Another shredder shredded

Just seen off the latest in a depressingly long line of cross-cut shredders. The Fellowes H-6C joins the others at the tip, after its power switch packed up and I couldn't find proof of purchase. Only around three-months' use out of this one. The thing with shredders is, given the sheer volume of mail - junk and otherwise - that arrives here with a name and address on it, possession is vital for identity protection, but there apparent built-in obsolescence means I'm forever having to buy another. Shredder makers and retailers are on to a good thing here; what with the tendency to lock up solid - even if you have slavishly followed the maximum sheet instruction, or - as in the latest case - an electrical fault, renders another purchase necessary on a product that is priced towards the higher end of cheap, making it rather unlikely that the receipt can be found. After all, we're talking £35 tops here, not a plasma screen TV or washing machine. Although at the rate at which I'm having to replace them, shredder expenditure will easily come close over time.

Dead flies and a dead shredder

Just seen off the second shredder of the year. With the sheer volume of paper that contains names, addresses or even hints of bank details needing to be disposed of, you'd have thought they'd built to last. Them again, perhaps weakness makes up  for the lack of built-in obsolescence in the damn  things. Either way, it's another 25 quid down the drain. At least it keeps the guinea pigs in bedding.
And now, as the nights draw in, the time has come for Autumn's least likeable task: removing dessicated fly and moth remains from the conservatory roof blinds delicate folds... All hail the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, and crispy creepy-crawly corpses.