Stop Harassing Me With Your Little Donation Tin.

Being a cynical and slightly bitter individual, there are many things which I've taken quite a disliking to over the years.

Barry Hilton immediately springs to mind - I never quite "got" this so-called comedian, apparently unlike many other South Africans (Can pulling funny faces, putting on bad accents and using tired puns really be regarded as quality humour?)

Men who tuck their shirts into their jeans would be another one, as this has now become fashionable, which doesn't suit me AT ALL, as I have an overly large derriere.

And of course another pet hate would have to be the local cabaret singer Danny K, because, well, it's Danny K.

These all pale in comparison however, to the contempt I have toward charity donation volunteers; the troll-like women you find at most shopping centres, angrily shaking their little tins at you as you try and scurry passed them.

Not that I have anything against what they do - I find it quite commendable that they're giving up their time on a Saturday, a Friday, a Thursday, a Wednesday... in fact, that actually seems to be a full time job for many of them. Okay, fair enough then, as I said, VERY commendable - what I DON'T like about these middle-aged terrors are the aggressive attitudes that many of them seem to possess.

Whilst doing my weekly shop for truffles, strawberries and extra large condoms, I invariably come within close vicinity to them, as they tend to loiter around entrances and well populated areas of your typical shopping centre. I normally pretend that they don't exist and look over them, as one usually does when approached by a particularly ugly or poor person.

Disturbingly, these people have now become quite brazen, and you pretending that they're invisible isn't enough to deter them anymore. They will now actually jump IN FRONT of you, causing you to make an emergency stop with your Woolies trolley and screech to a halt.

"Jesus Hernandez! What the F**K do you want?", you will enquire angrily.

"Donations for Tygerberg Hospital," will be the defiant reply.

"Do you see money growing on my back? F**k off, " you reply curtly, ironically whilst pulling off the R200 notes which bizarrely keeps popping up on the shoulder region of the blue Fabiani shirt you're wearing.

Amazingly, they will then mumble under their breath, not audible enough for you to hear what they're saying, but loud enough so that you KNOW that they're talking shit about you.

Excuse me? Are you for real?

Who do you think you are, with your little copper tin? Do you think you're saving the world? Are you going to solve the AIDS epidemic and the plight of little retarded kids with all the R2 coins you collect? Is little Festus going to stop drooling on himself because of the R7,65 you collected today?

Seriously, there are literally thousands of you around Cape Town at any given time. Maybe I donated some money the day before, to the hunchback woman with the impressively bushy moustache, or to the little guy with flippers for arms. Ever think about that? Are you beginning to realise that you're not so special now?

Please don't be snide and condescending next time I tell you to f**k off. Maybe I've already made my charitable contribution for the week.



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