There are, it seems, two kinds of catalogue.

In the first instance, there is the chunky brick-like variety. Statistics no doubt exist for the number of pet-owners who once-upon-a-time lovingly set out to catalogue-shop for pet accessories only one day to find poor 'Tiddles' laid out by the front door, apparently bludgeoned to death by the meaty tome laying alongside. So nowadays, thereby obviating the potential for any law-suit involving maimed domestic animals which could be precipitated by blithely and blindly shoving a 5kg sharp-cornered object through a catalogue-sized slot in a door, these pet-killers are deposited at one's doorstep.

Receipt of one of these catalogues generally implies that one has signed up for a free-gift or has erroneously ticked a box whilst making other purchases and is thenceforth having funds surreptitiously drained from one's bank-account. While anticipating any free-gift, it is wise to be aware that it will never be the toaster/kettle/waffle-iron that could reasonably have been inferred from the advertising fluff, but is more likely a roll of old gardening magazines, some of which may seem to have been used as an impromptu cricket-box¹.

The catalogue itself however is rarely a disappointment. It is a shiny, smelly, reassuringly solid affair, and, when new, the pages, uniform, colourful and crisp, are almost bonded together with a combination of static and the shiny, smelly chemicals that one must suppose are some sort of anti-thrift pheromone. Indeed, with calculated neglect, this pastel-bedecked beast will remain forever pristine and new, except, almost inevitably with teenage boys around, for a few well-thumbed pages of the lingerie section, which eventually, perhaps more prematurely than expected, tend to become permanently welded together. Despite the chemicals, the pages are somewhat embarrassingly not 'eezee-wipe' cleanable.

Middle-class, middle-aged, middle-of-the-road, these catalogues are ostensibly for women, women who don't subscribe to raciness or risk.

The other variety is a much slimmer shabbier effort altogether, often obtainable by calling "for your free catalogue, now" on 0878 etc. It is a grubby brown mackintosh of a catalogue and is thoughtfully posted through the letter-box in a suitably furtively-grubby brown envelope. Despite all the blandness in the world, one can rest assured that the postman will know exactly what's inside. Indeed, just watch him grimace as he attempts to fish it from his sack, trying oh-so-hard with the tips of his thumb and fore-finger not to make any more contact than is absolutely necessary to post the thing. If he had a pair of marigolds, he would be wearing them. To complete his misery, the sorts of people receiving this kind of mail have small-but-stiff letter-boxes. Probably.

Be sure that no expense whatsoever has been spared in the compilation of this catalogue. There are no free gifts to expect, just thrills. And then some spills. Instead however, any subscriber will have been logged by the security services on an ever-expanding database of misfits and deviants.

Inside, among the glitz and glamour of neons and darkness, in stark contrast to the wholesome, healthy, pastel-coloured innocence of its distant glossy cousin, models, girls mostly, parade their open-gusseted, peep-holed, imitation-fabric wares. This catalogue does not concern itself with sensible underclothes in hessian and woolsack, but teeters on the brink of pornography. This catalogue is for men, men who want their women looking dirty, without going to the trouble of actually getting properly dirty ... big-haired dominatrices, wonder-women and exuberantly randy youthful dental hygienists, that sort of thing.

But, readers of this kind of catalogue would do well to take heed of the warnings. Avid and regular readers will already be aware that it would have been stapled together, rather than glued, which could give rise to embarrassing body-piercing injury in cases of urgent intimacy therewith. Moreover, anyone tempted to part with coin of the realm to take delivery of a "imitation-satin peep-hole basque" should be aware that the fabric is likely to be incompatible with naked flames. Near-naked old-flames maybe OK, but a carelessly tossed cigarette could mean bye bye baby. Perhaps most poignantly of all, however, these things never look as good as they do on the girls in the catalogue, when sported at home, where real life is at least as much Roald Dahl as it is Sophie. Peach.