Reader, I was fugged.
I was walking back through town when I felt somebody touch my arm. I turned, and saw a lady in her early thirties, not unattractive, who started by saying “Excuse me.” A polite greeting, which was appropriate as I didn’t know who she was. Perhaps she thought she knew me, or maybe I’d dropped something and she was going to tell me.
“I couldn’t help notice that you had a limp” she continued. At this point my expression must have hardened. I expected to be offered a lucky glass bead for a pound, but it was what she said next that really surprised me.
“I’m a Christian, and I would like your permission to pray for you.”
I could have said a lot of stuff. It would have been the nicest thing to say “why, thanks”, and move on, but that’s not really what I was thinking. It would have been Quakerly of me to say “you should do what you think you need to do”, and then move on. But I dislike being singled out because I’m different from the herd. I don’t like being the object of misplaced charity. And I don’t want to think about how many times this had done this to other, more vulnerable people.
So I looked this woman in the eye, and drawled the world “no” in a manner left no doubt that I thought very poorly of her, turned, and left.
Inside I was furious. I’d been trapped into a position that I would never want to be; I either ratified her choice of faith or had to act like an asshole. And there was nothing I could do about it – it’s like a version of the question “Have you stopped beating your wife yet?“, to which there is never going to be a good answer.
The term “charity mugger“, or “chugger” came into being to describe those people who stand on street corners and used people’s guilty conscience to goad them into signing direct debits to charity. I’m coining the word fugger to describe somebody forcing you to acquiesce to their faith – and although next time I’m going to try to be more considerate to their beliefs, heaven help them if they think they’ll get off as lightly.
