I don't want to buy sunglasses from your online store. I don't want your jewellery, even with the 70 percent discount. I don't want to attend your shoe sale. I don't want to leave online reviews.
I don't have four minutes to fill in your satisfaction survey. I don't want to help you to letterbox the area or commit to manning the phones for any time on the weekend even if you are, as you say, running a positive, inclusive, grassroots campaign. I don't want to buy your houses, either heritage, or modern, with three or four bedrooms and a rumpus room, even if there is land to expand (STCA). I will not click on the image to watch your latest inner-city market update (with a sneak preview of 2016). You all say I am receiving your emails because I subscribed, but I did not. Please, UNSUBSCRIBE ME.
I don't want to make my penis longer, harder and thicker. Nor do I want viagra pills, even at the remarkably low price of 38 cents each. I don't want any bottles of unresearched potions for arthritis, asthma or hot flushes. Svetlana, I am not interested in what sort of man you are looking for (caring, intelligent, kindly with various interests) or whether you "like sport, traveling, cooking and communication with friends". The idea that your "main trump card is beauty" is of no concern to me. As you say, you "need a real man", but I am not a man at all. And Phaedra, I don't care how horny and lonely you are. DON'T EMAIL ME.
Don't phone me just to tell me that my Internet is failing, or that the tax office wants me to appear in court soon, or that I owe someone $35,000. Don't ask me a lot of questions with answers ranging from one to 10 where one means 'totally disagree' and 10 means 'agree whole-heartedly' and five means 'sit on the fence'. It does take more than 20 minutes, and I don't want to be recorded. Nor do I want your manager calling just to check that you called, or your manager's manager calling just to check that the first manager called. DON'T PHONE ME.
Now, if you are thinking of coming around on the weekend and ringing my doorbell, just to talk about a new and interesting electricity company and to request to see the back of my most recent bill... well, don't. So, Janine (was that your name?), yes, I was cooking, which explains why my hands were covered in coconut. But really, it was you who rang my doorbell, so don't roll your eyes and flick your hair as you say, "Enjoy your cooking". Next time, close the gate as you leave. Actually, don't bother with a next time.
All you callers with your ID cards proving you are with a bone-fide charity... you might not be selling anything, but really, I'm not going to commit to any regular contributions. Yes, I know, you've told me about the poor children, the homeless children, the sick children, the sporty children, the children with wishes and the horse-riding children, but I still won't give you my credit card details at the door. And you two young men, with your suits and shirts and ties, I don't really need your advice on how to bring up children. You admitted you had none yourselves, so just go home and phone your own mothers. DON'T RING MY DOORBELL
Unless you are one of my actual friends or a friendly relative, or the postman delivering that parcel I've been waiting for, LEAVE ME ALONE. But wait, am I going to have to leave an online review for the contents of that parcel? Will I have to pick a number from one to 10 describing how satisfied I am, where one is 'not at all', 10 is 'completely', and five is 'don't know, I'll wear it about the house for a while and tell you later'. Or maybe I should give the postman 10 stars for communication, manners and personality? After all, he actually is a real person with a real job delivering something I really want (probably). I hope he's not about to be replaced by a drone or a clone.