SARAH, our village postie, would never describe herself as a weak and feeble woman. Several sacks of letters and heavy parcels are nothing to her.

But she could be forgiven for hiding her ready smile as the pre-Christmas deluge of countless catalogues suggesting expensive yet pointless gifts, others offering two suits for the price of one, bargain-price holiday brochures and mail shots from refurbished oriental restaurants, dropped on the mat. I must be on one of those ‘suckers’ lists.

However, these paled into insignificance over the past seven days – or rather six days of deliveries. I had no fewer than 23 begging letters.

They ranged from donkey sanctuaries (two of them), save the tiger campaign, birds and woodland trusts, a church spire I have never seen nor heard of, to cancer charities, the peerless lifeboats, the Red Cross and the vital seasonal Poppy Appeal. Even the distressed gentlefolk were moved to tap me.

Don’t get me wrong. All need support; all are chasing the same 50p in these times of tightened belts, but purses and wallets stretch only so far.

I am fortunate in being able to support a number of charities, giving regular amounts through direct debits and bankers’ orders. It is an easy way of helping to keep wolves from several doors.

I don’t want letters of thanks – nor do I want letters asking me to increase my regular contributions within weeks of signing up. I liken the situation to some fit chap giving a kidney to save a fellow mortal and being asked to donate his liver at the same time.

Now what has prompted me to pen this moan? I assure you it isn’t legendary Yorkshire thrift or indifference to the needs of others. It is frustration, born of having to say ‘no’.

I’m not alone in this, as I discovered when the subject was raised this week by half a dozen people in a city centre café. For once, I didn’t join in, but listened intently.

Did this shared concern make me feel better? Sadly not.

DIGNITY is decorum easily dented. Thus spake a much-loved great aunt more than half a century ago. Its truth was played out on the steps in Bonn Square.

A spat was in progress near the war memorial between a couple, probably in their early twenties. The source of the disagreement was immaterial to all but the two, even though it was difficult to ignore their loud and mutual abuse.

Finally the man lowered his voice, pulled himself to his full height and calmly announced he didn’t intend taking any more nonsense. Nose aloft, he exited stage left, descending the steps at speed and with much aplomb.

Unfortunately he miscalculated the depth of the bottom step, tripped and landed with a splash in a deep, trainer-and-trouser-soaking puddle.

Fortunately the young woman’s laughter was restrained, otherwise those Home Office cuts might have needed revision.

Now this did cheer me up.