Dear Charity Collector

I don’t envy your job.  I can’t think of many things I’d enjoy less than stopping recession-bitten people as they go about their business, and ask them for their money.

It must be awful.

But that is no excuse for the utter nonsense that we put up with as we walk the streets every day. 

I do my bit for charity, I swear I do.  I contribute every month to a few very good causes.  And to be honest, I have promised myself I won’t sign up to anymore.  But you never seem to believe me when I tell you this.

Why do you stand in the middle of the street, in a fluorescent coloured t-shirt, wearing a badge around your neck and holding a clipboard, and then jump in front of me as if I hadn’t seen you there, shouting and trying to make a show of me?

“Hello!” You shout “and how are you doing today? If I can just talk to you for a minute”

Worst of all is when you stick your hand out to shake hands with me.  I was raised properly, and I’m not allowed ignore somebody who holds their hand out to me. So now I’m in the awkward position of either being pig ignorant, or shaking hands with you, and making you think that you have hooked me, and I’m about to start blurting out my bank account details to you. 

Happily, I eventually learned to step far enough around you to make it absurd for you to hold your hand out to be shaken.

But you learned that one too, didn’t you?

So now you appear, ever younger, painfully enthusiastic.

I trundle up Henry Street, usually trying to talk myself out of buying something I don’t need and can’t afford, or alternatively trying to think of what lies I’ll make up to get said purchases past His Nibs, when some boy who is literally young enough to be my son jumps out in front of me, arms outstretched,

“How are you?  Good to see you” you start

You don’t know me.  So it’s not good to see me, it’s just the same as seeing every other stranger who walks up the street.

“Can I just talk to you for a minute?”

“Sorry” I reply, usually quite narkily “I can’t stop.”

“Aw, that’s a shame, you look like a woman who cares about pandas / hungry babies / blind people / political prisoners”

Or whatever else it is you want the money for.

“I do care about them” I want to tell them.   “And I already support charities, thanks”.  I don’t say it though.  Never engage them.

The absolute worst is when you go too far in the attempt to engage me.  One young pup once trotted toward me, arms outstretched in a waltzing position, and asked whether I wanted to dance.

On Henry Street.  At lunchtime. With no music.  And with a very young complete stranger.

Do I want to dance?  Do I look like the kind of woman who wants to dance in the streets?  I didn’t want to dance with my husband at my own wedding.  I am literally the world’s worst dancer.  This was such a stupid question that I almost stopped to give out to him, or even to tell him why he was going about his job the wrong way, but I remembered not to engage in conversation, and stepped around him.

Don’t ask such stupid questions.  Asking a grumpy looking woman to dance on Henry Street is ludicrous.  Will it make me hand over my money?  No.  Such a stupid question will just get the youngster into a situation where he has to deal with a large and angry woman who hates stupid questions above all else.

I’ve started a new thing now, as you approach me I just raise the palm of my hand and loudly say

“Don’t even start”

Without any of the false friendliness. 

The really over the top ones keep on, of course, and force me to run away from someone who is just trying to raise money for a good cause.

I’m sick of the whole palaver.  Despite the fact that I’ve signed up to a number of charities over the years, I’ve never once signed up to one on the street.

No, it’s the sad eyed children on the ads during daytime tv that get me reaching for the phone.

So you might as well stop asking me. 

Dear Bad Parker

I am not Ireland’s best driver.  I’m aware of that, and have made my peace with it.  I couldn’t parallel park my fecking car if my life depended on it.  And I’m not gifted at reversing around corners.  So I don’t try to parallel park it, and I don’t reverse it around corners. 

My mother and I went out for a little spin today.  To Kildare Village, as it happens, but that’s another story, for another day.  No need to go into the detail of credit cards pinging off the walls and the boot of the car being filled with over priced and under needed goods.

The point is that when I chose a car parking spot, I had absolutely no chance of getting into it, because some gom had put their car across the line between two spaces.  I don’t know why.  It’s annoying when that happens.  Especially since I had to drive around like a clown for a further three minutes looking for another space, getting further from the door of our chosen retail mecca, with the rain bouncing off the windscreen.

When we went out for lunch later the same thing happened.  And when we were trying to get back through town I lost count of the number of cars that had been parked half on the footpath, half on the double yellow lines, reducing traffic to one lane and leaving me gibbering with annoyance.

I don’t know why you think or imagine that parking your car wherever you want is okay, as long as the hazard lights are on. 

Do you think the rest of us are happy to sit there waiting for your business to be completed?

I know I’m a martyr to road rage, but why wouldn’t I be, with this type of nonsense going on?

And most of the time you seem to be stopped at bank machines, chip shops and what have you.  Obviously I wouldn’t judge you if this was happening at the doors of hospitals or doctors surgeries.

If, like me, you can’t parallel park, either find two spaces together and drive into them, or do as I’m forced to do, just keep driving until you find a space miles away from where you actually want to park.  Do not spend ten minutes inching backward and forward, a foot at a time, with the steering wheel locked one way or the other, and taking up the whole street.  If you haven’t learned to do this difficult manoeuvre, don’t try.  You’re just going to make a show of yourself. 

If, on the other hand, you’ve mastered the art of popping the car into a small space in one move, I’m full of awe and admiration. 

One way or the other, park properly please.  One space per person.  An actual space, not just a spot where a car will fit but nobody will be able to drive down the street. 

Or I’ll start calling the clampers every time I can’t get around your car.  That should put a stop to your gallop.

Dear Airport

Why is it that I get so excited when I’m going to see you?  It’s usually great news that we’re to be together again.  It means I’m going on an adventure.  I look forward to seeing you. And you ruin it every time. 

The most important thing on arrival at the airport, is to get rid of the suitcase.  So I get into the queue, and stand there for a few minutes, watching the people who are supposed to be checking us all in chatting to each other, discussing the night before and what have you.  Eventually, they turn to us, the paying customers, and start patronising us and giving out to us all.

I wait nervously, continuously picking up my suitcase and trying to guess what weight it is.  When I get to the top of the queue, His Nibs starts blathering on about how my case couldn’t weigh less than 20kg, and trying to place bets with me on how much extra I’ll have to pay.

This pisses me off royally, and by the time I’ve staggered around trying to get my case onto the conveyor, I’m snarling and barking and probably look like the most horrible customer ever.  So as soon as they check the weight of the bag, they decide not to let me away with the extra luggage, and send me off to the credit card machine to pay my extra twenty euro per kilo.

This drives me completely bonkers, since usually I have tried to book a flight advertised at ninety nine cent and have somehow ended up paying seventy five euro.

I don’t always pay,of course.  Sometimes I just start taking my dirty laundry out of the case and stuffing it into my hand luggage.  If the hand luggage is already over 10kg, I don’t want to risk them asking any questions, and so I go and pay the extra, bile in my throat and revenge in my heart.  His Nibs usually waves me goodbye as he skips off through security without me.

Once I’ve finally got rid of the pigging case, it’s the next little adventure.  Security.  I’m not sure why they seem so surprised, in airports, when lots of people want to go through at the same time. 

I’m not good at queuing.  I start thinking that everyone in the queue should be able to move a bit faster, get on with it, hurry up.  And as we get closer to the doorway, I want to hit the people who suddenly start looking for their passports and boarding passes when they’re asked for them.

Of course, they’re not as bad as the people who seem really surprised to learn that they’re not allowed to bring liquids, or gels, or dangerous items through security with them.

Are His Nibs and I the only people this happens to? Some gobshite starts arguing with the staff that they want to bring their 2l bottle of water through with them, or that their perfume is too expensive to hand over.

Well then put it in your hold luggage, for God’s sake.  Or invest in one of those little atomisers that cost about a fiver, and you can put some of your perfume into. Just don’t stand there arguing and whining and acting surprised.

And I’m sure the staff hope that everybody would just go through the scanning machine.  They don’t want to be waving those little wands over us all, I’d imagine.  So why is there always someone who forgets to remove their intimate piercings, or doesn’t want to take their huge studded boots off?

A gentleman of my acquaintance, not His Nibs for a change, insists on wearing braces everywhere he goes, and has almost caused an international incident with the little metal adjusters that sit somewhere around his nipple area, making the security staff think he has a bomb strapped around him.  He’s in his seventies, and seemed to enjoy the attention, but his wife wasn’t amused at all.

Once we’re finally through the whole security business, and get to the gate, all that’s left to be got through is the ridiculous wait while the staff arse about until after the time when the boarding gates are scheduled to be closed, before even letting us get into the queue.  Then we all get to stand in the aisle of the plane trying to get around the fools who like to spend ten minutes foostering through their luggage before sitting down. 

Once we’re in our seats we wait to be told we’ll have to sit on the tarmac for an hour because there’s leaves on the runway or some other nonsense, and then we're off on the adventure at last.

You’re ruining my airport experiences.  Stop it, or I’ll make everything grind to a halt by planting bottles of water in all the other passengers’ luggage.