Many have asked about my recent Comment piece in the Evening Standard, so I am reproducing some of it here:
Sunday lunchtime saw me jiggling my tin at Victoria Underground Station, selling poppies on behalf of the Royal British Legion. I didn’t agree with the war in Iraq and I wish we would pull out of Afghanistan. But this is my second year as a poppy seller and the psychology of who gives money to this cause – and why – intrigues me.
My collecting tin certainly benefitted from the feel-good vibe the morning after many Hallowe’en parties. But two young cockney Goths and a woman with 17 facial piercings also cited Afghanistan as their reason for donating. The soldiers fighting there are their generation. War has become personal, less abstract, again. Which is how I came to be pinning a poppy on a squaddie dressed as a pumpkin. He has four kids and returns to Kandahar next March.
And prospective poppy sellers take note: very few donations are planned. Lots of people think fondly of buying a poppy, but then procrastinate. For these, I relied on a big, permanent smile, and lots of noisy, come-join-the-party tin-shaking. I showed I was having fun, and people seemed to respond positively to that. They gave what they could, and I made sure I thanked them profusely, wishing them a safe onward journey.
What struck me most was that many who gave also wanted conversation. In this era of Twitter, Facebook and eBay, givers of all ages crave the added pleasure of face-to-face human contact. They wanted to tell me their stories; why they were donating; why today.
Tourists wanted to know about the cause. The man from Lagos in a cream linen suit gave 20 quid and discussed the morality of war. With a few, I swapped tales from World War Two. A Canadian told me about her father who served in North Africa with the British Army. An American’s father helped liberate Paris. My father was in a Japanese Prisoner of War camp.
Giving, especially in these economically unsettling times, makes us feel good about ourselves, feel less self-centred. Our inner child is as thrilled with a poppy as we used to be with a going-home party gift. But on Sunday, many gave money without taking a poppy. They just wanted to give. And a few simply wanted the lift/the loo/the exit and made a donation for the answer. I am now a world expert on the Victoria Line.
And in the process I’ve found out some curious facts. Two hours shaking a tin is a better work-out for my incipient bingo wings than the gym. The most smartly dressed people do not give the most money (the gentleman from Lagos excepted). It is not a myth that more men than women will give to a poppy seller wearing a short skirt. And commuters in a desperate hurry will still find time to dig out the coins deep in their pocket.
Wearing a poppy isn’t morbid. It’s not about supporting a war, or endorsing killing. It’s about acknowledging that in all our separate cultural histories there are people out there who have made bigger sacrifices than
we ever could. They sacrifice limbs, their minds, sometimes their lives. And all I’ve done is spent time jiggling my tins, flashing my smile, and being humbled. It’s the least we can all do.
