Just now on msn messenger.

Me: So how goes the great seduction?
Paul: what?
Me: You know, the affair to remember, the fledgling relationship.
Paul: this is possibly a reason y u dont hav a boyf
Me: I beg your pardon?
Paul: u spk in riddles..
Me: Fine. Hows it goin with your 'chick'?
Paul: Hows what goin?
Me: Oh dear. Fine, did you 'get your end away'?

That's not a riddle at all.

"Hey, hows things? My names Imogen and I'm here on behalf of *said charity*. I'm raising awaremess in the community today, and fundraising as well--"
"-- Don't you try and tell me about *I refuse to type it again* my girl, I'm eighty two year old and I think I know more about them than you."
"Yes, but they've been around even longer than you. Have you heard of our--"
"Don't patronise me! And *screeches* I'm not deaf, luvvie."

Huh.

My general approach is, to be blunt, to flirt shamelessly with whoever answers the door, as I have next to no interest in the aforementioned charity, and, as such, haven't learned the facts and figures needed for the job.

So I flirt my little heart out, and this is bobbins. Of the first water.

Until- "Oh, don't you bother flirting with me babe, I'm gay."
"Yeah, I know. So, about St John..."

Or- "I've slept with a girl from every continent", he said.
"Oh. Right. So anyway, I'm sure you're aware St John is a charity..."
"Except from, ah, are you Australian? Kiwi?"
"Fuck, no."

I have absolutely no idea what I did to deserve something like that *mentally apologises to hilarious Oz housemate*

Obviously, the whole fundraising thing gets rather dull, so we, the fundraisers, make up little tasks to get us through the day- like dancing. The trick is to do a dance on every door on a street without being noticed. More recently, we designed our own charity; the one we'd all fundraise for, given a choice.

Take this with a pinch of salt- I've heard enough sob stories about dead family members, and how the remaining family's charitable output goes to cancer charities, so we created our own.

Cancer relief.

Just picture the scene- Hey, hows things? My names Imogen, I'm here on behalf of Cancer Relief- surely you've heard of us? No? Well! *incredulous look* we're a relief charity. For cancer. I'm sure something you will know is that there are millions of cancer sufferers worldwide, and we work to cure them. For good.

A remarkable amount of people will sign up here.

Ah, wait! We do this by the simple means of placing a piece of complicated modern technology imported from Zimbabwe to the sufferers forehead, and by the simple means of pressing a button we end their suffering. I'm sure you wouldn't want people suffering from an entirely random illness that could strike down anyone *meaningful glance* to have to continue suffering just because we have a shortage of funds?

No? Great, so your neighbours have been helping us out with the equivalent of three or four pounds a week that comes out in a once yearly sum, how much can you do?
Not that much? Oh, I'm sure the cancer sufferers will understand, some people just can't afford to help.

Disclaimer: Not that I think cancer is funny. Nor do I put pressure on people to give the charity I was working "on behalf of" more money than they can afford to give - which also explains why I've been paid a pathetic amount for the last six weeks, due to the whole being paid on commission thing.
My only excuse for the existence of Cancer Relief is that I'm bitter, and slightly sleep deprived. And have been living with a group of fantastic people in the same emotional state.

More to follow, but in the meantime I have to go salvage some food from my mothers' kitchen.
Is there anything quite as depressing as finding six bottles of milk in the fridge, four of which have gone off? And the other two have yet to be tested, because I'm not sure my caffiene addiction will be able to handle it.

Don't even get me started on the state of the other, formerly solid, contrents of the fridge.

So this job I managed to land myself, you know what it is?

Promotional fucking fundraising.

Yes, that's right. So if a rather small member of girlkind with a bad cold and a funky hairdo with rainbow streaks in knocks at your door and asks for you to help out St John Ambulance the charity she's working on behalf of, you'll give her money, right?
Because she gets paid on a commission basis. And she needs to be paid lots, because she has a shoe fetish.

And I've just discovered the shop just round the corner from where I'm currently living (I was going to tell, but then I'd probably get fired, and I need the money. Frankly. I mean, I signed a contract saying I wouldn't talk about any of it, so it must be followed. *yawns*) sells bottles of wine for £1.50- not that that has anything in the slightest to do with me being rather penniless at the moment.

But it's uncouth to talk about money, and thats not what I've wrangled internet access for. As such.

My job being what it is- what? I know, I know, it's crap, but it pays pretty fucking well- I work a six day week, nine hours a day *mutters slightly incoherently under breath* so essentially, I meet lots of people.

And people are weird.

As in, I met a woman yesterday who told me she believes in mermaids, because they make sense, evolution wise.

And someone else told me blue wasn't my colour, which is a very valid point, but I knew that already.

And someone else thought I was a prostitute, somehow not noticing my ID badge with very attractive photo and hideous charity sloganised blue t-shirt. "Don't talk to me," he said. "I'll pay you what you ask, but don't say anything."

*grins*

But it's not all bad, and I want to get some of these things down before I forget.

One lady- rather lovely, invited me in and gave me hot chocolate and biscuits- told me some of her family history, which I love. Her Grandmother was Basque, and forced to flee Spain during the Civil War (I think. I'm sketchy on this point, so if you want to poke me in the right direction spelling or history wise, knock yourself out). However, comma, being a baby at the time, her parents doped her with opium, put her in the false bottom of a cask of fish and snuck her out of the country.
And settled in Wales and married into farming stock, which is quite a weak end to what began as a rather swashbuckling bedtime story Toby would be proud of.

More equally thrilling tales of life trying to exhort people out of money to follow- but not for a while yet, not having internet access where I'm living, and not being paid for another month *cue mental swearing* I'm not spending pennies on an internet cafe that could go on one of those rather delish bottles of cornershop wine. Or nicotine, or food, whatever.

But I have other stories! More brilliant family histories, far far too many tales about ambulance response times and messy pregnancies (I wish people wouldn't overshare in that particular direction), an ever looming trip to the dentist (tomorrow. I expect commiseration and a two minute silence at 2pm), a case study of the local Ladies Only gym ("No men! No mirrors! No lycra!"), my hilarious Australian housemate ("Cemetaries are just so fasinating, don't you think?") and the Other One ("I can't wait to get married- so I can just eat dinner, have sex, go to bed.")

Oh, and I'm currently metaphorically sort of dating Mick Jagger.