Sorry to hear you're leaving 

With people job-hopping so frequently, the whip-round envelope is ever present.

There are some weeks when it seems that you've only just finished rooting around in your bag, handed over a fistful of shrapnel and got back down to work, when that brown begging envelope is doing the rounds again. 

Whip-rounds have reached their zenith of late, for the simple reason that we're not staying in the same job for a lifetime. OK, so the fact that you haven't loyally served with the same people for 30 years or more probably means that you're not going to stagger out of the door with a canteen of cutlery, but it does mean that you'll notch up quite a few presents and cards complete with limericks and fond farewells by the time you're 30. 

Systems are in place to save the recipient the agony of having to control a trembling lower lip when opening a disappointing gift: heavy hints are encouraged, or sometimes even a wedding-style list is drawn up to ensure that the leaver won't end up going home with a useless object. 

One unfortunate office manager mentioned that she'd seen an episode of South Park and wasn't it a laugh? When she left, she was presented with the complete works on video. Turned out that she'd liked it as a one-off, but was far from a fan. She managed to exchange the lot for HMV vouchers, but it was a close call. 

Yet the requests for dosh can be relentless. Leaving presents aside, you get the emergency bouquet whip-round for someone with salmonella poisoning; hard-to-refuse pleas to sponsor cycle rides in China or walks in Nepal, not to mention the odd collection for a Mothercare voucher for someone about to start maternity leave. It's constant shelling out, and often for people you don't really know, let alone care about. 

"When you don't like someone, it's tempting to put your hand in the envelope and jangle what's in there already," says Elspeth, who works in a graphic design company. "Sometimes the collection is for some office lackey you've never spoken to, and it's hard to muster any enthusiasm. I'm like the Queen: I've never got any money, although sometimes I can find 28p in coppers." 

Indeed, in many organisations, nobody knows who anybody is, which is why the photocopied telephone list stuck on the front of the envelope has become a godsend. And, with the crossing out or ticking off systems working, the collector can do roll-calls of the names which remain unticked, often shaming people into giving. 

Is it time to call it a day? The nature of work is more fluid - shouldn't office workers be allowed to go, without the formulaic hypocrisy of the leaving do? The "stay in touch" and "come back and see us" messages - how much truth is there in them? Honesty could be the way forward. "Yeah, sorry to see you go, but we thought we'd save you the embarrassment of the presentation. See you around, anyway." 

You see? It's quick, painless and avoids the the cringe factor. Yet imagine how abject you might feel, sloping off on your last day, empty- handed, having indulged in little more than a perfunctory round of farewells? Even when you know that people have probably given grudgingly, the leaving gift - and presentation speech with ropey humour - is something that we'd miss. 

Maybe we just need to be even more matter of fact about them. After all, most of the time, you can sense the brown envelope passing right under your very nose. Maybe the easiest would be to do it yourself. The fake coyness about not having a clue how much people have coughed up for you is passé. Cheques and vouchers to spend at the store of your choice pass muster. 

In one law firm, the secretaries regularly count the contents of the whip-round envelope before asking the partners to contribute. Meanness or generosity of individuals is then communicated to the rest of the department so that everyone has a good idea of what they're up against. In one insurance firm, the office manager reports that the bosses always perform an extravagant wallet-opening ritual: taking out a big note and stuffing it in nonchalantly. 

Many people set their own personal limit for giving. Others up the ante according to length of stay. Some people suddenly feel a pang of nostalgia, perhaps remembering a particularly enlightening conversation in the toilets at the Christmas party, and suddenly feel compelled to throw in a fiver. 

And should the potential for the light-fingered ever be considered an issue, at the head office of one well-known London department store, if someone needs to get change from the envelope, they make a big deal of it, saying: "Look everybody! I'm putting in this", as they hold up a £20 note - "and taking out this" - as they laboriously count out £16 in change in full view of everyone. 

Asking leavers what they would like as a gift has thankfully taken the pressure off the person commissioned with the task of doing the shopping. In one firm of accountants, the departmental secretary often goes out at lunchtime with the leaver, who is made fully aware of the amount of money available, and can happily choose her own present. 

But in one branding consultancy, a secretary was sent out alone to buy a portable CD player for someone. Imagine the leaver's surprise then (and the toe curling embarrassment of the secretary) when the Panasonic box was opened to reveal - nothing. The recipient wasn't sure whether it was a practical joke. What made it worse was that she was opening it in front of 50 people. It was a memorable moment - for all the wrong reasons. 

Yet, as with all gift giving, it really is the thought that counts, and it is the kind thoughts of colleagues that should elicit a misty-eyed feeling when you're standing up there, expressing your thanks. The thing is, you know from experience that when the envelope hits your desk, the first thought that comes to mind is: "Oh no, not again," and the thought voiced is: "I haven't got any change, can you come around again later? as you hope against hope that you will be forgotten. 

The Guardian Monday July 23, 2001