Goopy, mainly.

This might be something they teach in Missionary School – “when their mouths are full, they’re ready for Jesus!” – but I managed to pull out a few facts from her. She stood out from the other missionaries that had accosted me (unsuccessfully) in the streets, because she wasn’t a lantern-jawed white guy. Sister Anne, it turned out, was from Hawaii, was going to be in the UK for 18 months, and got Mondays off.

To be honest, I felt a bit sorry for this young woman, so far away from home and at such a weird time in her life. My early twenties were a mess, and being forced to spend a year and a half (or two years if you were a man) away from my friends and home probably wouldn’t have made it any less messy. But mainly, I felt sorry for her having to spend all that time in Bedford.

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.