Who gets well paid by my well?

Last year I was given a well for christmas. Not literally a well of the type affluent gardens in Buckinghamshire boast, but a theoretical Oxfam well. It's one of the things you can buy online alongside mango tree plantations and mosquito nets at Oxfam Unwrapped. An excellent idea because it saves the need to buy dad yet another pair of comedy musical socks and it essentially profits three parties rather the one: the buyer feels good that they're not wasting their hard earned cash on a pointless seasonal frivolity; the receiver feels contented at the good deed they've done, sacrificing a meaningless materialistic gift to provide a much-needed commodity to someone less fortunate; and finally a whole african community gets the "luxury" of drinking water.

I have been a five-pound-a-month supporter of Oxfam for years you see, and I have a great deal of respect and admiration for the international develpoment slash emergency aid giant. So I asked for a well.

It's not the first time someone in my circle has bought a charitably-inclined gift for an acquaintance. A good friend who shall remain nameless told me a while ago that she intended to buy her boyfriend a goat. "Is it any good Kae?" she asked, "I know you buy stff like that all the time." I had to explain to her that the goat would not arrive on her doorstep on Christmas eve wrapped in a ribbon - which was probably a good thing so yes, it was good. She settled on buying him some condoms and a HIV/ Aids awareness pack. Of course he didn't receive these either.

And that is the problem. Who did?

I like to think of small african children laughing and playing around my well. I like to think of them cupping their hands and leaning down towards the bucket, quenching the thirst they've built up running carefree through the village I've supported. I like seeing them, in my mind's eye, washing their cherub faces and little driblets of water on their chins, catching the sun, gleaming against their brilliant white teeth.

A while ago, I got a call from Oxfam. To be specific, it was a girl working in a call centre for Oxfam. I'd signed a petition in the street earlier that week and she was ringing to ask if I wanted to become a donor. Smug and rather proud of myself I told her I already was.

Later, I started thinking.

If she's working in a call centre, and Oxfam being the ethical crew that they are, she's earning at least five pounds an hour if not more. That means my five pounds a month may be paying someone to sit in a comfy chair and make phone calls for an hour. That means roughly seven months of my donations if not more are paying someone to make phone calls for a day. To get more people to sign up to pay for more call centre workers.

In my heart of hearts, I know fundaising is essential for Oxfam. I know, as a charity, an amount of their money must be put towards getting more money. And I trust them, I do. I trust them to make good use of whatever resources they have, my "well" included. I have confidence in what they do with it and how much good they're doing globally.

But it does rather take the romance out of it.