Pity the Postmen and the Bin Men...

Do you know what? I feel sorry for Bin Men. You see my forgiving nature (re: A Woman Scorned) when they refused to take my bin because of one sad bit of paper lying in with the plastics and cardboard. No, I genuinely feel sorry for them when they have to cart away the heavy blue re-cycling box full of paper and magazines. We manage to do a pretty fine job of filling it with a daily news paper, but at this time of year it's the catalogues.
Yes! It's the catalogues that stream in daily, unsolicited. Yes, that's right: I didn't ask for them... Just because I happened to show a slight interest by clicking (sometimes inadvertently) on your web-site, I was browsing, what we used to call window-shopping in the real world. And now, damnit, you've gone and told your friends and now they are sending me catalogues. Acres, hectares, (if they're bigger- not sure, and if I look it up I will receive a tree catalogue for godsake, so I'd better not, as I only have a small garden) forests of trees are being destroyed. In vain. Because all I do, if you're lucky, (and don't count on it) is give it a quick flick and then I chuck it out. Yes, outski, where it may or may not end up by being pulped or possibly find itself in a Chinese landfill site. Who knows? So no more catalogues, please. Hello? Hello? The line's gone dead.
This morning Dearest set off with the Dukeshill catalogue. I noticed it, half-secreted between some files, he'd brought home. A foodie husband in charge of a luxury brand Food retailer's catalogue, is a dangerous combination.
I texted him:"When thinking Dukeshill, please think of reduced capacity fridge and freezer at Christmas and your wife's reduced capacity to squeeze a quart into a pint pot." Clear or what?
He has been warned. And I am on notice.