Written on: 17/08/2012 by AlmostNakedAndScreaming (1 review written)
Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against Damart's clothing, which I'm sure is fine for women of a certain age. The missive below is what I have just sent them after their unnatural desire to bombard me with their catalogues even after I had asked them to stop many, many times. Be warned people. My letter follows below:
Many moons ago, against the advice of my dear Aunty Peggy, I ordered something from the Damart catalogue. "You'll be sorry", she said to me. "You'll never get rid of them now". O! How I rue the day I didn't heed her good advice. Foolish Robertson, foolish.
As much as I liked the one item I ordered (notwithstanding Aunty Peggy's words of wisdom), after some months of receiving Damart's catalogues full of toe-curlingly, unabashedly untrendy clothes (yes I know they are meant to be like this, aimed at ladies of a certain age as Damart is), I realised that perhaps their style wasn't for me, and I asked Damart to close my account and to stop sending me mailings. I understood at the time that perhaps these may continue for a little while as these things are prepared some time in advance. I didn't, however, quite grasp the concept that perhaps these things are actually prepared MANY YEARS in advance. However, the postal mailings did stop for a while. Yippee I thought. That was actually quite easy. Again, foolish Robertson, foolish.
At about the same time, I also unsubscribed from the almost daily e-mails which Damart were sending me. This had no effect whatsoever. The e-mails kept pouring in. So, some weeks later, I unsubscribed again – again with no effect. Still those pesky e-mails flooded in. Then the postal offerings started creeping back too. And now, they're back to their former almost daily glory, leaving me to wonder what part of "please close my account" Damart didn't quite grasp. The little goblins at Damart Towers in the e-mail department finally grasped the concept but not so the little elves in the postal department.
Undeterred, I phoned Damart and was told by a very nice lady that my account would be closed and that all future communications would be stopped. Oh, how I wanted to believe her, truly I did, in my naïvety. How nice it would be, I thought, if I didn't come home one day to find, with mind-numbing regularity, yet another missive from Damart awaiting my dismissal. Surely they must by now realise that their attentions are no longer welcome, having ordered and paid for just one item many months previously, and having begged them to stop sending their catalogues full of toe-curlingly, unabashedly untrendy clothes. But no! It would seem that Damart are akin to the Hotel California – you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.
Now I'm generally a tolerant person. When my PC crashes losing hours of work, I don't smash it with a hammer. When someone pushes me aside so that they can get to the last remaining seat on the train, I leave them to it, resisting the urge to poke them in the eye with the sharp end of a brolly, albeit flashing a Paddington Hard Stare in their general direction. When the neighbours' children run all over my property and leave their toys in my driveway, I don't blast the little blighters to smithereens with a shotgun. You get the picture, generally tolerant. However, Damart's steadfast refusal to stop inundating me with mail is starting to make my left eye twitch in a crazy, Inspector Clouseau's boss, kind of fashion. I lie in bed at night, not able to sleep, wondering if someone in Damart Towers is conjuring up the next Damart catalogue just for me, with a maniacal grin on their face, while saying "I'm not an evil man" over and over again to himself as he pictures the toe-curlingly, untrendy catalogue dropping once more onto my long-suffering doormat.
So, as a last resort before I run amok, crazy and naked through Chatham High Street shouting "see what ordering from Damart can do to you!", this is one last attempt to beg for my account to be closed – and I mean, really closed – and asking Damart to resist their overwhelming urge to send me mailings almost daily. I don't want them Damart. Honestly, I really, truly don't. I know that's hard to believe but there it is.
Please, please, please, please (and one more for luck) please stop sending me mailings. You may be trying to break a tolerant person – and trust me, you're getting pretty close – but I'd really rather NOT receive the POXY DAMART CATALOGUES ANY MORE!!! You see, you've reduced me to bold red capitals. Don't make me run naked through the streets of Chatham, please.
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