Cynical marketing

I like to think of myself as above marketing hype. I persuade myself that I can drift through life, able to rationally weave through the subtle, ever more-subtle, advertising with which we are continually bombarded in this day and age, without being swayed to purchase. When I buy something it is because I really need that flashy new camera or this shiny laptop - a carefully prepared need, nursed for weeks by poring over catalogs and websites, visiting shops until the specification has been examined in detail and I am satisfied of the value of what I'm buying. Not on a whim do I purchase.

It's not true. Although I like to think I am above it all, and maybe I'm cynical enough to ignore or dismiss a lot of over-commercial advertising, I am still subject to the same forces of persuasion as everyone else. Might this just be another level of marketing - are there grey-suited executives out there who have the measure of me? "Make him think like he's above our hype - because he loves that - then use that to sub-consciously persuade him to buy twice as much". Like the Matrix Reloaded, maybe this is just a convenient extra level - for the small proportion of the population who think they're above what works for the rest. Another level, with exclusive appeal, to distract us and keep us on the same commercial hamster-wheel.

It depresses me that I am powerless to resist. I can watch it happen - to my own wallet. I got a phone call the other day, an out-of-the-blue cold call from a pleasant, fun-sounding, young girl with a faint Midlands accent. "Was I a high-powered business man?", she flattered. "Would I like to have the Financial Times - with it's stimulating, insightful supplements - delivered to my door every day by 7am so I could be the best informed man in my office?". I don't read the FT - on the few occasions I have it felt like reading an ordinary newspaper in the light of a dim 30W bulb. It gives you a migraine the moment you start. I don't even buy a regular paper every day - this high-powered business man is more likely to be seen pulling a coffee-stained copy of Metro out of a bin on the station platform so he has something to occupy him on the train, than parting with 45p for a daily broadsheet.

So, on the face of it, it wasn't an attractive proposition to be charged £1 per day on my debit card for the privilege of 500g of pink paper, even with insightful supplements, land on the communal door step every morning. Just another weight to add to my cycle bag. I couldn't believe it but didn't I get practically to the point of paying before I realised this? This girl, with her flattery, her eager sales-pitch, her easy chatting had nearly convinced me to part with the best part of £30 per month for a paper I dislike delivered to my door. I had my card in my hand and was about to read out it's silvery numbers when sanity came to me. It is when this happens to you, you realise the power of direct tele-sales. It was an eye opener, I can tell you.

Now, off to buy that new camera I've got my eye on...