I got accosted by a green jacket wearing young lady with a
clipboard down Derby’s main street. It’s extremely hard NOT to get accosted
down that street.
“Can I have a quick word with you please Sir?” she asked, as
I tried to circumnavigate her with my headphones in. “No, sorry” I said. When
people with clipboards ask for words, what they really want is money. And I’m
tight.
“Great, can I ask how old you are?”. Here’s me thinking I
had just said no, but now I was drawn into to this battle of trying not give in
to the clipboard warrior.
“24” I said, “Getting on a bit now”.
“I’m 26, are you trying to say I’m old?” she replied,
quickly. Knowing full well that girls get a bit touchy about I age, I just said
“Yes, I guess I am”. I was in no mood for this battle of wits.
Apparently though, at 24 I was JUST old enough to be useful
to her. How convenient.
“Ok so we’re doing great work at Cancer Research blah blah blah”:
She didn’t say blah blah blah, but if she did I’d have donated there and then. For
the record, they do appear to be doing great work and I hope it leads to some
sort of cure.
“So what we want to do is get a steady stream of income from
people. Just a couple of pence a week. You can manage that can’t you?” The
couple of pence turned out to be £2 a week.
I replied by saying that I’m only on a 1.5 hour contract a
week at work, and that I cannot guarantee I will be able to afford an outlay of
£8 a month on charity. After all, charity starts at home. I love clichés. *at
this point I’d like you all to put away your loose change and spare cardboard
boxes because I do much more than my 1.5 contracted hours and whilst not being
riddled in money, I do occasionally treat myself to the odd expensive cookie*
Well, that just didn’t cut it. “£8 a month isn’t much” she said. Well when
I’m on a theoretical annual salary of £709, it is quite a lot. She wasn’t
having any of it, so I tried a new approach.
“I just like to donate to charity when I can afford it” and
then, a crucial error, “I already donate to charity anyway” (I don’t).
“Oh really, good stuff, which one?”
Flustered, I had no choice but to think on my feet. As
usual, my Charlie wasn’t too far from my mind, so I blurted out “Cats
Protection League!”. She didn’t look impressed. I thought about telling her
about the time my lovely Lily died of Leukaemia, but refrained. Lily was a black
and white cat, emotionally fragile, used to eat bread, and was good mates with
Charlie.
Sometimes, you just have to be blunt. “No, I’m sorry, I’m
not donating weekly”.
She gave me a look of death and turned around to try and get
a “word” out of someone else.
Cancer is no laughing matter, which is why I got back and
donated money on my own terms, without giving in to a clipboard warrior. I
understand how important charities are, and my gripe is not with them. My gripe
is with people who just don’t take no for an answer, hence these words.
Five minutes after I donated, I got a call and was greeted
by an automated voice. I put the phone straight down. I aint after PPI. Then
immediately…a text. “This is Natwest Bak Fraud Team. Please contact us urgently
on PHONE NUMBER regarding suspect fraud on your account”. Obviously my unusually
kind gesture of donating money off my own back was enough to get alarm bells
ringing at National Westminster. My account wasn’t frauded as it goes. There
were just lots of suspicious payments. £20.03 on petrol. £49 in a sports shop.
£20.01 on petrol. If only I could use a
sodding petrol pump correctly.
