In years past, I ignored the flyers that appeared in my mailbox or at my door. No, I must correct myself. I did more than ignore them. I threw them, with a certain amount of loathing and annoyance, into my recycling bin.
One day, things took a turn in my house. With Gill living here, she quickly managed to teach me the joy, the thrills of a Saturday morning spent perusing, in great detail, the weekly supplements to the local newspaper. If she’d paid that much attention to detail when she was in high school, there would have been fewer ‘Gill is a bright girl but she needs to focus more’ notes from the teachers. Well, no matter. She showed them by getting her PhD. And she still loves the newspaper supplements. In many ways, she’s a throwback to the days of the Sears Wishbook, the Christmas catalogue that children turned into a cult magazine devoted to how much parents could spend on their children to spoil them rotten on Santa’s behalf.
When my conversion was complete, she left the country — leaving me the only one to anticipate the arrival, drool over the offerings, and study the flyers as if they were the Bible, The Guide to Survival in the 21st Century, and the Secrets of the Ages all wrapped into one. And the Republican Rule Guide to Conventions Where Trump is The Nominee.
Yes, Gill left me vulnerable. And just when I was hooked, much as a drug addict is, my newspaper failed me. One week, the flyers didn’t appear. I was fine. It was simply a mistake, easy enough to happen. I paid little attention, secure in the knowledge that next week would bring a new batch of flyers to feed my addiction. How wrong I was! Nothing appeared with my paper. Nothng left in a bundle on the driveway to be smooshed by my car. Nothing thrown carelessly into the bushes during a snowstorm. I know because I looked — still in my pj’s and slippers, I bumbled around in the prickly bushes, getting stuck more than once, getting snow in my slippers and, yes, I admit, cursing a blue streak at having to scrounge like a dumpster diver.
But I needed those flyers — needed to know where salmon was on sale that week, needed to know what Seniors’ Day at the department store had to offer me, needed to know what was new and cheap to update my rapidly aging home decor. Enquiring minds needed to know. Or at least, mine did.
This continued week after week. Week after week, I phoned the “Flyer Hotline’. Week after week, I was promised delivery — before 6, tomorrow, for sure it’s on the list for the top manager to address. Still no flyers. Now, I love to complain about poor service and have delivered more than a few rants in my time. But usually, they get action. For a reason unknown to me, my flyer complaints have fallen on deaf ears.
I don’t know how to break this bad news to Gill. She will be arriving this summer for her vacation and I will have no Insider’s Report for her. I know she will be livid. It might even be enough to make her get back on the plane! She lives for that thing. She spends hours perusing all the specials and innovative new products Galen Weston has to offer. Why, it’s her favorite summer reading. Never mind a trashy novel. She only wants the Insider’s Report.
I wonder, if I threw myself on the mercy of Galen himself, he might be able to fix the Saga of The Missing Flyers. One lives in hope. Are you listening, Galen?