WE all know the phrase charity begins at home. But why does it have to begin at my home all the time?

Now I'm a firm believer that you should give to charity all the time in the world - it is the right thing to do - but why is my house seen as easy pickings?

The summer brings with it a stream of charity collectors and door to door salesmen (and women) who knock at my house at the most peculiar moments.

It always seems to be when you are having a shower or when EastEnders starts to get a bit juicy.

I am, like most, the most generous of people and aim to give to each and every one. But recently I'm afraid they have started to take advantage of my good nature.

Seven times in five days I was frequented by the same gentlemen.

On the seventh time, I felt I had to watch to see if they were going to someone else's house on my street. They didn't.

Shocked? I felt totally gutted.

Was I being targeted? Did they have a list of addresses of people who are guaranteed to give all the time?

It seems cruel I know. Many of the collectors do it out of the goodness of their heart and in their own spare time, but why was my house the first on their list?

Why does it seem to be the only one on their list?

Another time I had four different collectors call about something they were building.

I asked one: "You've been coming for eight years - it must be built now!"

So I decided to try collecting myself as part of a registered group just to find out the process.

It seems amazing once I hit the streets the kind of things people will say so they don't have to hand over any dosh.

One house pretended their dad wasn't home so they didn't know where the money was.

Another said they didn't have any change in their pocket or in house (oh, you only keep £50 notes at home then).

A third sent their little sister to the door - I can see you in the window you fool!

Another guy said I'll just get you some change. He didn't come back. We waited for ten minutes and walked off.

We turned the corner and he was round the back having a fag.

I met one gentleman on the street and asked him if the house we were stood outside was his.

Recognising who I was he said: "No."

"So where do you live then?" I asked.

"Oh I, er, live...over in Birmingham. I'm lost."

Undeterred I decided to wait outside for two hours to see whether this bloke was telling the truth.

He walked up and down the street 17 times, not once looking at us or at his house that was only metres away.

Shameful!