Sandy Burgham: Struck numb by the relentless clutter of worthy causes

I sponsor a child in a country I have no intention of visiting.

The girl is about my daughter's age and is doing well, according to her mother, who writes lovely letters of thanks every few months.

Call me heartless and tasteless but frankly it would be easier if she were on email. I can't remember the last time I wrote a personal letter and posted it.

What must she think of this strange benefactor who sends money but refuses to commit to regular communication.

It started when I decided to adopt a stranger late one night, having been drawn into a heart-wrenching black-and-white ad featuring a presenter imploring me not to turn off the TV nor to turn a blind eye.

The experience was eerie. "Cripes, he can see through the TV," I thought. "He's reading my mind, he wants me to ring."

Bingo. I rang and subsequently was computer-matched with a girl whom I would never meet, a face on the fridge that jogs my conscience every time I open the door for something to eat.

I am happy to send money. It's easier than dealing with the moral obligation of keeping in contact.

It's this sort of moral obligation that is wearing a bit thin. Not only is my conscience hassling me about being a slack sponsor but, like many others, every day I seem to have to walk through the outstretched arms of the many organisations that need our help.

Charity used to be synonymous with the annual process of door-to-door appeals where volunteers would knock and we would give a few cents found at the bottom of our handbags.

Those were the days when New Zealanders could muster up the energy and community support to run telethons. Life was simpler. Children went to schools that were state funded so their parents didn't spend decreasing amount of free time sizzling sausages. We even had hospitals that the state funded in economic times that didn't seem nearly so buoyant as today.

But now it's all a bit more complex as the competition for share of pocket and share of heart is tough, with every organisation, even those that are state funded, having a legitimate reason to take their begging bowls to the street.

We see bigger and bolder, even outlandish, attempts to break through the charity clutter and get us to support a particular cause.

Our Opposition Leader is prepared to step into the ring with a bloodthirsty mystery man. Our Prime Minister is involved in a fraudulent painting-for-charity scam. And some poor bugger had to glue 1600 baby dolls to a billboard to grab our attention.

Another fallout of a market over-saturated with charities is that our sense of charity is changing. While it once was about giving for the sake of giving, it seems to be creeping toward some sort of reciprocal arrangement tapping a consumer's "what's in it for me" button. We used to wear our poppy as a sign of remembrance but on the same lapel our red poppy is now circled by an eclectic wreath made up of charity proof-of-purchase receipts - yellow daffodils, gold hearts, bowed ribbons of several colours, topped with a red nose for good measure.

With all this charity clutter, Joe Blow, the average punter, the nameless faceless man of the street, is faced with the agonising choice of who receives his charity dollar. Are the neo-natal kids less important than the victims of child abuse? What about those starving in Third World countries?

It's this constant challenging of our moral fibre that is leading to charity fatigue. There are so many hands outstretched, you become almost paralysed with indecision and blinded by the number of 0800 numbers.

The first signs of charity fatigue include guilt for refusing to bow to moral pressure, anxiety over the guilt and anger over the guilt and anxiety which one attributes to moral pressure. The long-term effect of charity fatigue is an emotional numbness.

My charity-fatigue symptoms flare up when I receive endless calls from paid telemarketers (whom I deplored in a column a few weeks ago), who seem to be reading from a page which charity they are pushing this week.

But the most intense bouts occur after I stare at the letter from a mother of a girl I know little about but to whom charity-fatigue syndrome must be a nice problem to have. Oh dear ... mustn't grumble.