Voluntary Work

David Cameron would be proud of us: both my children are now doing voluntary work every week.  Not quite for altruistic reasons, but I don't suppose that matters terribly much.

Julie's brother, Duncan, spends an hour or two every week in the old people's home at the end of the street.  He is doing it as part of his Duke of Edinburgh award, but I am really impressed by how much commitment he has shown.  He never misses a week, and doesn't complain when they have him washing dishes or making tea all afternoon (though I worry about the quality of tea that he makes there, since he had never made a cup before in his life).  He enjoys talking to the residents, and doesn't mind that some of them get a little bit confused at times.  To be honest, I think he genuinely likes their company: he likes the old man who tells him about his experiences in the second world war in the artillary division; he likes the old lady who complains about the rules in the home ("I know how she feels, she's a rebel like me", he said); he likes the very puzzled old lady who thinks he is her grandson.  I am sure they like him, with his young face and polite manners.  I feel really proud of him for doing this.  The only mystery is why the useful household skills he learns there can't be transferred back home!

Julie's volunteering is more overtly for her own benefit: she has started working one morning a week in a small charity shop which sells second hand items, raising money for a local hospice.  Last week (her first week) was spent shadowing the manager, but this week, thrillingly, she was introduced to the mystery of the till and took money from people for the first time.  It is the hospital who arranged this placement, and I gather from them that charity shops are very used to absorbing all manner of vulnerable people into their workforce.  Not only do they seem infinitely patient with Julie, they seem perfectly happy to accept responsibility for her.  It is one of the rare periods of the week where Julie is not closely supervised; I leave her there first thing in the morning, and someone from the hospital collects her at the end of her shift.  What she gains is the opportunity to make a contribution, learn some skills, and get a glimpse of life outside the very narrow world of school and hospital that she knows.  If she has problems, I am only a phone call away - my office is in a neighbouring building so I can come running downstairs.  I am very proud of her too, taking on this responsibility so soon after her last crisis.

This volunteering is rather new and unfamiliar territory to me.  Both Joe and I come from traditional working class backgrounds where volunteering was viewed with a certain amount of suspicion, as something that middle-class people with plenty of leisure time might do.  Most people I knew growing up were just too busy trying to earn a living or raising their families.  Looking back, my family certainly played their part as good neighbours and citizens - my grandmother always took her turn cleaning the tenement stairs, she looked after neighbours' children, my grandfather coached the local football team and then took his turn as a local councillor.  But the idea of volunteering to help complete strangers is something they would probably have found a little strange.  I do wish my grandfather were still alive - we would have enjoyed some interesting discussions about the part that volunteering has come to play in the lives of his great-granchildren.