All the stalkers you see are desperate marketing men

I have a stalker. In fact, I have hundreds. So do you. What, do you mean you haven’t noticed? I became aware of my admirers after Christmas. First it was letters, then emails. Could I spare a mo to rate my broadband installation? What about the insurer’s customer service? The building society was sorry I’d closed my account, but would love to hear how well they closed it. The questionnaire shouldn’t take a minute. Then came the calls. ‘How did I find the helpline?’ asked my bank. Barclays (not my bank) rang several times to invite me to participate in a survey. This was not, repeat not, a sales call. Just a few minutes of my time… How, asked my mobile operator, can we improve our end-user interface? ‘By leaving me in peace,’ I didn’t say. Next, harassment. One icy Saturday I was walking home with goodies from Ottolenghi, a deli which provides a Proustian whiff of decadence for a mere £3.50 slice of cake. Three pasty men in day-glo yellow jerkins approached. ‘Do you smoke, madam?’ ‘No,’ I said. Downcast, they turned and circled one of the few passersby whose cloudy breath wasn’t cold but nicotine-rich. On their yellow backs I read: ‘NHS Anti-Smoking Patrol’. I felt victimised. I felt like I was at school. I felt like having a smoke. And if these invasions of my privacy don’t end soon, I may copy the late John Mortimer and take it up again. When I get sick, I’ll know whom to sue. To me, these approaches prove that every bust brings its boom. 2009 shall be the Year of the Nosy Parker, as a buyer’s market detonates an explosion of invasive marketing. Although paranoia and other such knotweed of the mind flourish in hard times, my theory strikes me as entirely logical.