I AM being stalked by charity workers. It wasn't so bad when they just lurked about in York's Parliament Street waiting to grab me as I nipped into Whittards for some coffee or M&S for some knickers.

At least then I could spot them in good time (clipboard, sensible cardie and wild-eyed look of desperation) and take avoiding action without looking too obvious.

My own particular brand of avoidance action comes in three flavours. The first entails popping into a shop, waiting until they have nabbed somebody else and dashing out again.

The second is slightly stronger and involves looking at the floor and walking ridiculously fast, pushing the odd old woman out of the way if necessary to clearly show a sense of purpose.

And the third is not for the faint-hearted, mainly because it actually means feigning a heart attack and escaping the advancing throngs of charity workers in the safety of a speeding ambulance.

Even if these tactics fail and they do catch me, I can still give them one of my previously-prepared excuses for why I was just too busy, busy, busy to stop and talk earnestly for five minutes about Tibetan monks, blind donkeys or whatever other cause they are championing that day.

When accosted in the street by anyone in comfy slacks bearing a ballpoint pen for me to sign away my savings, I usually claim to be speeding back to work - they don't know I'm self-employed and am unlikely to sack myself for taking a long lunch - or that I'm late for a very important meeting (to discuss a pack of pants with Mr Marks and Mr Spencer).

I smile, I apologise, I may even blush slightly at the practised ease with which I lie to these fundamentally good people. But I never stop longer than it takes to tell a lie and, mean as this may sound, I never sign on the dotted line.

If they are rattling a tin, I will gladly pop in a couple of quid. But if they want my name, rank and bank account number, I'm afraid all they will get from me is a delightful view of my backside as I run away at surprising speed.

Now, if this was where the stalking ended, I could cope. But now the charity workers are hounding me in my own home.

This morning I received a set of raffle tickets and a book of stickers in the post from two leading charities asking me to sell them on their behalf.

Just a few days ago, I received a phone call from a third charity asking me to go door-to-door in my neighbourhood collecting donations.

And last week, a woman from a charity I had never heard of cornered me in my own hallway. She wouldn't leave any literature about her cause, which I had requested more out of politeness than interest, but she would, she said, be more than happy to take my bank details for the purposes of a monthly direct debit.

I'm aware of course that all this griping and squirming makes me sound like Scrooge in a sundress, but that description isn't entirely correct (although on a bad day I do bear an uncanny resemblance to Alistair Sim in the 1951 film version of the Dickens classic).

I am not anti-charity. I give a certain amount every month to a charity of my choice. And that, for me, is the key: choice. I understand that charities have to work harder now to make their money. It's a competitive business, with more causes battling it out for a finite amount of cash.

But stalking people in the street, on the phone, by post and in their own home surely can't win them many friends or supporters.

Most of us don't have a large wad of disposable income left at the end of every month, which means, with the best will in the world, we can't give something to everyone.

We have to make choices. Choices which, I believe, can be influenced by information but not by a woman in a cardie demanding your sort code and your Switch card number.

Updated: 09:12 Tuesday, June 03, 2003