How to Be a Better Person

by Seb Hunter

Overview

Why is it so difficult to find the time to help others? When Seb Hunter became aware of a nagging ache in the place where his soul ought to be, he embarked on a two year odyssey of volunteering - with hilarious results.
He collects litter, teaches pensioners how to use the internet, works at Oxfam (where he meets Gladys, his septuagenarian nemesis), mans a steam train line, becomes a star DJ on hospital radio, visits prisoners, and runs a very long way for charity... But will his quest for self-improvement be successful? How to Be a Better Person is the tale of a cynic's attempt to become a better person by helping others. For nothing. It's a volunteering call-to-arms! Oh no it's not! Well it is, sort of...

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781848874862
Publisher:	Atlantic Books
Publication date:	02/01/2010
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	288
File size:	631 KB

About the Author

Seb Hunter is the author of two previous books, Hell Bent for Leather: Confessions of a Heavy Metal Addict (2004) and Rock Me Amadeus: When Ignorance Meets High Art, Things Can Get Messy (2006). He is one third of the avant-drone ensemble, Crater, in which he plays guitar and electronics. He lives in Winchester.

Read an Excerpt

How to be a Better Person

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By Seb Hunter

Grove Atlantic Ltd

Copyright © 2009 Seb Hunter
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-84887-486-2

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CHAPTER 1

Step One

Oxfam, Kensington High Street branch Monday morning

Number of Oxfam shops in the United Kingdom: 750 Oxfam net funds, April 2006: £73.5 million

The west London borough of Kensington and Chelsea is one of the most affluent urban zones in the world and the wealthiest area, per capita, in the whole of the UK. It also holds the dubious honour of being the safest Conservative parliamentary seat in the country. Kensington High Street is these people's 'strip': the cars are Porsche or Mercedes or, more likely, giant 4x4s manufactured by Porsche or Mercedes. Sunglasses are vast; children, Tarquins, out of control. The large Oxfam store is down at the north-west end of the street, almost opposite Waitrose. I have volunteered over the phone to work one shift a week; maybe even as many as two.

I arrive early, and try to get in through the front door, except it's locked. A short and spiky elderly lady frantically waves me away, and I wave my arms around madly in response. Eventually she concedes, unlocks the door and opens it just a fraction. Her eyes are wild and her teeth are bared like a hyena.

'What do you want?'

'I am here to work,' I explain through the crack. 'For free!'

'Well, go around the back!'

She closes the door, retreats. I go around to the back and ring the bell impatiently. Soon the back door opens and here she is again.

'You're too early,' she snaps, leading me into the back of the shop where it's dim and yellow and doesn't smell of sweaty old clothes, but of cardboard. She disappears into a side office.

'Hello, my name is Seb,' I call after her. 'I spoke to Sally, the manager, and ...' The job interview, a few days previously, had gone OK. I was not a thief or a rapist or a granny rapist.

The elderly lady emerges again, smoothing down mountainous collars, and mutters: 'Gladys.'

I smile and reach to shake hands. Gladys offers an alarmed finger, which I lift up and down, twice. It's icy cold.

'You can hang up your coat over there. Not there. Not there. What's the matter with you? There.'

Gladys is Thora Hird possessed by Alan Sugar. She disappears into the office again, leaving me standing alone out in the back of the shop; everywhere lie clothes, books, boxes of Fairtrade objects, bulging bin-bags. There's a small kitchen area. It's one of those certainties that everyone bonds over a cup of tea, especially those a little older.

'Gladys, can I make you a cup of tea or coffee?'

'What? You want a cup of tea?' She emerges from the office and stares at me angrily.

'Yes, but would you like me to make you one?'

'I had one before I came.'

Gladys disappears again and I construct my coffee in wall- clock-ticking silence; then Sally arrives, thank God. Gladys scuttles out of the office.

'He's making himself a cup of tea!' cries Gladys. 'Already!'

Sally (managers are salaried and I think that's for the best, otherwise all might be chaos — good-willed, sure, but chaos). She's short-haired, wry and a bit boho. She ties on an apron.

'Look, I even tie on an apron,' she says.

I stand on the empty shop floor, next to some jigsaws. A customer aggressively rattles the locked front door and points hysterically at his Rolex Oyster Perpetual Yacht-Master II. He crouches down and begins to haw angrily through the letterbox.

'Sally, there's a scary man outside. I think he's going to break the door down.'

'We're not open till ten!' she shouts. 'You'll have to wait another five minutes!'

The man's eyes bulge with rage. He rattles the door some more and then storms off down the road. Sally sighs and goes off to get her keys and then we're open. I feel vulnerable.

Sally has decided to put me on the till with Gladys today, so that I can learn the ropes. I'm frightened. Gladys despises me, but I have no idea why this might be. OK, I have quite long hair, but I'm otherwise pretty well presented, and I'm smiling at her as much as I possibly effing can. She stares back through especially narrowed eyes; her eyebrows are painted dark, thin grey in high arches.

Soon I am trying to remove the security tag from our first sale of the day — a ladies' small black cardigan.

'Not like that. Not like that.' I'm elbowed aside; and then my attempt to bag the garment is met with an unfriendly gasp; almost a growl.

'Hey, don't worry, that was my first one. I'll pick it up — you'll see!'

'Not like that you won't.'

All I did was put a cardie into a plastic bag. I feel a little upset.

In a little while I am introduced to Judy, a smiling and open- faced septuagenarian employee who runs the shop's book section.

'That woman who does the books despises me,' says Gladys.

'Judy? She seems so nice.'

'Don't be fooled. She refuses to say a single word to me, ever.'

Gladys smiles for the very first time today. It's 11.05 a.m. Gladys's teeth are sharp, but not quite fangs.

As the morning grinds on, Gladys regales me with customer horror stories involving theft, drunkenness, drunken theft and many different sorts of bad behaviour, including several complicated ways to get security tags off garments. The relating of these tales turns Gladys visibly apoplectic. But then I get a good one. A few years ago, when Vanessa Feltz lost some weight, she stopped by the store to donate all her old 'fat' clothes. Good for her. According to Gladys, Vanessa's old clothes were then steadily bought up by a continual stream of overweight transvestites.

'I don't know how Ms Feltz would have felt about that. Ha!' cackles Gladys, deliberately ignoring a man waiting to pay for a thin, striped tie. Vanessa had performed this act of magnanimity with a large film crew in tow. Soon afterwards she put the weight back on, and popped in again (this time minus the film crew) to buy all her old stuff back.

'But the transvestites had bought all her clothes!' crowed Gladys. 'Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!'

In between customers, I attempt to become Gladys's friend. There wasn't much else to do, really.

'So,' I offer, remembering the statistical breakdown Sally had given me over the telephone. 'After women's clothes at number one, and books at number two, what's the third bestselling section in the shop?'

'What are you talking about?'

While I ineptly serve another customer (they are forgiving — as you'd expect — all except the middle-aged foreign ladies), Gladys strides out back to fetch a list of each section's turnover this financial year compared to last year's.

'As you can see,' snarls Gladys, 'you don't know what you're talking about. After women's clothes comes bric-à-brac. Books are third.'

A man stands and waits patiently to buy several paperbacks, but he is made to wait a little longer while Gladys jabs an accusatory finger at the columns, all of which she had compiled and transcribed, as she does the cashing up and accounts too.

Gladys finally looks up. 'Yes?'

'I'd like to buy these, please.'

Gladys makes an unfriendly grunting sound.

A lady drops off a carrier bag of donated clothes.

'Don't put them there!' cries Gladys. She turns to me. 'People think they can bring all their rubbish in here instead of throwing it away. They just bring it all in and expect us to be thankful.'

I say thank you to the lady who'd dropped off the stuff.

'Don't say thank you like that — you don't know what's in there,' hisses Gladys after she'd gone.

'What should I say?'

'Say, "OK then".'

The morning brings a mad run on crockery, each piece of which must be carefully wrapped in tissue, even if it's only priced at 9p. Gladys openly resents having to do this, and tells the customers this as she wraps. The customers then plead for her not to bother but Gladys doggedly concludes the wrapping out of malicious principle. I confess that I'm really not very good at wrapping things, or folding things — probably folding women's clothes in particular.

'Nor am I!' howls Gladys.

We had inexplicably bonded over our shared fabric ineptitude. Soon we are suppressing mean giggles over my attempts to fold a lime-green ladies' petticoat.

'It doesn't even matter!' hoots Gladys.

I decide not to ask why it's OK to screw up the folding but heinous to put it into the bag wrong.

I begin to enjoy asking people if they want a bag, in a mildly threatening and morally superior fashion. I've learned this off Gladys.

'Oh, just a small one.'

Gladys and I glare slightly aghast.

'Oh look, goodness, I've got one here already, never mind.'

We slide the petticoat across the countertop, folded in a kind of lopsided hexagon.

People generally behave like they're St Mother Teresa herself when they slip their small change into the charity shaker on the till. Gladys tends to raise a plucked and painted eyebrow at them but I can't see the problem with this myself — except when they just walk away and leave me to lean over and do it for them. I resent having to do that. This is the influence of Gladys. At 11.30 a.m. Sally brings us out coffee and biscuits on a tray.

'I never get this,' gasps Gladys, eyeing the tray with mock horror. 'Never.'

I put down my coffee in the wrong place three times and then feel I've selected the wrong biscuit.

A plump woman comes in and buys a bar of Fairtrade chocolate and as I ring it up, stares pointedly at my T-shirt. My T-shirt says: ANIMALS: It's Their World Too.

'Don't forget that humans are animals too,' she says.

'I'm sorry?'

'My daughter is at one of those schools that has animal protesters hanging around outside. You know — they shouldn't dig up human bodies! That's unacceptable.'

I pause. 'Aren't we all animals?'

'So why doesn't it say that on your T-shirt?'

She saunters out of the shop and then Gladys squints at my T- shirt and tuts.

'Should I change the CD?' I ask. The world music, which you can buy if you want, has come to an end.

'Whatever you like. I hate it all anyway.'

At 1.15 p.m. Gladys informs me that Maureen, the lady who takes over on the till during the afternoon shift, is even worse than her.

'Oh my God,' I reply.

Gladys looks delighted; she even serves a customer politely. Soon Sally comes out on to the shop floor and asks whether or not I want to work the afternoon shift as well. I say no thanks, and she says OK, well, thanks then — see you on Thursday. I get my coat and leave. Gladys waves goodbye in slow motion.

'So how is your moral compass?' asks my wife Faye on my return home. 'Was that time well spent? Was it "worthwhile"?'

'I'd really rather not talk about it.'

'I'll bet the team spirit must be brilliant at a place like that.'

'Yes, it is quite something.'

Oxfam, Kensington High Street branch Thursday afternoon

Average age of Oxfam volunteer: 84

Average age of Oxfam customer: 62

My second shift; afternoon shift.

I don't think Gladys is here; I can't see her on the till; she's not on the shop floor; I can't hear her Lancashire vowels bruising the air in the office either: nobody appears to be cowering or tiptoeing around, or weeping. The customers appear happy too — there's even some banter! — indeed, the atmosphere throughout the whole store is sufficiently sunny and upbeat for me to be certain that Gladys definitely has the day off. Or else she's downstairs in the toilet.

I am off the shop floor today — behind the scenes. I am sitting on a swivel chair out back, pricing CDs (usually £1.99), cassettes (mostly 99p), videos (often £1.99), DVDs (nobody really knows what DVDs are yet: £1.99) and lots and lots of books (99p, £1.99, £2.99, etc.). If they're 'something special', I'll check their worth online using the old wind-up Sinclair ZX Spectrum in Sally's office. I am learning that this is a particularly dangerous job: I already have a growing pile of books and CDs by my side for my own purchase later on. Including bus fares both ways, my net earnings are already in the red, and this hoard of stuff means I'm going to be facing a potential loss of well over £20 by the end of the day (although spiritually I will have gained in the region of £23.50). From a jumbled bag of donations, I lift out a large pink Barbra Streisand box-set.

'Barbra Streisand box-set!' I announce to the rest of the backroom staff (two ladies steaming clothes), expecting them both to shout, me first! Instead they say nasty things about Barbra Streisand.

'She can't act,' says one.

'And she has a big nose,' says the other.

I take it out to show Vanessa One (we have two Vanessas) on the till.

'Look, Barbra Streisand box-set!'

'Ew,' she says. After some research, I decide to price the Barbra Streisand box-set at a competitive £9.99.

'Only £9.99, everybody,' I announce. 'That'll get snapped up. That's a snip — one went for £11 on eBay only a week ago. I'm completely serious.'

'You're thinking of Cher,' I hear at the steamer.

'Chair?'

'I'm OK standing.'

The steamer goes hissssss.

My pound signs look too much like treble clefs. Individualistic self-expression can be a vital, self-empowering part of the volunteering experience, it says on a piece of paper tacked to the wall in the kitchenette.

Oxfam, Kensington High Street branch Monday morning

Barbra Streisand worldwide record sales: 71 million (approx.)

Estimated dead in 1994 Rwandan genocide: 800,000–1,000,000

Incredibly, the Streisand box-set is still around.

'Do you know what I really hate?' muses Gladys.

Gladys has just had a row with a lady who wanted us to hold on to a few clothing items while she went to get some money, but Gladys wouldn't do so. The lady pleaded with me, too, but I was trying, fiercely, to signal that this decision had nothing whatsoever to do with me and everything to do with Gladys instead. I had meant to get this across without Gladys seeing but I don't think I managed it. I think the woman thought I was rather pathetic for not standing up to Gladys, but little did she know. Because of this episode, I am wary of Gladys's new question. I am worried that the answer might be: 'You being so pathetic and spineless.'

'I don't know. What do you hate?'

'The people who came in here after the tsunami,' says Gladys. 'Floods of people coming in here and making donations — a lot of really big donations.'

'Were they trying to put banknotes into the shaker?' Gladys hates that.

'No, it's just, where were all these people at Rwanda? But for the tsunami, here they are with their money and all this ... caring. What about Rwanda? I wanted to say.'

Customers quake slightly at the racks.

'I can see that; the genocide, right; but people can only react to what they see in the media, and the tsunami was —'

'But Rwanda!'

'Were you here for Rwanda?'

'Of course!'

'Fewer people?'

'Hardly anybody, especially compared to the tsunami.' She uses the word tsunami like the Daily Mail uses the words asylum seeker.

But I've been brought up short by this sudden flash of context: that we're here for a reason — a very serious reason — which is to raise money, directly, for hundreds of thousands of people in all corners of the globe as and when necessary, like a charitable Thunderbirds only without the strings. So it's with a renewed sense of urgency that I turn to Gladys and breathlessly announce: 'Gladys, we're running out of £1 coins. Shall I go to the office to get some more?'

'I told you to do that twenty minutes ago; you're completely useless.'

I keep myself useful.

'You know what? They think you're a god!' spits Gladys.

'Who thinks I'm a god?'

'They do. Young male volunteer? They think you're a god! Look at all this!' She is pointing at the small tray of biscuits that Sally's brought out with our coffee again. We sell a lady two Catherine Cookson novels, and not only that but she wants a bag too. Then Judy walks past and the air around us becomes decidedly chilly.

'She'd never bring me out anything. She wouldn't even speak to me. She despises me.'

'You told me. That's a shame, isn't it? What a shame.'

'Why? She doesn't speak to me — why is that a shame? I don't care.'

We drink our coffee in silence. Gladys turns back to the biscuits.

'Look at all those. They think you're a god!'

I am embarrassed; she's saying this really loudly.

'Well, I don't know about that. I don't have a sweet tooth, so it's not like I'm really reaping any rewards. Do you think that makes me slightly less godly?'

'No.'

'Do you find this boring?' asks Gladys, during a brief lull.

'Boring?'

'Because I do.'

'No, actually I find this surprisingly fulfilling, despite, um, despite the rudeness of some of the ... customers. But then, I guess after you've been working here a few years —'

'No, it's not that. I'm just bored. I'm just like that. I'm sorry if this offends you. And I wondered if you were feeling bored because I find this particularly boring, I have to say.'

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from How to be a Better Person by Seb Hunter. Copyright © 2009 Seb Hunter. Excerpted by permission of Grove Atlantic Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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