My latest irritation: the membership chain

The pinnacle, to get straight to the point, was last week at the Bijenkorf. At every checkout moment (and there were quite a few, I was in the mood to shop and so were my daughters) I was asked if I was a Bijenkorf member. I don't have a card (must be my fault) and so I had to recite my email address. In my case, that's quite a task. M A Greek IJ, dash, no underscore, just a hyphen like in Jan-Jaap, you know, then Britt like Britt Dekker. Double t, yes. Okay, what's next? @amayzine.com. A M A again a Greek Y Z I N E, amajziene, okay. That takes about five minutes on average. ‘Do I actually get a discount now?’ No, shakes the cashier. But there are all sorts of other benefits that she can't recall right now. Fine, I think, and I move on. This ritual repeats with every purchase, even at the restaurant. Even when I go to get two extra ice teas. ‘What is your email?’ Uh, well ma'am, if I give you that, my noodle soup will have cooled down by now, so if you don't mind, I'll just leave it.

The membership chain is everywhere. At Petit Bateau, at HEMA, at the gas station, even at my baker. And why? Mainly to have an overwhelmed inbox every morning and to keep pushing me to buy.

Dear people, believe me: in my case, that's not necessary. I do buy. But please leave me alone.

Amen.