Kerre Woodham: Charity terrorists, don't call me...I'll call you

In response to last week's column on wolf whistling, an articulate young woman wrote that her objection to unsolicited catcalls was that it was an invasion of her personal space.

She wrote very well and while I still don't think it's at the mortal sin end of offending, I do understand where she's coming from in objecting to personal space being invaded.

Personal space is a very Californian psychologist's couch sort of term, but it does very nicely to describe that time and place where you are choosing not to engage with others. In the car, for instance. At the supermarket. Collapsed on the couch at home. And while you're doing this, if you're like me, you really don't want your personal space invaded by people. Especially charity terrorists. They're the sort of people who ignore your averted eyes - a polite way of saying piss off - and step in front of you. "Hi," they say, with the breezy bonhomie of a tele-evangelist, "how's your day going?" The only real answer to that is that no matter how well your day was going before, it just got a whole lot worse.

I don't know about you, but I never have coins or low-denomination notes. Having a teenager in the house means that sort of money simply evaporates from my wallet.

But if you tell the cheesy charity collector that, their eyes narrow and the wattage of their smile dims. They don't believe you. They think you are a mean person. In weak moments, you might try to justify yourself with all the charities you do support so that strangers passing by don't think you're a total Scrooge; if you're made of sterner stuff, you'll simply walk off without a backward glance.

The charity space invaders don't just camp outside supermarkets. Greenpeace collectors are a regular feature outside health-food shops, which has always seemed a bit like coals to Newcastle to me. Chances are, people shopping at a store which specialises in free range, organic, vegan-type products are going to be Greenpeace members anyway. Why not go for a real challenge, and set up shop outside the Mad Butcher's? Surely there'd be more chance of signing up new prospects there.

But the charity terrorists I hate the most are the ones who invade your home. The phone goes usually just before six at night, which is the worst possible time for any family, and a voice says, "Hi Kerre, how are you today?"

At 40, I'm starting to suffer from minor memory lapses, no matter how much ginseng I swallow. I'm fine with a face, or a name, but increasingly these days, getting the two together is becoming hit and miss.

So when someone calls me out of the blue, and speaks to me by name, I go into a panic. I don't recognise their voice. Should I know them? How do they know me? And then it becomes clear that they don't know me at all. They got my name off a database and now they think feigning familiarity will make me more likely to donate to their worthy cause.

Just for the record, it won't. I'm not a bad person, truly. There are many charities I support. If I want to support your charity, I will. But please don't call me. I'll call you.