Some people are naturally generous. Or naturally naive. You know the type. Anyone rattles a tin at them on the street, they’ll fork over their spare change.
The rattle produces a pure Pavlovian response in me. My blood pressure rises 10 points, my vision clouds with red and a low growl issues from somewhere in the back of my throat. Although I haven’t got as far as whacking a rude tin-thruster with my walking stick yet, I’ve pushed a laden shopping buggy into the bugger’s shins.
There’s talk of banning aggressive money collectors in my town. And about time too!
Why these people pick on me I don’t know. How much cash do they hope to extract from a pensioner in old gym shoes?
I hate the animal costumes the most. Thugs dressed up as giant koalas lurking on every corner to shove their blasted begging tins in my face. Some of them even have buckets! And they won’t leave me alone, they pursue me for a good block with strident calls of “Don’t you care about the suffering children, Madam?”
The point is, I don’t know who these faceless people are, or what ‘charity’ they represent.
Call me cynical, but it’s easy to slap a bright sticker (preferly pilfered from somewhere) onto a bucket and say “It’s for the children”, “it’s for the homeless”.
Maybe I should try it and call out “For the old people”.
No wonder I reach for the sherry.