We all get them. Well, most of us anyway. All those reminders. Never ending trails of paper that hound you until your hair falls out. They start at least 6 months before you actually need to renew, but never tell you exactly when you really do need to renew.
After a while, you’ve had so many of them that you become anaesthetised to their arrival. They land on the doormat like confetti, and you treat them just like confetti. Of course, we do collect them; we store them in the paper recycling pile ready for the next collection, another redundant refugee from the mailshot mailman.
But why, you ask, am I so annoyed by them? Simple. It’s because of them I miss the magazine renewal date. It’s because of them I miss number twelve.
Now, that’s an issue that needs addressing.