I read recently that the average person has somewhere between 8,000 and 10,000 emails sitting in their mailbox. That seems a lot, but then most of us have more than one email address, so the true figure is probably best not thought about.
Apparently, there are people who clear their inbox every time they look at it. They read an email, deal with it and either file it or delete it.
I suspect these are the same people who wash the dishes immediately after dinner, dry them and put them away. They probably also know where their passport is without having to search three drawers and an old briefcase.
At the other extreme are the digital hoarders, some of whom have 50,000, 100,000 or even 200,000 emails.
Imagine trying that in the days of paper. You’d need an extension on the house just for correspondence.
“What’s in that room?”
“Mostly printed emails from Ryanair.”
Of course, we brought most of this on ourselves. Somewhere along the way we started giving our email address to everybody.
Hotels, chemists, supermarkets, shoe shops, restaurants, clothes shops and businesses we can barely remember visiting.
And they never forget you.
“Hi Ian, we miss you.”
No, you don’t.
You miss my debit card.
The real trap is the 10% discount.
You’re standing there buying something for €20 and a cheerful assistant says, “Would you like 10% off if you sign up to our mailing list?”
Of course I would. I’m not made of money.
So I save €2 and in return agree to hear from the company three times a week for the rest of my natural life.
The item I bought may have worn out years ago, but the relationship continues.
Clothes shops are particularly good at this. Buy one jumper and suddenly they take a lifelong interest in your wardrobe.
New season arrivals. Summer sale. Autumn essentials. Christmas party wear.
I once bought something from a clothes shop that I can no longer remember visiting. Whatever it was is probably long gone, but the shop and I remain very close.
Then there are the sales.
“LAST CHANCE.”
“SALE ENDS MIDNIGHT.”
“FINAL HOURS.”
You assume it’s all over, only to wake up the next morning to find:
“SALE EXTENDED!”
Some sales have had more farewell tours than ageing rock bands.
Every so often I decide to tackle the inbox properly.
I sit down with great determination and delete 500 emails.
Then I look at the total.
18,742.
I delete another 600.
18,142.
At this rate, my inbox should be tidy sometime after my 100th birthday.
The real problem is that I’m reluctant to delete anything that looks remotely important.
There’ll be an email from 2013 called “Booking Confirmation”.
Booking for what? I haven’t a clue.
But I keep it.
You never know.
One day someone might knock at the door and demand proof that I stayed in a twin room in Galway thirteen years ago, and I will be able to say, “Give me a minute. I have it here somewhere.”
The modern inbox is really just the digital version of that drawer everyone has in the kitchen. The one full of old batteries, mysterious keys, obsolete charging cables and a small plastic object that obviously fell off something important.
You don’t know what any of it is for, but you daren’t throw it away.
I keep telling myself that one day I’ll go through the whole lot properly. Unsubscribe from everything, delete thousands of useless messages and get the inbox down to a respectable number.
Maybe even double figures.
And I probably will.
Just as soon as I’ve read this email from the clothes shop.
Apparently there’s 20% off knitwear.
