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Bag For Life.


I’ve finally done the decent thing and donated my unwanted clothing to the Salvation Army.

It's something that I've meant to do for ages. They regularly put a bag through my door. Every time I make a mental note of the collection date, then promptly forget all about it. 

This always makes me feel guilty. I imagine them driving past, all hopeful, only to have their optimism quashed by a sea of empty doorsteps.

I see myself as the tipping point: the moment the Salvation Army decide to call it a day. If this happened it would be catastrophic; not just for the impact it would have on the homeless, but for the knock-on effect on the brass industry.

Today, I finally did my bit. I ruthlessly plundered my wardrobe; by the end of it, my bag was full to bursting. Literally: it ripped as I picked it up.

After leaving it on my doorstep, I walked into town. On my way, I spotted that one of my neighbours had also put a bag out. This inspired conflicting emotions: both solidarity with my co-benefactor and pride for leaving out a bigger bagful.

I know this doesn’t really make me more generous. It could be a case of quality, not quantity: their bag might have been full of cashmere; mine full of shell suits.

Either way, I hope the clothing comes to good use. If I don’t spot people out on the street modelling a few of my old outfits, I’ll be very disappointed.
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