Yesterday the postman brought me a letter addressed to 6562g. Feeling in something of a robotic state after a particularly virulent bout of flu, and feeling that sometimes we are little more than a number in this gigantic societal machine, I tore open the envelope. I was rewarded by a letterhead and a mugshot of Sir Ian Botham endorsing an estate agency wishing to sell my house for me. Of course, the information had been grabbed from the internet, but, unhappily, they hadn’t managed to grab my name…unless my name is indeed 6562g and has been changed by deed-poll by some kind of App of which I am thus far blissfully unaware. I had a call from an insurance company recently, too, asking if I would like to use their conveyancing service. Did I mind them asking what stage the sale was at, they said. Yes, I did, I said. My phone number is protected by the telephone preference service. Well, almost.