When it comes to charity, I've always thought of myself as a fairly giving person. I'm generally poor so I don't dole out the twenty pound notes to Romanians and their hundreds of kids on the tube. I do try to give the odd two pounds here and there though, which when given to a homeless person dressed better than myself and eating Tesco finest sandwiches, is no easy feat.
So why, may I ask, when waiting for a friend outside an Underground station recently, was I pounced upon by a British Red Cross street fund-raiser with force that would measure a good 7 on the Richter scale??
I can't remember the assailant's name, (no doubt due to Post-traumatic stress...) I'll call him Jack for ease of purpose.
So there I was, body leaned against a lamp post watching the world go by when a figure wielding a clip board approaches me out of nowhere. When I say nowhere, I'm not exaggerating. I'm generally quite vigilant when it comes to busy spots, and that blood red jacket and cap should have been easy to spot a mile away. But oh no, apparently part of the training for a fund-raiser is to carry out ninja- style, silent assassin moves when bombarding people with facts of death and misery.
The conversation went something like this:
Jack: Do you realise that 500,000 billion people are dying every day whilst your going about your every day business?
Me: Oh gosh, I didn’t see you there...
Jack: Do you have a second to talk about the suffering and stuff? It's an issue that's not getting any better, but you can help.
Me: I really wish I could help but I don't have a proper job and I give money to UNICEF already. I'll take a leaflet though if you have one? (This usually does the trick but there was no saving me now though)
Jack: (Says with raised voice) I know it's difficult at the moment, I'm not stupid. I know this is a recession but there are people out there worse off than you. The British Cross is the first on the scene at all emergencies and we rely on public funding. Are you telling me that you can't spare three pounds a month?
At this point, I'm in shock frankly. This Jack character is at a loss talking to me anyway. I admit, three pounds isn't much but when you've spent the day before counting coppers, it's a loaf of bread and some cheese for sandwiches. It doesn't take a genius to realise talking to potential donors like this isn’t going to earn him anything more than a concussion.
Me: I've told you already I can't afford it and there's no need to raise your voice.
Jack: Can I have your email address or a contact number then? We can contact you when we have any emergencies in the future? Maybe you'll have three pounds in a few months time.
Me: No, sorry.
I know! All that trauma and rudeness and I'm the one that ended up apologising!! Maybe that Jack was better than I give him credit for.
