Deborah Ross: Dear Johnnie Boden, this is why I'm returning your catalogue

If you ask me: My husband wouldn't recognise moleskin if the mole was skinned right under his nose

If you ask me, and are like me, you will receive catalogues through the post on a daily basis and, if you are like me, you will toss them straight into the recycling bin, but how to save yourself even this trouble? I believe this can be achieved by returning the catalogues along with a note explaining why you should be removed from the mailing list, as follows:

Dear Johnnie Boden: And a great big, swishy, sassy hello to you, too! My name is Deborah Ross (Style icon: Olive from On The Buses; ask anyone) and I would love to buy into the Boden lifestyle but the fact is, Johnnie, we're a household of non-aspirational losers. My husband, for example, not only wears the clothes his mother buys for him from the Blue Harbour range at M&S, but wouldn't recognise moleskin if the mole was skinned right under his nose, the saddo! And our children, Johnnie, far from rock-pooling companionably, or jumping off jetties, are more likely to be found kicking the shit out of each other or drinking vodka behind a bush. Should the situation change, I will be in touch, but I am not hopeful at present. Shame, as I think I'd look good draping myself fetchingly on driftwood, but there you have it.

Dear Lakeland: As it happens, I've promised myself that one day I will deserve an easy-fill jam funnel and banana bag, plus a Remoska Electric Cooker – "a joy to use; what a gem!" – although I'm going to have to do something big to deserve that, like save a small child from drowning in a fast-moving river, or forgo Peter Andre: The Next Chapter and discover the cure for cancer. Should either happen, I will certainly get back to you. You can be sure of it!

Dear Jack Wills: Somewhat fortuitously, your catalogue landed on my doormat when I was just in the mood to purchase a vastly overpriced hoodie with your name splashed all over it just so I could show everyone I'm the worst kind of showy-offy capitalist whore-bag... hey, I'm just having a bit of fun with you here! I'd rather be dead than wear anything from your catalogue, and dead from something terrible, like falling off a cliff onto an upturned spike. Still, thanks for thinking of me.

Dear Orvis: You are right, my beloved canine companion would adore a £325 Tempur-Pedic bed and the unparalleled sleep experience this would mean, but he's not having one. Good day to you.

Dear Cotton Traders/Lands' End: Although you may not believe it, I do not need your catalogues because I am still a little bit interested in fashion. As for the swimsuit with the little skirt attached, everyone still knows you are fat under there. Get over it.

This should do it, I think.