Charity: this time I'm giving it (an audio-video and lecture-rant)

They used to like the crowds—more of us to catch—be it the busy suburban mall or the crowded streets of the CBD, those places used to keep them happy. Now I head to my little corner supermarket and they're set up, quite comfy, with their fold out tables and chairs (though they rarely sit—they must be ready, muscles coiled, to pounce). Seems they've twigged that it's easier to get good folk talking when they're not in a visible rush—those excuses, "I'm in a real hurry", don't really cut the mustard when you're strolling into the corner shop in your ugg boots...

The humble charity isn't so humble any more. Gone are the nannas and pops or school kids who might be volunteering to razz up a little coinage for the Red Cross. Now they've bought in the big guns, the average British backpacker, desperate for the money to pay for a Wicked Van or cheap Combi, is a scary breed. They have made the good old fashioned charity a thing we near despise unfortunately.

Don't get me wrong: I support two animal charities with regularity. I thought that made me a sort of decent person, but my explaining this in response to having forms thrust into my belly as I totter out of the corner shop, bleary eyed in the morning, just makes me fairer game. So as they've gotten more aggressive, rather rude and very uncharitable, I've gotten wiser.

"That's a bright scarf," one demands, rather than compliments. "Thanks," I say. I keep walking. I am not tempted by their cat calls.  I now know that the abrupt "Excuse me, quick question..." does not guarantee it being an intelligent one and that "just a minute of your time" is never sixty seconds.

You don't really even need to be out on the street either: it's the same at home. Once upon a time I used to know it was Mum on the other end of the phone line (everyone else calls the mobile). Maybe I'd expect a sales call around dinner time once a week but not any more—they're trying to catch me out any old time and with more regularity. I suspect they think that if they call mid-afternoon I won't know its them—I'll be in between emails and I might even just appreciate their pitch, a diversion from my pottering or 'work' as I prefer to call it.

I had whinged about all of this for long enough. While I still need to fine tune my gruff 'No' at street level (I'm nice by nature) I suspected that I could politely educate the tele-workers with a quick lesson (no one likes long winded message) and so my new answering machine message was recorded.

I never expected a response to my education program but I arrived home on day two to find the following....

YourMic Home (Please note my answering machine never delivers the correct date or time. The tele-worker left his message for me on a Monday afternoon)   
(First Image: D. Mark Andrews)