One of my favourite parts of the working day is the trip home. The ability to blithely scoot through the traffic while members of the steering-wheel brigade impotently gnash their teeth at the sight of my retreating exhaust pipe is always fun. Lately though, my arrival at Casa Kyknoord has been somewhat soured by the proliferation of paper in my post-box.
Junk mail seems to be making a serious comeback. Every day the hinges on my mailbox are pushed ever closer to bursting point by numerous enthusiastic marketers who seem to believe that if one stupid advert doesn’t catch my eye, then the other seventeen identical copies will definitely do the job.
Yes, I realise it’s more likely that the sorry soul tasked with delivering the stupid things is simply trying to get rid of their pile of pamphlets as quickly as possible. What I can’t understand is why they don’t just dump the whole lot in the nearest bin and go home. Surely this would be more efficient than making me the middle-man?