I've lost count of the number of times Morgan Stanley Dean Witter have sent me junk mail, pleading with me to run up substantial debts at punitive interest rates by signing up for one of their credit cards. I've never seen anyone use a Morgan Stanley Dean Witter credit card, and I wonder whether Morgan Stanley Dean Witter have ever succeeded in persuading anyone to borrow any of their vast reserves of money. I'm certainly not taking the bait. Aside from the fact that I'm terrified of debt, I feel suspicious of the company name, recalling as it does some overblown 70s progressive rock outfit with a penchant for recreating the symphonies of Dmitri Shostakovich on twin-necked guitars, with a thundering backbeat. Stanley would be the well-built, metronomic drummer with a 24 piece drum kit and the ubiquitous gong hanging ominously from a rope behind him. Witter: the geeky keyboard player who builds his own synths in his spare time, while consistently astonished that attractive women – who, until he joined Morgan Stanley Dean Witter, seemed to be repulsed by him and his Moogs – are actually willing to engage him in thrilling sexual activity in plush hotel rooms. But, of course, they're more interested in obtaining access to Morgan, the long-haired, virile vocalist with a tambourine firmly clamped in one hand and his bulging groin in the other. Dean plays the twin-neck. He's planning to form his own band, simply called “Dean”.

Anyway, another letter arrived yesterday from these exponents of financial and musical wizardry. I slung it in the bin, with another similar-looking envelope that also seemed to promise untold debt. Something made me fish it out of the bin, though. I opened it; it was a cheque for £43.86 from Barclaycard – a “CashBack” sweetener. But why on earth are they sending me a cheque? Why not just credit my account? Clearly they are hoping that people will just lob the envelopes away. No-one is expecting Barclaycard to give them just under £50, anymore than they would expect Barclaycard to send them on an all-expenses-paid trip to an exotic Caribbean hideaway. But I caught you, Barclaycard. I got my money. You can't fool me with your shiny envelopes.

There was a vaguely amusing incident in a print shop in Southfields on Monday. Not an often-uttered sentence, but I know, because I was there. I'd ordered some flyers to be duped up for the Momus + Free French + Stars In Battledress show next month. I emailed them an A4 sheet, on which 4 flyers had been painstakingly designed. “Can you print 300 copies of this sheet,” read my email, “and then cut them into quarters.” I was called on Monday morning. “Mr Marsden? Your flyers are ready.” I took a convoluted route to get to Southfields, and walked into the shop. On the table set a miniscule pile of my flyers. “Here you are,” said the proprietor. “All done.” The similarity to the Stonehenge moment in Spinal Tap was uncanny. I looked at him. He looked at me. “Is that all of them?” I asked. “Certainly, sir. 300 flyers.” “But I didn't ask for 300 flyers.” His eyebrows raised. “I asked for 300 sheets, to be cut into quarters.” I was desperate to carry on in the manner of Spinal Tap's manager. “Have you SEEN advertising campaigns for concerts by semi-successful indie acts? They use 2, 3, sometimes 4,000 flyers! How can I be expected to mount a successful publicity drive, using [I prod them with my index finger] these? Hmmm?” Of course, I didn't say this; I just asked for another 900 flyers. “Certainly sir. Would you like them delivered?” Yes please, I said.