Mailbox-based mithering from a leaflet victim

A postman delivering the morning mail.
A postman delivering the morning mail.

WHY is it when we are supposed to be entering a paperless world I am becoming submerged under a sea of leaflets?

Now I can’t remember the last time I wrote a letter and posted it. It has become a thing of the past like the telegram and writing cheques.

People put a running commentary on their entire life on Twitter and Facebook.

The last typewriter to be made in Britain was shunted off the production line last week.

Youngsters don’t have colouring books now, they have iPads - and paperbacks are being replaced by ebooks and Kindles. The next generation will probably have a Wifi dongle socket directly wired into their brain, so they can download an entire newspaper just by thinking.

You would think that our postal service would be struggling after the demise of so much communication which was traditionally shoved in an envelope.

Not so. It is good news to see that Royal Mail is increasing its staff at its delivery depot at Parkgate, as more and more people choose to buy online and have things delivered.

Not so good news for employees of Comet etc who are becoming showrooms for people to check out their new plasma telly before buying it cheaper elsewhere. Anyway I digress.

But it seems our postal service is also making up the erstwhile deliveries of redundant poison pen letters wistful missives, and Dear John letters by posting junk mail on an industrial scale.

This week I have strained my spinal column carting out yet another recycling box groaning under the weight of a thousand pointless and anonymous paper trails for the binman to collect.

Every day my letterbox is prised open with leaflets from outlets of the global junk food revolution.

It seems every pizza joint within a radius of ten miles has targeted me with a glossy cardboard menu with cut out BOGOFF offers for a 12 inch stuffed-crust donnerfest Mexicano firehorse calzoni.

On top of this there a more letters imploring me to make out a will before I shuffle off my mortal coil intestate; a voting card for the police commissioner, credit card companies trying to get me into unaffordable debt, charities asking me to put my old clothes out for them in a plastic bag; bogus charities asking me to put out my old clothes for them in a plastic bag. The list is endless.

Thanks to the recession I am being postally stalked by plasterers, plumbers and roof repairers who wouldn’t have got out of bed to work at my house five years ago.

If I should die alone in my home, a good sign to alert my friends and neighbours to my untimely demise would be leaflets poking out of the chimney a fortnight after the event.