True Gripes: Give a little to a lot: Compassion fatigue has set in
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This is National Something Week. It usually is. I shall soon know the name of the worthy cause in question, because my neighbours will slip an envelope through the letterbox asking for donations. I have to make a contribution because (a) it is bound to be an excellent charity and, more important, (b) later in the year I shall be sliding an envelope marked 'Oxfam' through their letterbox.
This moral blackmail goes on up and down the street. The family next door collects for Greenpeace, which I cannot resist because (a) it does a grand job and (b) I should hate anything nasty to happen to my Oxfam envelope - such as being returned empty. Next door to them is a collection point for Dr Barnardos, which cannot be ignored - see above.
Our neighbours on the other side are into Action Aid; that involves another two-way transfer of funds. They used to do Christian Aid until they subcontracted it to the vicar, who comes round with his tin.
Beyond them is a lady who personally helps to run three separate medical charities, so she cannot be turned away empty-handed. I forget exactly who does the Spastics Society but they will be round in due course.
Talk about compassion fatigue. This is compassion total extinction. I am thinking of naming our house Dun Givin. My wife even has a special cheque book from the
Charities Aid Foundation which, thanks to a refund from the Inland Revenue, bumps up your giving power by a third.
It would save a lot of energy if we stopped bothering each other and just multiplied by five the cash we give to our own pet charities. It would also help if some of these needs, at home and abroad, were funded by the governmental piggy bank. Not by our street.
It is not my fault that the welfare state is being demolished. I did not vote for the demolition men and women in power. Do not blame the man at No 38 for Third World
poverty. It is not his fault that the only way a developing country can get any aid is if it spends it all on a useless Made-In-Britain dam. So why should we both have to pick up the bills?
But although I am a soft touch, I am not that soft. There are worthy causes which I cannot help. My own union's hardship fund, for example.
If I gave them anything, I would only have to ask for the money back to keep the wolf from my own door.
My old university writes to ask for cash. It writes again to say that one of its students will be telephoning to explain the wonderful projects which would be financed by my donation. A friend of mine was threatened with the vice-chancellor.
Other charities send us appeals completely out of the blue. Postally speaking, we are all up for grabs.
Some of the junk mail we will
receive is not junk. It is for causes so worthy that you feel like Norman Lamont when you turn them down.
But I have to, because any minute now the doorbell will ring. It will be one of my neighbours. Hand me that charity cheque book.
Or I could stick a note on the door saying that we have gone out to give blood. That sounds feasible. It's all we've got left.
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