Oh lord, I have a confession to make!
I have joined the massed ranks, not merely of the late-midddle-aged underemployed (but please, I am three years too young to be a baby boomer, and at least a year away from any sniff of a pension) - but also, indeed of the self-indulgent sub-culture, the middle-class male 55+ charity-shop volunteer.
You might as well stick the Kalashnikov into my neck and shout, "Die, you BIG SOCIETY scum, you provocateur and Coalition-collaborationist" whilst pulling the rusty trigger.
You might as well break me in two and find "David Cameron is almost as much like God as Eric Clapton used to be" printed in permanganate purple through my gallstones, and my gall.
But yes I am one, I work for a caring charity, a local one, I serve in their shops, "specialising in books and records" as I tell my friends.
What it really means is that I dodge around doing an entry-level "Are you being served" act as the sinewy ladies of South Kensington glide into the shop, occasionally requiring some reassurance that the Size 8 D & G sequinned gown fits them "just like a glove, it might as well have been made for you" as they flutter in and out of the dingy little changing cubicle.
"Well, oddly enough, it could well have been made for me, young man...."
Or the monocled ranks of V & A curators and the unsavoury antiques dealers whov've been sniffing around the nearby auction rooms, who like to peruse the books and the "bric a brac", or the big Bulgarian or Ukrainian families, taking time out from their visa renewal duties or whatever, buying up market-bag loads of children's sportswear and worn-once Hugo Boss Jeans for the dads and sons and brothers back home.
SO this is how I pass my 10.30s to 2.30s....
Oh Mary-Anne, Oh oh oh. Oh, put anther CD on, make some tea, go to the bank, but some biscuits, "Would you like a bag , madam?" (yes but don't give her a nice one, she's only bought an M & S shirt").
Roll on September when the French will return from les vacances, and all their sweet children pop in and out, brushing their ice-creams against the cashmeres, dripping it onto the comic-books, and the tramping it all into that nasty fake wooden floor.