Blonde's Eye View: Peril of the pink pound

It's also the kind of thing you can't back out of.

How do you extract yourself from the whole sponsored charity shenanighan without being made to feel personally responsible for cancer?

It's directly proportional; you would have raised £100, but you couldn't be bothered so now little Jenny is dead. Whoops my bad.

The mass sisterhood vibe that whips women up at these races completely passes me by.

I'd much rather just pay the charity out of my own pocket than subject myself to the PE class style humiliation.

Only when you have stood in a park on a Saturday morning surrounded by middle aged, northern women, apeing male cheerleaders dancing to S Club 7, have you felt true embarrassment.

And what is with the early morning start? Getting anywhere (unless it's home from the previous night) for 10am on a Saturday morning is a form of torture.

The popularity of these events is a marketing triumph. The reality is the sponsorship seeker becomes a pariah to friends and colleagues as they stalk them for cash support.

At least one email a week pings into my inbox from someone I haven't spoken to for years begging me for money.

To be honest I don't care about you abseiling off One Canada Square, and I have better things to spend my money on than undereducated kittens.

Finding myself on the other side of the rattling collection tin, I am extraordinarily irritated by good friends who stump up a measly £2, when they spend more on their morning espresso.

Don't they understand the pain I am putting myself through? I actually have to wear jogging bottoms, in public, for God's sake.