The lunch break rush hour in Central London.

"I'd love to date an anorexic. Just think of the double meals, man."

"Mhm, yeah..."

"...And don't even get me started on the snap factor."

It's thanks to conversations like this that I can honestly say I enjoy my day's work in the city. You can't help but overhear some of the most ridiculously un-PC remarks.

Londoners - myself included - just don't get it. We had a fire drill today. An unusual event in itself given that it's our company policy to save alarm testing until mid-morning on a Thursday. But this was a real one.

The alarm went off and was greeted by an office full of web developers and account managers chewing gum and casually continuing with their day jobs. For over a minute, it rang out, then silence.

One of my colleagues sulked off to the kitchen to finish cooking his bagel, while I sniggered at the thought that hey-ho, we could have been burning alive and nobody cared any the wiser. A few moments later, the fire alarm sounded out again. What was the reaction? It was mainly consignment to the realization that we were actually going to have to leave the office, travel down ten flights of stairs and wait outside to be registered like a bunch of school kids on a packed Clerkenwell Green.

Not even the slightest tilted nostril to the smell of fumes. A trickle of project managers seeped through to the cloakroom, retrieving coats and hats for the meandering descent via the emergency exit.

I'd finally given in to the idea of moving my arse at this point. Making my way towards the end of the room, I passed one of my workmates who was still clinging to a nitpicking client by the end of his phone.

"Listen, sorry, I'm really gonna have to go now. The fire alarm isn't stopping and we're definitely evacuating. I'll call you back in five?"

As casually yuppie as it gets, right there.

I could just imagine the client's horror at the events unfolding in our office. Images of employees darting for the exit amid the flicker of flames and priceless work drifting up in smoke.

"So, err, you do actually have our files backed up, right?"

"That's right."

"Can I ask where?"

"Under my desk on a bunch of floppies. Must dash, we're burning alive."

Ahh, don't you just love it? I'll do it in my own time, thank you very much. That attitude goes a long way to explaining the nature of this city.

You'd think that if burning alive in your workplace wasn't grave enough reason to trigger concern, then neither should the sight of a clipboard wielding Oxfam volunteer. But no, no.

Londoners can take the end of the world in their stride, or just about anything. Unless, of course, anything involves being pursued by a freakishly beaming 19 year old in a green wooly I'm in hat. Never have I seen grown cockney men flapping their briefcases in such a hurry to avoid the inevitable..."Two seconds of your time, please?"

But it's never two seconds, is it?

You only want my name, you say. Yet the second I scribble it on your rain soaked pad, our brief meeting becomes a gauntlet of addresses, telephone numbers, marital statuses and my aunty's next of kin. Sod off, why don't you?

I always give them the same slip-off.

"Sorry mate, I'm in a hurry."

Only this time, Oxfam had decided to camp out in front of my destination; a packed KFC. Armed with the potential guilt of rejecting starving African kids (or whatever stereotypes they're shooting for these days), I sighed and agreed to hand over my details.

As if my own personal information wasn't enough, she possessed the bloody cheek to ask if I had a girlfriend. Assuming that I was simply being sweet talked in return for my favour while I filled out the form, I said that I did.

"Aww, how sweet. What's her name? Can you fill in her details too, please?"

I twitched on the spot and - eventually - handed over a fake email and fake telephone number. You'd think these charities would act on a little more goodwill and a little less cold-calling, but hey, at least we're fighting Aids, brother.

Anyway, I finally shifted her attention to a flock of surely obliging tourists, accepted my I'm in badge and stomped off with a scowl. And you know what really cheered me up?

The thought that it cost Oxfam more money to manufacture this free badge than I'm ever going to donate when they spring me with their evening cold-call.

Yes, ultimately, I am killing African kids.