No, I don't want a bloody conservatory!

It used to be that people who guessed your age were just sideshow attractions at fun fairs - the ones who couldn't do something useful like juggle, tell your fortune or spin the waltzer until your candyfloss reappeared.
Now they're everywhere. . . and they use their finely-honed powers of deduction to determine whether or not they should hand you one of their precious leaflets.
When you're young, you pay no attention to the type of leaflet distributor you attract. Someone randomly hands you a piece of paper, you take it and then bin it at the earliest opportunity. You think no more of it.
Once middle-age sets in, however, you begin to see the more sinister side of leaflet distribution.
And you realise there's absolutely nothing random about it.
They're judging you. Why else is it that the scandily-clad girl handing out leaflets advertising a trendy new cocktail bar doesn't give me a second glance while the struggling mum-of-two in a Primark trouser suit wants me to fill in a questionnaire?
Do I have double glazing, loft insulation, a smart, red-brick driveway, a conservatory?
The sad thing is, I'd quite like a new driveway to replace my tatty, old churned-up tarmac one. But I'm not about to admit it. . . certainly not to someone who thinks I look like I'd be interested in such a thing.
It's like the old Groucho Marks joke about never joining a club that would have someone like me as a member. . .
Why can't they just humour me and give me leaflet about their hideous, over-priced, ear-splitting, uber-trendy cocktail bar anyway?
I don't want to go. I just want to be invited!