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Junk mail is fair enough - but please shut the gate

PUBLISHED: 15:04 05 November 2017

Leaflet deliverers of Norwich... this is what a closed gate looks like (OK, so maybe my real gate isn't opening to such leafy pastures - but you get my drift).

Leaflet deliverers of Norwich... this is what a closed gate looks like (OK, so maybe my real gate isn't opening to such leafy pastures - but you get my drift).

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For a person living on my own, I do get lots of visitors. I must be more popular than I look.

Unfortunately, most of them approach my door when I’m out.

I’m not inventing imaginary friends: I know people have nipped round because they leave calling cards - and, almost without fail, are unable to close the gate behind them.

(The postman also leaves the gate open. It’s not a tricky gate - just a lever in a slot. Not that I’m burning with fury about it, though...)

Anyway, back to the calling cards. In the last four days, I have received 13.

They all include nice messages and a contact number:

- Want to get your business noticed? Call 01603 3****6;

- Would you like to sell your house this month? CALL NOW ON 01603 9****0 RIGHT NOW!

Lots of my kind callers are offering to deliver food and drink to my door for nothing but the price of the food and drink. Perhaps a rumour is getting around that I’m sad and lonely?

You’ve probably worked out by now that I get a constant stream of junk mail thrust through my letterbox by people with a gate-operating deficiency.

It happens pretty much every day.

I guess it’s rather a waste of money, but it’d be a bit rich for someone working in the newspaper industry to make that accusation.

I’m more bothered by the constant temptation.

I’m not naturally svelte: I have to work hard even to look out of condition. It’s not easy to eat healthily, partly because I can’t be bothered to cook when I get in from work.

I’m vulnerable, and I fear I’m being targeted by takeaways and supermarkets.

They know how much I’d love a steakwich, a 12in stuffed-crust margherita hot, doner meat with chips and cheese, a Ferrero Temptation sundae, or a 
king prawn satay with prawn balls.

My mouth is watering as I write this, but fortunately I’m playing football in an hour, so my wallet and waistline are safe.

Actually, in 14 months of living in Norwich I have had a grand total of one takeaway.

But I do wish the local purveyors of carbs, cholesterol and salt would quit trying to get me off the wagon.

I know, there is something I could do about it.

I could put up a sign on my door, declaring: ‘No junk mail, no hawkers, no person-distracting-me-while-accomplice-nips-in-and-nicks-my-1970s-pouffe, no Jehovah’s Witnesses, no woman, no cry.’

But those signs send a message to the world that you are a loner who keeps your curtains drawn in the daytime and who has never spoken to someone of the 
opposite sex.

Ok, there’s more than a grain of truth in it, but I’d sooner not advertise it.

Instead, I’d prefer that the many businesses which do leaflet drops would stop - it’s not how I buy things.

The exception will be if someone shuts my gate: I’ll get a takeaway from the first deliverer who can manage that.

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