The things a girl has to do to get money. Look at me standing on a street corner, smiling at strangers in the vague hope of raising a pound or two.

Maureen, who's an old hand at this game, says it's all a matter of eye contact: you catch their eye, you smile and then - and only then - you gently jiggle the collecting tin. The problem is, the only ones who meet your eye, the only ones who smile back, are invariably already wearing an NSF sticker.

NSF, that's the difficult bit - it's not sick children, it's not cuddly animals. NSF stands for National Schizophrenia Fellowship. Schitzos, I hear you say, Wierdos Unlimited, a convention of Napoleon Bonapartes? But no, that's not what it is at all. It's an organisation that provides support to people who care at home for someone suffering from mental illness.

At least it's not raining on collection day this year. In fact it's a glorious day; the sun's shining and the city streets are bustling with cheerful shoppers. There's even music: buskers on the opposite corner. Jazz. They're good. I shake my tin in time to the beat. People, digging hands into pockets, approach me smiling and, still smiling, pass me by to toss coins into the musicians' cap.

An old lady pauses to read the NSF sash I'm wearing, then rummages in her purse and, nodding sadly, drops a £1 coin into my tin. Inspired, I smile harder. Others stop; a balding man, a couple pushing a child in a buggy, a teenage boy with a ring through his eyebrow. But they invariably back off awkwardly when I go to press a sticker onto their lapels. I don't blame them: giving or receiving, the whole business is quite irrationally embarrassing.

A touch on my elbow. I turn. A young woman peers up at me through dull, drug laden eyes.

'I've got a sticker.'

'So I see.'

'Got to do your bit.'

I thank her.

She shakes her head. 'It's an awful job.'

'We do our best.'

'Keep at it, Kelly, that's what mum says, got to keep at it. Don't forget to take your pills.'

That's the secret,' I agree, 'keep taking the pills.'

She beckons, whispers, 'Depression.'

I nod.

A mighty sigh. I've had my pills but ...'

I say, 'It's a long haul.'

She shrugs. 'Awful job … but my Mum … awful job.' She wanders off a few paces, stops, returns, smiling and says, 'I've got a sticker.'

'I know. You're doing very well.'

'Hummm ... Still ...' She squeezes my arm then shambles off along Market Street, a sad figure in the bright spring sunshine. But she's clean and tidy; she looks well cared for. Resolutely I turn to the oncoming crowd, smile broadly, jiggle the collecting tin.