BY “MONTY” DIMOND
We are in the middle of National Volunteers Week. It’s made me remember how I wanted to do charity work when I was younger because it sounded like a good thing to do. People who are selfless, amazing, caring and just plain awesome do stuff for charity and I wanted to be all of those things. More importantly I wanted others to think of me this way. So I did what I thought was the right thing to do and gave it a pathetic and extremely half assed crack.
When I was 11, I flirted with the 12-hour famine (same thing as the 40-hour famine but a lot shorter). I volunteered my stomach to go without food for 720 excruciating minutes. One hour into the famine and I thought I was going to die. I had downed about 92 barley sugars and skulled 2 litres of apples juice already. I began to convince myself that if I didn’t get something into my tummy with more substance, I would do long lasting damage to my organs. I whinged my way to the four hour mark then dramatically told my mum to say her last goodbyes. The famine had got the better of me and my time had come. Luckily I quickly inhaled a bowl of tortellini that bought me back to full health. It’s fair to say I missed the point of that exercise. I’m pretty sure starving children in Africa don’t have the luxury of whipping up a quick pasta dish whenever they please.
The next time I felt compelled to do a little good was when I was 19. It was around Christmas when I drove past a line of homeless people waiting for their free dinner at the local mission. My heart broke as I looked at the men and woman of varying ages and races unable to afford their basic needs. When I got home I announced to my mum that I would not be attending our Christmas lunch because I was going to volunteer at the Soup Kitchen. My mum was proud and encouraged me to do it, she finished her praise with; “It’s a shame you will miss out on my famous Chrissie pud”. That’s all I needed, my get out of jail free card handed to me in the form of twelve little words. I quickly replied, “Ok, I wont do it, but I will definitely do it next year”. Next Christmas rolled around and ten more after that. I have never been anywhere but at my mum’s dining room table when Saint Nic visits. What a spoilt brat!