Meldrew moment in the post.
I had decided not to react to the hourly rattle of my letterbox, to which I had developed a Pavlovian rage.
I had decided to adopt a Zen-like calm while ferrying armfuls of garish pizza menus and estate agent guff to the recycling bin.
I had even toyed with the idea of doing something positive with the unwanted leaflets. Papering the bathroom, perhaps. Or waiting until the end of the week and doing the hall, stairs and landing.
But, last week, this frail peace was shattered.
First, a flyer for a fancy south Liverpool wine bar fluttered through my letterbox. No big deal, I thought, making a mental note never to schmooze there again.
Then, some 30 minutes later, a chirpy woman in a high-vis tabard knocked on my door and asked me to sign a chit confirming receipt of said flyer!
"Make sure you put your number down, love," she added, "as they might need to call by and check it was really you who signed."
So, just to be clear, we now have to sign for unwanted litter, bin it, then answer the door again to confirm we definitely received it? I ... don't ... believe ... it!