In these straightened times there is a sure fire way of making money. You place a bucket at the end of the local supermarket checkout.
There’s a little more to it than that though. Firstly you need to stick a picture on the outside, something that bears a loose relationship to the scheme for which you need money. A blurred photograph is ideal as long as it is printed from a home PC. Secondly you need a small child to stand by the bucket and make you feel guilty for not putting money in. It’s best if they are dressed in a uniform, or something that relates to their activity, a boy scout, a football club or a dance class.
Children by themselves cannot demand money with menaces and so it helps to have an adult that hovers behind them to stress the point should you be reticent or even hesitant in coughing up. Again, a scout leader, or coach or dance instructor, especially when appropriately attired, lends credibility to the whole affair.
The process from then on is quite simple, the weary shopper having just emptied the contents of their basket onto the conveyor belt is wondering if they will be able to keep up with the checkout assistant, when an angelic voice pipes up ‘Would you like any help with your packing?’.
I don’t know about you but I certainly wouldn’t let a teenager help with my packing, let alone a seven or eight year old child. It would be a disaster. I’ll end up with potatoes on top of eggs, cakes crushed under the weight of tins and smellies in with diary products.
But they know this. That’s its beauty, cash by guilt and for very little effort.
This weekend it was for a dance class trip to Ireland. The little blonde girl could hardly see over the top of the bucket as she stuck dutifully, though reluctantly, to the script. Her dance instructor was a few metres behind keeping an eye on the proceedings.
It cost me a pound, fifty pence for myself and another fifty pence for my daughter who was next in the queue but the strangest thing was that we said thank you to them as we both skulked away with our self-filled bags.
Thoughts from a Guerrilla Worker 