Recently, I think I became invisible.The weather was showery and I sheltered under a large red umbrella, but it too seemed to flourish unseen. I was holding a bright yellow collecting box labelled York Against Motor Neurone Disease and people passed me by in dozens.

Some, like the travellers in the Biblical story The Good Samaritan, crossed the road. Others, like the kindly Samaritan himself, stopped and ministered to my charity by putting a donation in the box.

To most people, however, I was the woman who wasn't there.

If you fancy a bit of 'people watching' stand with a charity box for one hour on any Saturday.

Visitors and locals throng the streets of our ancient city, a great tide of humanity sweeping along.

Thinking about it, it isn't too odd that they miss me. The fattest are always eating, their eyes riveted on to their hot dogs or the chocolate logs rearing up from their giant ice creams.

The eyes of the tourists are glued to their camcorders. I can excuse heavily laden mothers, for they, dragging along a screaming toddler with one hand, whilst giving unlucky Wayne a controversial thick ear with the other, are too busy trying to retrieve their scattered leeks and lettuces.

Plump giggling teenage girls, sporting 'cool' navel gemstones, concentrate on lighting their ciggies and trying not to set fire to their many parcels.

I try many tactics. I smile. I look sad. I use eye contact; a friendly gaze or a downright glare. I stick out my arm, box on the end swinging like an incense burner. (It is unlawful to shake or rattle the tin.) I clearly hear the gritting of teeth as handbags catch on the dangling yellow charity box. Some people smile at the sky, others scowl at the paving stones. Some stop, fumble in purse or pocket, then with an apologetic smile pass me to get to the baked potato wagon. Others read the name on the box; "Never 'eard of it," and move on.

But as my hour goes by, there are those who donate. Yes, they've known someone with this awful condition. Yes, they know how tiring it is to stand and collect; they'd like to help.

"Do you know anything about this?" I occasionally ask? A small boy answers me. "Oh yes, I'm studying to be in St John's Ambulance Brigade. I'm learning a lot about diseases." He smiles and drops his money into my box. "How old are you?" "I'm thirteen. Here's a bit more." and he roots in his pocket. I thank him, thinking that somewhere, some mother must be very proud to have such a thoughtful caring son. A tired- looking lady pauses to give her gift."They're all terrible, these things. My husband died in September, it was cancer. I get very lonely but I try to keep smiling."

An elderly man stops. "Have you heard of this," I ask. "Aye lass, that I have. My brother died of it last year. "Tis a most terrible thing." Tears fill the faded eyes in the rosy country face and his arthritic fingers have trouble getting his five pound note in to the slot. He pats my hand as I thank him.

So perhaps I'm not so invisible after all. For every dozen who hurry past, pretending not to see, another will stop, smile, speak and at the same time give a little of his own kind heart.


Joan Paley