crying with kristin

So who was this pale and lovely waif on the BBC Breakfast sofa, blubbing and blabbing so passionately for Oxfam and Africa ? A little bleary-eyed and normally used to dealing with the Today programme or Chris Evans, it took me a while to clock the diva back from Dadaab. This was not Angelina Jolie on a bad make-up day, but the wet and winsome Kristin Davis, known to those who care (and I once did, honest) as shrinking southern belle from hell Charlotte in Sex and the City.

One of the biggest disappointments of a four-month stint in New York last year (walking down Madison and all that) was not to catch a glimpse of any of the famour foursome in the bars and boutiques of Manhattan, making do instead with the truly execrable SATC2. But never mind Carrie and co shaking it with the sheikhs in some Arabian pleasure zone. Here was Kristin on Kleenex alert, despatched to BBC soft question sofaland to peddle a personalised account of how bad things are, wowing her vacuous early morning hosts with tales of death and desperation. Or should that be gush and slush? The tears were for real.

So how to respond to this? How heartless can one be to ponder not the ongoing misery of those pouring into the refugee camps, but the judgement of Oxfam, entrusting its message from the crisis zone to a millionaire thespian. Whatever else is on the K Davis acting CV, she appears to be doomed to be forever associated with a TV show that (infamously) celebrates frivolous consumption, rich girl angst, shoes, handbags and missing orgasms.

Oxfam I know of old. As a callow schoolboy, I sang carols for them, gave them the modest proceeds from a school magazine and helped sort out the books in a shop in Cheltenham. Much of my library and wardrobe comes from Oxfam outlets. But I have also taken the Oxfam shilling, joining them on missions to Sierra Leone and the Democratic Republic of Congo. In my naive worldview, Oxfam, warts and all, is still unequivocally on the side of the angels and speak more sense than most about issues that matter.

Historically, the focus has been on development as much as individual emergencies, resolutely unsexy and best handled by those who can talk convincingly about wells and irrigation, rather than weep for Africa. Dame Helen Mirren, bless her, can even put her name to a well-nuanced piece on the horrors inflicted by the Ugandan Lord's Resistance Army. I still harbour shy (possibly pathetic) fantasies of a trip together to some African backwater, Dame Helen quietly applauding my shrewd analyis of conflict dynamics while coyly fielding questions about 'The Long Good Friday' and her memories of going naked in 'Caligula'. So far, I have had to make do with a meal out with Nigel from Eastenders in Rwanda.

Which brings us back to Kristin. I have seen worse, Oscar wailer Sally Field promised Americans that "no one in Africa need ever starve again" while raising funds for LiveAid. Kristin's biography reveals that a past fondness for alcohol has given way to an enthusiasm for acupuncture (not readily available in Dadaab, but I'm sure we are getting there). Her Facebook page is a little cute and cloying if baby elephants, dogs, kittens and dead gorillas are not your bag. But she was well on message at the Montreal Milennium Summit, saving the world on all that. So on balance, put away the sick-bag or get out the cheque book? It's an alarmingly tough call.