The Thousands

Each morning as I pass through Taylor Square on my way to work I am accosted by some nondescript backpacker spruiking for some nondescript charity trying to guilt me into parting with my hard earned coin to save the whales, the children or some imprisoned writer I’ve never heard of. Naturally, I reach for my phone and pretend to be in the midst of a terribly pressing call. Don’t judge me, I know you do it too.

Look, I sympathise with the whales, I really do. I just don’t have that much money – unlike blood, which I have heaps of, five litres in fact. And all I have to do to make more is eat, drink and sleep, all of which I am very good at.

What’s that you say? You don’t like needles? Stop being such a pussy. Beyond the sheer fact that you may actually be saving some poor sod’s life, you get free milkshakes, chips and cookies and everyone at the blood bank treats you with such extreme gratitude you feel like you have just committed the most magnanimous act known to man.

You also have a completely valid reason to leave work for at least an hour and if anyone questions your absence you simply utter, "Sorry… what? So how many lives did you save today?"