Goodwill to all... who refrain from ringing my doorbell

If there's an unexpected caller this Christmas, be careful not to follow my example and spend £80 on dishcloths

It's rare to hear a knock on the door these days, except from an unexpected visitor

And so, as you turn on the TV and slide down into the sofa, your hand going to source yet more food, something deeply tiresome happens. The front doorbell rings.

Now, unless a general election is about to happen, you are waiting for a parcel from Amazon, your parents are about to arrive or you are having a drinks party (that you have forgotten about), this is not normal. Nobody rings the doorbell unplanned any more. This is the modern world, where the simple question “What is your WiFi password?” can instantly, visually, link us with people from Cambuslang to Tuvalu. But connecting with someone on the doorstep? Ugh.

Anyone under about the age of 30 will not be able to recall a time when you used to just turn up unannounced at people’s houses. My blissful adolescence in the bosky suburb of Wimbledon was entirely centred around doing just that. Everyone did it. Every weekend. But not now.

However, as we are all at home this week, you might find people ringing your doorbell. These days, they fall into two camps – and they are not good camps.

They are either concerned with selling you something dodgy, or they are fraudsters. The sellers will be usually trying to flog you the following:

1. Salvation, courtesy of a year’s subscription to The Watchtower. No carols. No collection tins. Simply well-meaning Jehovah’s Witnesses, with shiny shoes and shiny smiles who stand a bit too close.

This is what you say: “No, thank you, I have already been to one carol concert this year, and please do not hang around outside for 15 minutes afterwards.”

2. A Chequered Tea Towel. I actually have rather a soft spot for these guys – and they know it. Whenever my husband opens the door, they plead with him to “get the wife out”, as if I was some sort of cashpoint.

And they do have a point. My favourite purchase ever from this doorstep Aladdin’s Cave of kitchenware and cleaning goods was a pair of the World’s Best Ever Scissors, which can (apparently) cut a 2p coin in half and make mincemeat out of corduroy, and which were purchased during an £80 spree. Yes, £80! On flimsy tea towels, Miracle Scissors and some sort of chamois cloth. I must have been on something. Or very tired.

3. Culinary Skills. This is a new arrival to the doorstep market. People selling you cooking skills sound posh and have what they call “charm”. They will apologise for bothering you, and then advance on you with a box of ingredients, a recipe plan and the promise that all your culinary needs will be answered if you sign up to their company, which for a small sum (ha ha) will deliver, twice weekly, a paltry box of ingredients and some sachets of sauce, out of which you will nightly concoct a series of Cordon Bleu dishes for your family.

No, I say. I am the mother of four children, the eldest of whom is 18. I really do know how to generate several basic meals a day, every day. Go away and leave me to my Sainsbury’s internet shop.

4. Fraudsters. These doorbell ringers are much worse, because they prey on your goodwill, and as this is the season of it, you are very vulnerable.

They sometimes come in the disguise of people searching for sponsorship. Wake up! Do you think I am going to fill some silly piece of paper in, and then wait for you to run a 10K race, and then wait for you to come back and claim your £2? Oh no, they say! Give us the money now! Since JustGiving.com arrived nobody does sponsorship like this any more. Be off.

5. The Piteous Story. The nadir of this group of doorbell ringers has got to be the Piteous Story.

I admit, I have fallen for this one. Your doorbell rings. A very smart looking person is on your doorstep, telling you tales of drunkenness and cruelty, or at the very least a saga about a faulty gas meter, or a lost train ticket to (say) Edinburgh.

Could you possibly lend them £50 so they can avoid having a totally disastrous Christmas? You are their last hope. Of course you are. Of course they will pay you back. Of course they won’t. Your only action is to slam the door. No, your gas/electricity/Oyster card has not run out. You are trying to steal from me.

Now go away and let me get back to Celebrity University Challenge. Ding Dong Merrily on High.