius by my Thai cook. Subsequent quenching necessary to prevent physical China Syndrome. )

The young man manages to divert my attention from this issue by quickly conjuring up a cleaning cloth. Which turns out to be a piece of Unicef ​​blanket, which they hand out on the spot. The cloth reminds me strongly of the blankets I was handed during military service. That is to say, very thin and of a color that you would never have chosen yourself. Something that holds the middle between East German gray and peel farmer sepia.

For a small amount of money I can give away such a piece of warmth and shelter, it turns out. In the meantime I remember where my purse is and I want to make a donation known with relief, when the young man makes his first sermon error from the front door pulpit.

Because it would be really sad, according to the advocate of the refugee child, if one arrived at a displaced family and only one child could be made happy with such a nice warm blanket. That is why UNICEF had decided to give them in pairs.
This also immediately increases the donation by a small 100%. Well done. But it irritates me that I am being pushed towards the sacrificial block in such a way.
The goosebumps on my arms don't get any less.

Then the second error follows. If only I would give permission to open my bank account for a small spring pruning this month. And now a tablet appears next to the blanket, on which I am supposed to give my consent for the transaction.
End exercise.

Because how many times have I entered the charitable swamp this way, as soon as I noticed that donating once was not enough? But they cheerfully collected the same amount every month, and kept collecting. And that stopping took me significantly more effort than giving permission to enthusiastic curly balls with Ipad at the door.

The counterattack is launched immediately. After all, they were no longer allowed to accept cash, and are also strictly monitored by all kinds of authorities that monitor whether donations are handled correctly. That those same authorities are nowhere to be seen as soon as I put my signature and are tied to Unicef ​​for two eternities plus a financial leap year, apparently only occurred to me as a possibility.

But he can come back from me as soon as he has a collection box with him, or starts working for the Heart Foundation. I had not yet had the latter at the door with a tablet or long-winded story, and always go on with a handful of euros in the bus. Maybe an idea for UNICEF?
To which I get a limp hand and he goes a door further.

My macaroni, meanwhile, has gone from being curly hot to lukewarm, and is crying out for a ride in the microwave. While I'm fingering that food processor in order to get hot food again, Mrs. Oy curiously asks how much I donated again this time.

She doesn't know better than that or I give to every nice-looking lunatic, blackmailer or swindler with a guy's license.
Recently to a beautiful Polish, who peddled with waffles. This lady was very satisfied with the four euros I paid. To which I later got the wind from eega, because the same waffles were given away for free at Lidl when buying a second popsicle, so to speak.

She is therefore surprised by my fortitude this time. I myself feel like a bit of a Dutch curmudgeon who doesn't give shivering Syrian children a warm cleaning cloth. A currant who will soon settle down in front of the widescreen TV with his warm mash.

But Oy also knows how to get rid of that feeling quickly. By saying that I already give enough to foreign charities.
Like her elderly Thai mother, who, after all, has been living in our house in the countryside for years for nothing, and never knocks in vain when the fridge decides to become a warm cupboard, or a renegade gutter takes flight during the monsoon.

I therefore go to the infernal macaroni with a little less guilt.

And when I get tears in my eyes a little later, it has nothing to do with Unicef.