These days, everybody wants a piece of you.

They’re a plague of the suburbs: the shopping centre squatters. These are the folk who set up stands outside the stores, selling everything from mineral make-up to car accessories. (Just make sure you don’t mix those up, scouring your skin with a chamois or putting lipstick on the bumper bar.)

 They make a trip to the shops an obstacle course worthy of Sally Pearson. “Madam, I would like to talk about your skin,” one slippery salesman said, before shoving an $80 jar of Dead Sea Exfoliant under my nose. “In the Middle Ages, wine was used as a chemical exfoliant,” I replied brightly. “So I’m off to stick my head in a bucket of chardonnay.”

 Everyone has the right to make an honest living, but how much more space can these shopping centre squatters devote to the almighty dollar? “Quick, there’s one square metre of unoccupied space. Let’s find a tenant!”

 At one Westfield last week, I discovered a pint-sized brow bar. Women were lined up to have stray hairs torn from their heads. Sure, it was fun putting bets on who would cry or grind their teeth, but it was undignified.

 It’s like those billboards being towed by motorbikes. No, I’m not going to sign up to Foxtel because you are blocking my lane! Other sources of advertising annoyance include environmental groups sending out letters by snail mail instead of email, politicians who address their mail-outs to “Dear constituent”, doorknockers at 5pm who ask about your electricity bill, phone-callers at 6pm offering telecommunications deals and pavement charity hustlers who want to garnish your wages.

 Just for one day, I’d like to live without advertising. I’d have to turn off the TV, radio, computer, mobile and home phones, and bin the newspapers. But there are hidden dangers: discount vouchers on the back of shopping receipts, ads inside books for the next exciting instalment and competitions on food labels.

 Maybe the only place to avoid advertising is inside the womb. Research shows the poor little suckers can hear at six months’ gestation. How long before clever companies devise ways to get to the foetus? Mums-to-be could make a few extra bucks by playing a recording of “Coke is life” to their swollen bellies. You may think I’ve gone too far. But free samples of baby formula are given out in maternity wards, in a promising form of advertising to vulnerable mothers.

 Which brings me back to shopping centres.  If I’m struggling with seven shopping bags, I am not in the mood for a sales pitch. These squatters should be evicted.