Learning how to avoid high street chuggers

Well, actually two things '“ firstly, that an iced raisin Danish eases revision stress nearly as well as it eases hangovers, and secondly, I am not the most pity-worthy specimen on Tottenham Court Road of an afternoon.

Even when I have one Danish for the revision and another for the hangover.

Nope, though I may be a sad little ball of cardigan and caffeine, with as much literary insight as Jordan's proofreader, I do not have the monopoly on self-pity, because there are chuggers.

Poor chuggers.

Chuggers (or 'charity muggers' if you want to use the original Latin) are those poor bods sent out into our shopping precincts to badger a charity standing order out of you with their persistent people skills and ability to look attractively earthy in a blue uniform anorak.

I say poor bods, though Oxfam "volunteers" reportedly get paid 8.50 an hour for their efforts, money a cynic might say would be better spent on, I don't know, getting clean water to African villages, than on 54 failed attempts to waylay people on their way into Dorothy Perkins.

In my mind, they've become the high street equivalent of the Pride of Britain Awards on telly '“ you know it's very noble and worthy and wonderful in theory, but faced with the reality, you'll do anything you can to avoid it.

Last week, I sat for no less than three hours watching the plights of two Shelter volunteers work their red-bibbed way through some of London's surliest pedestrians.

Aside from being a nice indulgence for my secret desire to be a zeitgeist cultural commentator (like a female Alain de Botton, but with hair), it actually made me feel productive by comparison.

In three hours, my cheerful chugging pals had managed to sustain a total of only four conversations beyond the routine one-breath "Hellooomadamewhatalovelyhatcanyouspareaminutenofinethenthat'scoolhavealovelyday" mantra.

And one of those was me.

And none of them resulted in the handing over of any bank details.

I actually overheard one chap trying to convince a woman to sign up with the ever-persuasive promise of "Well, you get a yellow key ring."

Really?! Well why didn't you say sooner? Pass the form then, and I'll add a few extra noughts for good measure.

People have perfected their pavement-avoidance-dances; "the ooh-is-that-my-phone-ringing?" rummage, the "whoops-looks-like-I'm-running-late" watch check, and the more brazen "frankly-I'd-rather-talk-to-that-vomiting-tramp" shuffle are all popular moves.

But the favourite choice remains a classic British apology shrug, accompanied by a headshake and one of those facial gurns that says "I've genuinely got no money but I promise I'm a nice person nonetheless '“ maybe later, I'll help an injured pigeon."

The frustrating thing is that unlike free papers, Scientology stress-tests and other pavement nuisances, chuggers have the added power of being able to make you feel really, really guilty for running away from them in the street.

They campaign for fantastic causes, causes well worthy of our meagre 2 a month, and I am completely in favour of people handing this over. But the fact stands thus: they're really ruddy annoying.

Offer them a donation, and they can't take it. Offer to take a form home to think about it, and they say it's not allowed.

Tell them you actually already give to another charity every month and (I swear this is true) you get told, "Greenpeace should take precedence over Oxfam because there's no point saving the people if there's no planet for them to live on."

It's charitable one-up-manship.

Clearly, whoever devised the strategy mis-read the old adage charity begins at home as charity begins at the point in your shopping trip where you're so tired and laden with bags that a dreadlocked youth with a clipboard can play off your consumer guilt until you cave and sign away your children.

They're expertly trained, of course.

The extreme chirpiness of a Butlins redcoat crossed with an inner city youth worker, and the patter designed to make you think they genuinely, sincerely, want to be your friend.

A few years ago, I daresay they were rather successful.

Personally, I'm still feeling a bit sorry for the poor blokes outside Caff Nero, and might take them a Danish as a compromise '¦ provided I get that yellow keyring.