Stop Me and Sell One
It's getting harder and harder to get across any city centre without
being waylaid by someone with a clipboard. Whether they’re trying to
sign me up to their catalogue or sell me car insurance, I seem to be a
particular target. I think they assume I must be married or cohabiting,
or have children, or drive a car. Doesn’t everybody?
Well, no actually. And once they discover that I don’t fit their
demographic profile, they invariably send me on my way with: “Oh, I’m
sorry.” As if I should be disappointed that I can’t help them fill out
their forms.
There seems to be a remarkable illogic to it all. A few years ago there
was a trend for legal companies wanting to help you sue someone who
might have been responsible for a mishap.
“Have you had an accident?” they would ask as they stepped out in front
of you, almost causing one of their own. I can’t count the number of
times I was stopped by these people. Until, that was, the six weeks I
spent hobbling through town on two crutches.
Time after time I passed by the same people, who now seemed blind to my
obvious impairment. Actually, my accident was largely self-inflicted, so
I’d probably have had to sue myself. Nowadays the only people who don’t
stop me are the ones giving away free samples of things I might
actually want, like chocolate.
I don’t object to people trying to earn an honest living. It’s better
than hanging around on street corners – although I suppose that’s
precisely what they are doing. No, what annoy me are the looks of abject
surprise when I don’t want to sign up to the latest offer. Clearly I
have taken leave of my senses. I mean, who wouldn’t want a new credit
card/insurance policy/health club membership?
You do have to give these clipboard pests credit, though. Because some
are so devoted to their cause that even inclement weather won’t deter
them.
During a recent spell of bad weather, I watched from my sheltering spot
in a shop doorway as a representative of an energy provider attempted to
persuade passers-by to sign to his company. You had to admire
his persistence. It was teeming it down, people were hurrying past and
yet, despite raindrops falling from his nose, he continued his
relentless pursuit.
Only two actually listened. One of those stopped only because the red
man on the pelican crossing had prevented her escape. The other decided
to chastise him. Yet, even as she disappeared into the distance, his
sales patter continued, rising a decibel for every step she took away
from him. I wondered whether he’d get a single taker all day.
Aside from the obvious security risks of handing over your personal
details in the middle of St the street, do people really sign up
right there and then? Nowadays, even charities have begun to use this
technique. Don’t you miss the days when fundraisers stood on street
corners rattling collection tins?
In Derby we have a wonderful, and huge, shopping centre so you'd think we could avoid these street-scene clipboarders. But even the Westfield Centre doesn’t provide much refuge. There we have another niggling group of people: the ones who try to
spray perfume, curl your hair, or massage cream into your hands.
To be honest, my patience is beginning to wear thin. They seem to
station themselves at the narrowest crossing point, preventing any
chance of escape. I don’t mind them asking once, but how maddening is it
when, having collared you going in one direction, the same sales person
literally corners you on the way back?
Actually – accidentally as it happens – I discovered an effective tactic
for discouraging them. When one young lady grabbed my hand offering to
attend to my cuticles, I carefully explained that I sometimes had a
nasty allergic reaction to skin creams. She looked horrified and withdrew
immediately. So now when I’m stopped, one of the first things I mention is “allergic
rash”. You’d be amazed just how quickly they scatter. If only the
clipboard people were so easily deterred.