Something must be afoot. Either there’s some kind of election on – a likely hypothesis, seeing as there seems to be an election every 15 minutes in this country – or else, someone is trying to set a new Guinness World Record for the sheer amount of unsolicited mail that can be conceivably be stuffed into a single letter-box.

Not just any old letter-box, either. My letter-box. With my name on it. At my address. And guess what? Filled with.... other people’s junk! (Loud, unprintable swear-words, etc.)

***

But first, allow me to introduce you two so you can get to know each other better. Reader, letter-box. Letter-box, reader. Right: now that the formalities are over and done with, please note the dimensions of the letter-box whose acquaintance you have just made. By my calculations, it is approximately 11.5 inches tall, 8.3 inches wide, and a little less than five inches deep. Its mouth is just over six inches long, and just under two inches wide.

This morning, I found approximately 76 leaflets, magazines, catalogues and colour brochures thrust unceremoniously inside. The ones which didn’t fit were left jutting vertically upwards through the mouth, lending the entire letter-box a passing (and rather uncanny) resemblance to Big Chief Sitting Bull just before the Battle of Little Big Horn. Meanwhile, a fair amount also thrust forth corners and individual pages through the door, and I counted another 14 such catalogues and leaflets scattered across the hallway (for I have heard that in overcrowded conditions, individual items of junk mail – not unlike certain fledgling birds – are believed to “push each other out of the nest”... especially if they advertise competing products and/or services.)

***

OK, I know what you’re thinking. What do you expect, if you only check your mail once every three years? But sometimes, believe it or not, it’s almost worth the wait. This morning, for instance, I spent a couple of hours going through the contents of my letter-box before throwing it all away. And among this endless proliferation of printed garbage I found a few items which were quite cordial... at times, even friendly.

One little leaflet, for instance, pointed out that I “needed a break” (I mean, how did it know?)... and then suggested a number of possible holiday destinations where I could take this much-needed break at “unbeatable prices.” Another asked me if I was “happy with my weight”, and then recommended a diet I could go on, in the course of which I would be guaranteed to lose around seven stone in one month, and still eat as much chocolate as I like. (Small note to the authors of this particular ad: a, I don’t particular like chocolate, and b, If I did lose seven stone in one month – or, for that matter, in any space of time whatsoever – I would probably end up fitting into that letter-box quite comfortably myself.).

Yet another informed me that people were interested in moving into my neighbourhood... would I care to sell them my home? And one of them even took the trouble to ask if I was feeling “low or depressed”... to which I was sorely tempted to reply: “No... at least, not until I checked my mail this morning.” (But then, striking up conversations with glossy pieces of paper in the hallway of a block of flats is not exactly a sure-fire symptom of perfect sanity... especially if you also claim that the paper “spoke to you first”).

***

But when all is said and done, what impresses me most about junk mail is not the cheek, nor the intrusion, nor even the nuisance of having to weed out the junk from the important stuff, and throw the former (as well as, sometimes, the latter) away... No. It is the sheer scientific improbability of the entire exercise that I find endlessly fascinating.

Some of you out there might remember the classic 1970s/80s sci-fi series, Dr Who (recently remade under the auspices of Steven Spielberg... although from what I hear, with tragic results). In particular, you might remember the titular Time-Lord’s mode of transportation through the Space-Time continuum – the TARDIS, to be precise: a nifty little vehicle, shaped like a London telephone box, which famously defied all known spatio-temporal relations by being “larger on the inside than it was on the out.”

Well, I’m beginning to think that the people responsible for all this junk mail have much the same impression of my letter-box. For, in spite of the dimensions described above – and in flagrant defiance of the basic scientific axiom that “two objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time” (with the possible exception of the government of Malta, which has been known to simultaneously occupy conflicting positions on all sorts of issues, without as much as batting an eyelid) – they would still attempt to force into this limited area a volume of compressed paper roughly the equivalent of half the rain forest of Brazil.

Meanwhile another scientific principle, equally cherished among physicists worldwide, will also tell you that an object cannot be made to fit into a container smaller than its own critical mass, without significantly altering the dimensions of either object or container.

In more practical terms: it is not possible to fit an A3, an A4 or even an A5 magazine into a space roughly the size of a thick paperback novel... and which in any case is already occupied by the aforementioned lottery leaflets, local council mug shots, insurance offers, real estate catalogues and Space Shuttle flight operation manuals... without damaging either magazine, or letter-box, or both. It’s like the old joke about “the game played by four elephants at the back of a Mini.” That’s right... Squash. It can’t be done, full stop.

***

But no. Call it hard-headedness, call it obsession, call it singleness of purpose, call it even the indefatigable spirit of human endeavour that prompted Edmund Hillary to scale Everest, or Alfred Sant to insist on Partnership.... They have to try.

So in they all go, the “freebie” magazines (note: for those unfamiliar with publishing jargon, “freebie” is a euphemism for “unwanted”, “unrequested”, “unappreciated”, “thrown straight into the bin”, “free of charge”, etc.), all meticulously rolled up, and then folded in two, and then rolled up again before being hammered into place with the postman’s equivalent of a pneumatic drill... there to stick unceremoniously out, tattered, dog-eared and miserable, alongside countless other freebies that have already been forced in there by previous unlicensed “postmen”... all similarly rolled, folded and then re-rolled, until the sheer pressure of all this latent, coiled-up tension is so great, so charged and so bursting-at-the-seams, that your mail-box instantaneously explodes upon being opened like a Baghdad car-bomb... sending hurtling in all directions, not shrapnel, but dozens upon dozens of shredded images of yachts, fridges, freezers, blow-dryers, mobiles, pots, pans, cars, property, designer labels, etc., etc., etc.

***

At this point, one might well ask: why? Why do they even bother? By this time, hasn’t any of them worked out that no, I don’t want to buy 14 two-car garages in Mriehel for only Lm120,000? That yes, I am happy with my own weight... and quite frankly, I would sooner eat the brochure itself, than dial the number printed thereon? And that no, on principle I wouldn’t even consider voting for someone who seriously believes that sticking his ugly mug shot into my mail box is some kind of ingenious electoral strategy...?

However, having studied the phenomenon for years, I think I have finally understood the darker, more nefarious purpose behind all this never-ending stream of junk.

***

Let me put it to you this way: have you ever paused to consider how, on those really rare occasions when you actually do receive something important – nay, vital – through the post for a change... you never notice it, because of the sheer amount of junk with which it somehow managed to get itself interspersed?

Well, there’s your answer: what other purpose could all this panoply of printed matter possibly serve, if not to camouflage other, truly important correspondence... and even then, just to make sure that life becomes as inconvenient as it possibly can?

And why else does all your important mail (you know, bills, tax returns, reminders to renew your annual subscription to retro-gaming magazines, etc.) always come in size no larger than an ordinary postal envelope... and as a rule, in colours as drab and instantly forgettable as greyish white, faded pink, or mellow, dog-poop brown?

It is as though a small army of civil servants has been trained from birth to make these letters as inconspicuous as possible... for instance, by printing the words “IMPORTANT WARNING”, or “FINAL NOTICE”, or “ATTENTION: YOUR HOME IS ABOUT TO BE DEMOLISHED TO MAKE WAY FOR AN INTERSTELLAR BYPASS”, etc., in the corporate equivalent of invisible ink, with print so small and colour so faded that it is visible only under a microscope... and even then, all you will see is a faint brushstroke not unlike the translucent watermark on an everyday five pound note.

***

Meanwhile, a larger army of talented designers and computer whizz kids (employed by the public sector, it goes without saying), delights in designing bigger, better, more colourful and more eye-catching brochures... catalogues which change colour in order to conflict with their backdrops, and thereby stick out more... cards which burst into Operatic arias as soon they are opened, or letters containing little machines which go “beep” and “boop”.... all of which serve one purpose, and one purpose alone: to make damn sure they blot out all notions that your letter-box may also contain that one, single, solitary important letter that you have been awaiting, and dreading, for months.

***

Well, at any rate, that’s my excuse for failing to respond to a 17th “final reminder” last week. What’s yours?