Last updated 10:45, Friday, 19 September 2008

I have never swum in a shark-infested ocean, but I imagine it is very similar to walking the length of English Street in Carlisle these days.

Only this week I was accosted by three different charity volunteers in the space of just a few yards and I still consider myself lucky to have escaped without giving them my bank details.

Perhaps I am old-fashioned, but I have always believed that giving to charity was a matter of personal choice.

Certainly I do not remember feeling threatened or pressurised by those kindly old ladies rattling their collection tins.

Walk through Carlisle any day of the week now and you must run the gauntlet of clipboard-brandishing salesmen, calling you “Mate” and waving direct debit forms in your face.

If you are unfortunate enough to make eye contact, or are unable to walk very quickly, they will pick you off and subject you to earnest spiel about African orphans or homeless children before signing you up to a lifetime of contributions. While I am sure these are worthy causes, it is little short of harassment and has made shopping in town a thoroughly unpleasant experience.

DEREK HONEYBONE
Carlisle