AS a protest, it was a bit over the top. But the Sussex woman who played the Jehovah's Witnesses at their own game and banged on the door of their hall certainly made her point.

When they came to the door, she asked searching questions while brandishing free magazines.

She had got fed up with their frequent calls and wanted to put an end to what she felt was an intrusion into her privacy.

I can sympathise with her. Although in my neighbourhood we don't get many calls from Jehovah's Witnesses - who, I must say, in my experience have always been polite and never pushy or intrusive - we do get plenty from other irritating and forceful individuals.

I seem to be a target for a variety of people who constantly try to ply me with their goods and services, both at my home and in the street.

I've compiled a list of the worst offenders:

Catalogue companies: Firstly, there's those desperate-looking women in the street who make their way towards you, and look pitifully at you while asking: "Hello, madam, can you spare a couple of minutes?"

They're probably accustomed to people pre-empting what they're all about and yelling "No, I don't want a catalogue!" because if you do stop, they look shocked and have trouble getting the next question out. They squeak, almost inaudibly: "Do you have a catalogue?"

Letters: The ones which say you're on the shortlist to win £50,000 a week for life and if your 'specially allocated' number appears on a list of numbers, it would be foolish not to return the form.

Of course, the small print (readable only if you have infinite time and a magnifying glass) points out that this also means a catalogue will be winging its unwanted way to your door. After a five-year-long doormat bombardment, I weakened and finally did succumb. The catalogue arrived within an hour of me posting my "Yes" envelope. Needless to say, the cash hasn't materialised.

Utility firms: The ones who come to your door offering to supply gas, electricity, telephone and 150 satellite TV channels for less than the price of a pint. It would take a few bottles of 100 per cent proof to get me to succumb. If you look carefully, these people have the words "Too good to be true" written in invisible ink across their clipboards.

Plastic window salesmen: "No, no, no, a thousand times no." I've told them that I'm more likely to have the roof of our terraced home thatched than tear out the wooden frames. But still they come.

They can't understand why we prefer draughty, noisy windows. Neither can I when it's blowing a gale and I have to get up to stick paperback books between the sashes. But replace them after 100 years? Never.

My children: They are, of course, the biggest pesterers of all. "Mummy can I have this, mummy can I have that?" Day in, day out.

They're the ones upon whom I'd really like to turn the tables. One of these days I'm going to get up, plonk myself in front of the telly and yell: "Where's my toast.?"

Only problem is, I'd have to get up to answer the door when the post van calls to bring in all the stuff I've ordered from my new catalogue.