1. A letter from the American Express, addressed to her ex-husband Stuart, asking him why he didn’t give his wife the freedom of an Express card. The letter was illustrated by a photograph of an expensive-looking woman in a black evening dress and strings of pearls, standing in an expensive hotel foyer with a lot of shining matching luggage. (Kate had been a card holder for some years: Stuart’s credit, as she had no need to explain to Hugo, was not good.)
2. An advertisement for a fire extinguisher, portraying a hysterical woman in a provocative nightdress, shrieking amidst a lot of flames, and asking: “Do You Protect Your Loved Ones?”
3. A life-insurance leaflet with much the same message, but less sensationally portraying a happy family sitting over its cornflakes, the wife in a striped apron, the unsuspecting husband with a heart attack just round the corner, despite the fine executive panache with which he was reading his upmarket newspaper.
4. An invitation to attend a fashion show.
5. A letter from the Post Office addressed to Stuart, requesting his signature on her application for a new telephone extension.
6. An invitation from a women’s group in Birmingham, asking her to speak to them on the subject of “Women Today.”
7. A letter from a BBC producer, asking her if she’d ever thought of writing a play about the liberated woman of today, and if not, why not.
8. A pink letter from a militant American feminist announcing the birth of a daughter, and sending good wishes to dear Kate from Sandy, Steve, Baby, Wiggles, and Mustapha. (“I think calling your car or dog Mustapha qualifies as racist, don’t you?” was Kate’s comment on this offering: “and pink notepaper is certainly sexist, wouldn’t you agree?”)
9. A brochure for expensive Italian shoes, with underage models posing in Victorian underwear, offering a Try-at-Home Service for Professional Women.
10. A request that she should appear in a fur coat in an advertisement for fake fur, in aid of wildlife conservation.

“Well,” said Kate, having thoroughly displayed this interesting selection. “You see what I mean? What else can I do but write yet another piece about the image of women in advertising? This was a bit much, all in one post, don’t you think?”

“Was that all the post you got?” asked Hugo, chasing an elusive chip around his plate, and finally cornering it against a lump of fat.

“What do you mean, all? How many letters do you get a day? And this was all home stuff, not counting the office.”

“I meant, don’t you get any nice personal post?”

“Well, no, not today, actually.” She leaned forward, widening her pale bright-blue give-away impenetrable eyes at him. They were full of the hard glitter of deep sympathy, deep interest, deep devouring self. “And you, Hugo, how much personal post do you get?”