Sucker

Many years ago, before children, - actually before marriage - I used to give a friend a lift to work. He swore I had Sucker tattooed on my forehead because other drivers always chose to pull out in front of me.

I am more convinced than ever that he was right. I have been known to take incredibly complex and long routes to get from A to B simply to avoid ladies with clipboards, Big Issue sellers (I have already bought a copy but will feel guilty just walking past and will buy another one), men with shaven heads and beatific smiles, smelling of incense, and young people in brightly-coloured t-shirts with a name badge.

I was too slow today and got caught by one of the latter.
'Do you know how old the youngest carer in Britain is?'
'Um, no, six maybe?'
'No, three and she cleared up her father's vomit every day until he died when she tucked him in bed and sat with him for three days.'
'Oh dear.'

I should have stopped her before she got started. Having listened to her very intent and committed spiel I felt even more guilty at saying no because I'd wasted her time.

I know it's a worthwhile cause but so are they all. But:
a) we each have favourite charities that we support and we can't all support every one;
b) Husband would kill me if I signed up to give to anyone else.
'No, he wouldn't! He married you because you're a charitable person. I could see that; that's why I chose you to stop and ask.'

You've got to hand it to the charities: they train their marketeers well.

I didn't like to tell her he married me because of my sexy bottom.