Each month at my Sheffield home, I consign a blue plastic box containing a bale of paper the weight of a medium-sized Labrador, to the bin men.
It mainly consists of the interminable stream of leaflets and promo items which are posted through my letter box every day.
I hate junk mail with a vengeance – why is so much of it just a waste of everybody’s time?
I get jokey, matey, personalised leaflets from a media company offering me mobile phone and Internet deals which I can’t have because I am one of the fools who already subscribes at the higher rates set for loyal customers.
I get invitations to night clubs to celebrate my 21st birthday with a champagne party. What part of 47 don’t they understand? Not that they would let me in if I called their bluff and turned up with my wrinkly compatriots.
I am propositioned with a photocopied leaflet from a woman called Kate who is desperate to buy my house, and could I call her? I strongly suspect this is really a cleverly disguised speculative mass-fishing mailshot from an estate agent.
Menus arrive from curry houses that deliver within a three-mile radius but are more than five miles away and won’t come when you phone them up, or arrive hours late with the wrong order.
There are letters from robdog fraudsters, promising me a grand a week for working from home, which I would never have a hope of achieving if I put in seven straight 24-hour days.
This endless bombardment is about as relevant and accurately targeted as a blindfolded man blasting at a side-stepping armadillo with a confetti-filled blunderbuss. Or something similar.
If pushed, I can think of just one useful purpose this tide of spurious nonsense might perform.
It arrives at such a prodigious rate through the letterbox, and piles up so quickly, that If I dropped dead in my house, my friends and relatives would know before my body decomposed... because the leaflets would start poking out of the chimney.