Flyer Interview Transcript — Sanne de Vries
Date: 2026-06-11
Persona: Sanne de Vries, 31, Dutch, urban planner, Holland Park renter
Artefact: 18x18cm, 300g printed card — Everyday Living Interiors flyer
Interviewer: Research facilitator
Duration: 19 minutes
Introduction
Interviewer: Thank you for taking the time to speak with me. I'm conducting research on behalf of a local business, and I'd like to get your honest reaction to a piece of marketing material — a printed card that would arrive in your letterbox. There are no right or wrong answers. I'm interested in your genuine, instinctive response — including if that response is "I'd throw this away." Critical feedback is just as valuable as positive feedback. The conversation should take about fifteen to twenty minutes. Shall we begin?
Sanne: Sure. Yes, let's do it.
Section 1: Context Setting
Interviewer: Great. So let me start with something practical. When post arrives in your letterbox, what do you do with it? Walk me through your sorting process — what gets opened, what gets binned, and what determines which pile something lands in.
Sanne: Okay, so — I actually have a pretty brutal system. [slight laugh] I collect the post, usually when I come home from work, so around six-fifteen, six-thirty. I sort it standing in the hallway. Anything that's clearly a flyer — you know, the glossy Domino's thing, the Albert Heijn bonus folder, anything wrapped in plastic — that goes straight into the paper bin. I don't even look at it. Bills and official things I open immediately because otherwise they give me anxiety just sitting there. And then there's this... middle category. Things that are slightly unusual. A different size, a different texture, something handwritten. Those I take to the kitchen counter and look at properly.
Interviewer: How quickly does that sorting happen?
Sanne: Thirty seconds, maybe? It's genuinely fast. The bin is right there by the door, I put it there on purpose. I'd say ninety percent of what arrives gets binned within — yeah, half a minute.
Interviewer: When was the last time a flyer or card actually caught your attention?
Sanne: [pause] Hmm. Actually — there was one, maybe two months ago? A card from a new yoga studio that opened near the station. It was on this — I think it was recycled kraft paper? Quite thick. And the typography was really nice, like someone had actually thought about it. I kept it on the fridge for a week. I never went to the yoga studio, but I kept the card. [laughs] Which probably says something about me.
Interviewer: What was it about the card specifically — was it the content or the design?
Sanne: Honestly? The paper. The weight of it. It felt like someone had spent money on it, which made me think they took it seriously. And the typography — it was a sans-serif, quite clean, good spacing. It didn't look like it was designed in Canva by someone's nephew. I know that sounds snobby, but — I notice these things. I can't not notice them.
Interviewer: Not snobby at all. Let me ask you something else. How do you feel about your home right now — your flat, your space? If you had to describe your relationship with it in one word, what would that be?
Sanne: [long pause] ...Frustrated.
Interviewer: Tell me more about that.
Sanne: I love the flat, in theory. It has amazing light. Floor-to-ceiling windows, sixth floor, you can see all the way to — well, you can see a lot. But I can't do anything to it. I can't paint. I can't drill. I have these beige curtains that the landlord requires me to keep, and they're — [exhales] — they're just wrong. The colour is wrong, the fabric is wrong, everything about them is wrong. So I work around the constraints. Adhesive hooks, removable wallpaper, I rearrange furniture constantly. I've been trying different wallpaper patterns on the back of my front door for the past month. But it always feels like I'm decorating with one hand tied behind my back.
Interviewer: What would you change first if there were no constraints?
Sanne: The curtains. Immediately. And then — I think I'd want someone to just look at the whole space and tell me how to make it flow better. Because I have all these ideas from Instagram and Pinterest, but I can't — I can't synthesise them. I save a hundred posts and then I sit on my sofa and look at my fifty-five square metres and I just... don't know where to start. Or rather, I start in too many places at once.
Interviewer: Have you ever thought about getting professional help with that — an interior designer or a stylist?
Sanne: [quick laugh] No. I mean — I've thought about it in the abstract, like "wouldn't it be nice." But I always assumed that's for people who own a house and have a budget of, I don't know, ten thousand euros. Not for someone renting a one-bedroom in Diemen who's trying to work around a landlord's curtains.
Section 2: The Letterbox Moment
Interviewer: Okay, let me set a scene for you. Imagine it's a normal weekday. You collect your post from the letterbox downstairs. Among the usual items — maybe some bills, a supermarket flyer, a municipality letter — there's something slightly different. It's a square card, about eighteen centimetres by eighteen centimetres — roughly the size of a large coaster. It's noticeably thick and heavy — three hundred grams, which is closer to cardboard than paper. It's white.
You turn it over in your hands. On one side, you see large, elegant black serif text that reads:
Everyday Living Interiors
Below that, in smaller text: by Sara de Abreu
In the bottom-left corner, there are small labels — "me", "social", "email", "web" — with the email address sara@everydaylivinginteriors.com. In the bottom-right corner: Holland-Park . Diemen, with Diemen in bold.
That's the front. Nothing else. No images, no colours, no tagline. Just the name, the person, and the location.
Sanne: [immediately] Okay, I wouldn't bin that.
Interviewer: Tell me what's happening in your head right now.
Sanne: So — first of all, the weight. Three hundred grams, that's — that's serious. That's like a postcard from a gallery or a — I don't know, an architecture studio. That doesn't come through a letterbox in Holland Park. That immediately separates it from everything else in the pile. And the size — square. That's a choice. Someone chose that deliberately because it doesn't look like anything else in the stack.
Interviewer: Okay. And what about the front — the text, the layout?
Sanne: [pause] It's — minimal. Very minimal. And I'm trying to decide if that's confidence or if it's — hmm. The serif font is interesting. That's a deliberate choice too. Serif says something. It says "I know what I'm doing" or at least "I want you to think I know what I'm doing." [slight laugh] Which — for an interior design brand — works. It's not trying to be trendy, it's trying to be... considered.
The name itself — "Everyday Living Interiors" — that's quite long, actually. But the "everyday living" part is doing something. It's pulling away from that aspirational, high-end thing. It's saying "this is for normal life."
Interviewer: And "by Sara de Abreu"?
Sanne: I like that. A person's name. It tells me this is one person, not a company. One person with a name and — Sara de Abreu, that's — is she Portuguese? Brazilian? It doesn't matter, but it gives the brand a face. I'd rather deal with a Sara than with a "brand."
Interviewer: Would you flip it over?
Sanne: Oh, I've already flipped it. [laughs] In my head I flipped it the moment I saw the front had no tagline. I want to know what this person actually does.
Interviewer: Good. The back has one line of text, also in black serif:
"Flexible interior design services for real homes and real budgets."
Below that, centred, a QR code.
That's the entire card. Take a moment — what's going through your mind?
Sanne: [silence — about four seconds]
Okay. So. "Real homes and real budgets." That's... I mean, I notice the language. "Real" twice. It's doing what I hoped it would do after seeing the front. It's saying "this is not for the grachtenpand people." It's saying "this might be for you."
But — and I'm being honest here — it's also quite vague. "Flexible interior design services" could mean anything. Is this someone who comes to your house and rearranges your furniture? Is it a colour consultation? Is it a full redesign? I don't know. And "real budgets" — what does that mean? Real could mean three hundred euros or three thousand euros. I genuinely don't know.
Interviewer: Does that ambiguity bother you?
Sanne: Yes and no. The minimalism of the card is working — I respect the restraint. But there's a point where restraint becomes — withholding? Like, you've got my attention, I'm holding this very nice card, I'm interested — now what? A QR code. Just a QR code. And I — [pauses] I think I'd scan it. I think.
Interviewer: You hesitated there.
Sanne: Because I'm not a reflexive QR-code scanner. I do it at restaurants, sure. But from a flyer? I'd need to be — I'd need to be standing in my kitchen, holding this card, with my phone right there, and in the right mood. If I'm tired, if I'm cooking, if I've just come home and I need to water the plants — it might go on the counter and then into the... yeah. The counter pile. Which is where things go to be forgotten.
Section 3: Comprehension and First Impressions
Interviewer: Let me ask you this — based on what you've seen, both sides, what do you think this is? Describe it to me as if I hadn't seen it.
Sanne: It's a business card — well, a flyer, but it doesn't behave like a flyer. It's from a woman named Sara who runs a one-person interior design service out of Holland Park. She's trying to position herself as accessible — not the kind of interior designer who charges five hundred euros an hour to tell you your sofa is wrong. At least, that's what I hope she's saying. The card itself is really well-made, which tells me she has taste. Or at least, she has taste about the card.
Interviewer: What kind of service do you think she offers?
Sanne: Interior design... consultations? Maybe she comes to your home and gives you advice? Maybe she helps you pick things? I'm filling in gaps here because the card doesn't tell me. Which — again — part of me respects that because it's clean, and part of me finds frustrating because I want to know.
Interviewer: Who do you think it's aimed at?
Sanne: People in Holland Park. Specifically — renters? Maybe young professionals? The "real homes and real budgets" thing suggests she knows her audience isn't wealthy. But also — "Everyday Living" — that feels broad. Like she wants to speak to anyone who lives here, not just one type.
Interviewer: What price range would you assume?
Sanne: [sharp exhale] I genuinely don't know. If you forced me — maybe... a hundred to three hundred euros for some kind of session? But I'm making that up entirely. I have no basis for it. And that's actually a problem, because if I don't know the price range, my default assumption is "more than I'd spend."
Interviewer: The front of the card shows very little. What does that minimalism say to you?
Sanne: It says confidence. It says "I don't need to shout." And in a neighbourhood where every flyer in the letterbox is screaming at you — "50% OFF!" "NOW OPEN!" "FREE DELIVERY!" — the quiet is... really effective, actually. It's like the typography equivalent of someone who speaks softly in a loud room. You lean in.
But — and this is my planning brain talking — there's a fine line between elegant restraint and not giving people enough information to act. I think this card is right on that line. Maybe slightly over it.
Interviewer: "Holland-Park . Diemen" — you live in this neighbourhood. Does seeing that on a card change anything?
Sanne: Yes. Absolutely. It makes it local. And local is — [pauses to think] — local is rare here. Holland Park doesn't have a lot of local anything. It's a neighbourhood that was built, not grown. There's no bakery, no bookshop, no — there's nothing that says "someone who lives here started something here." So seeing "Holland-Park . Diemen" on a card that clearly has good design sense — that feels like a signal. Like, oh, someone is building something in this neighbourhood that isn't a chain.
Interviewer: Does it feel like this person is your neighbour?
Sanne: Neighbour might be strong. But — in my building? In the area? Yes. It feels proximate. And that matters. I'd be much more likely to engage with someone who's a ten-minute walk away than someone in the centre of Amsterdam.
Interviewer: Would you react differently if it just said "Amsterdam" or had no location at all?
Sanne: If it said "Amsterdam" I'd assume it's not really for me. Amsterdam is big, Amsterdam is generic. And if there was no location — hmm, I think I'd be less interested. The location is the hook after the tactile quality. It's what makes it personal.
Interviewer: Does "Holland-Park" specifically mean anything to you, versus "Diemen" or "Diemen-Zuid"?
Sanne: That's interesting. "Holland-Park" is the developer's name for this area, right? It's the — it's the marketing name. Some people use it, some people just say Diemen-Zuid. I use both, depending on who I'm talking to. The fact that the card uses "Holland-Park" tells me she's marketing to the newbuild residents, not to the older Diemen-Zuid people. Which is fine — that's me. But I notice the choice.
Section 4: Relevance and Resonance
Interviewer: Let's go back to that line. "Flexible interior design services for real homes and real budgets." What does that say to you? Does it speak to your situation?
Sanne: "Real homes" — yes. That speaks to me. My home is real. It's fifty-five square metres of compromises and adhesive hooks and a landlord's curtains I hate. It's not a showroom. So if someone is saying "I work with real homes" — I hear that as "I work with rental flats where you can't drill holes." Whether she means that, I don't know. But that's what I project onto it.
Interviewer: And "real budgets"?
Sanne: "Real budgets" is... doing something, but I'm not sure it's doing enough. It suggests affordable, but it doesn't commit to it. It's the kind of phrase where everyone can see themselves in it because it's undefined. My "real budget" is maybe two hundred euros for a consultation. Someone else's "real budget" might be two thousand. Without a number, I don't know if she means me.
Interviewer: Does "flexible" add anything?
Sanne: Honestly? Not much. "Flexible" is one of those words that sounds good but communicates nothing. Flexible how? Flexible in terms of schedule? Budget? Services? It's the word you use when you haven't decided what your differentiator is. [pauses] Sorry, that's harsh. But you asked for honest.
Interviewer: That's exactly what I want. When you hear "interior design," what is your honest first reaction?
Sanne: My first reaction is — expensive. White women with perfect houses on Instagram. [laughs awkwardly] Which I know is a caricature, but it's the image. Interior design feels like it's for people who own their home, who have a budget for renovation, who are at a different life stage. Not for a thirty-one-year-old renter who's fighting with removable wallpaper on her front door.
Interviewer: Do you see yourself as the kind of person who'd use an interior design service?
Sanne: [long pause] I want to be. I think that's the honest answer. I want to be someone who could say "I hired an interior designer to help me with my flat," but there's this — this barrier, and it's not just money. It's a feeling that I should be able to do this myself. I studied urban planning. I understand space. I follow two hundred design accounts. I should be able to figure out my own fifty-five square metres. And the fact that I can't — or haven't — that feels like a personal failure more than a service gap. So hiring someone feels like admitting defeat.
Interviewer: Has anything on this card shifted that feeling, even slightly?
Sanne: [thinking] The "everyday living" part of the name. And "real homes." Those two things together — they create a tiny crack in the wall. Because they're saying "this isn't about perfection, this is about normal life." And my life is very normal. So... maybe? A tiny maybe.
Interviewer: If this card had arrived last week — in your actual life, in your actual flat — would it have meant anything to you?
Sanne: Last week I was literally on my knees trying to peel wallpaper off the back of my front door. So — yes. Last week this would have landed. I would have held this card and thought, "maybe I should just ask someone." Whether I'd have actually scanned the QR code or sent the email... I'm less sure. But the thought would have been there.
Interviewer: Is there a specific room or problem this could relate to?
Sanne: The living room. I've been stuck on it for months. I have this — I have too much inspiration and no coherent plan. Everything I try feels like it's fighting something else. And the space is small enough that one wrong choice dominates the whole room. I think what I actually need is someone to come in and say "here's what you're doing wrong, here's your three priorities, now go." Just — clarity. Direction. Not a full redesign. Just... a lens.
Section 5: Action and Barriers
Interviewer: Okay, be completely honest with me. What happens to this card after you've looked at it?
Sanne: [pause] I keep it. I'm almost certain I keep it. It goes on the kitchen counter, leaning against the tile behind the kettle, where I put things I want to look at again. It stays there for — probably a week? Maybe two? And then one of two things happens: I scan the QR code one evening when I'm scrolling design content and feeling motivated, or it slowly migrates to the drawer of things I meant to follow up on and never did.
Interviewer: So it doesn't go in the bin.
Sanne: No. Absolutely not. The quality of the card alone saves it from the bin. I might even — and this is embarrassing — I might keep it just because it's a well-designed object. I've kept worse things for worse reasons.
Interviewer: Would you scan the QR code?
Sanne: I think there's a fifty-fifty chance. It depends entirely on timing. If I scan it and the website matches the quality of the card — clean, minimal, professional — I'd spend five minutes looking around. If the website looks like a basic Wix template with stock photos, I'd close it immediately and the card's credibility would collapse. The website has to deliver on what the card promises.
Interviewer: Do you scan QR codes generally?
Sanne: Restaurants, yes. Museum exhibits, sometimes. Random marketing things — rarely. There's a trust threshold, and this card clears it because of the production quality. But most QR codes from flyers — no.
Interviewer: Is there anything this card could have said, shown, or included that would have made you take the next step more certainly?
Sanne: [thinks for a while] A price. Even a starting price. Like — "consultations from eighty euros" or "advice sessions from one hundred euros." Something that anchors me. Because right now the biggest barrier isn't interest — it's the unknown cost. And when the cost is unknown, my brain defaults to "too expensive."
Also — and I go back and forth on this — a photo. Not a stock photo. An actual photo of a real room in Holland Park. Like a before-and-after. Something that says "this is what I did for someone in your exact situation." That would be incredibly powerful. But I also know it would change the entire aesthetic of the card, so... it's a trade-off.
Interviewer: Would seeing "from eighty euros" change things?
Sanne: Eighty euros? I'd scan the QR code tonight. That's — that's the cost of a nice dinner out. That's nothing for what could be genuine clarity about my living room. If I knew it was eighty euros, the barrier disappears. Completely.
Interviewer: Would a photo of a real room — before and after — make a difference?
Sanne: A massive difference. Because it answers the question the card currently doesn't: "what does this actually look like in practice?" Right now the card is all promise and no proof. The card itself is proof of taste — the paper, the typography — but it's proof about the card, not about the service. A photo of an actual Holland Park flat, before and after, would close that gap.
But — I understand why it's not there. The minimalism is the brand. You add a photo, you add a price, suddenly it's a different object. It becomes a flyer instead of a... calling card. And I think I'd still bin a normal flyer.
Interviewer: That's a really interesting tension. Let me ask you one more thing — would you mention this card to anyone?
Sanne: [immediately] Yes. I'd message a photo of it to my friend Lotte. She just moved to an apartment in Amstelveen and she's been complaining about not knowing what to do with her living room. I'd say something like — "look at this, it came through my letterbox, the card is gorgeous" — and she'd probably ask what it is.
Interviewer: Would you describe the service, or just the card?
Sanne: Honestly? I'd lead with the card. "Feel this paper stock." That would be my opening line. And then I'd say "it's an interior designer in my neighbourhood who apparently does affordable stuff." But the card is the talking point. The card is the marketing.
Interviewer: Does the fact that she's based in Holland Park make you more or less likely to mention it?
Sanne: More. Because it makes it a local story. "There's this woman in my neighbourhood" is a better story than "there's some company." It makes it word-of-mouth material. It makes it gossip, almost. And gossip travels.
Closing
Interviewer: Last two questions. If Sara — the person behind this card — asked you for one piece of honest advice about this flyer before she puts it in three thousand letterboxes, what would you tell her?
Sanne: [long pause, choosing words carefully]
I'd tell her the card is beautiful. It's doing exactly what a card this minimal needs to do — it's surviving the bin, it's creating intrigue, and it's signalling taste. For people like me, who notice typography and paper weight, it's almost perfect.
But. I'd tell her she's losing people between the card and the action. The gap between "I'm interested" and "I'll actually do something" is where most people will fall. And right now, the only bridge is a QR code with no context. If she could find a way to add one concrete thing — a starting price, a single sentence about what a first session looks like, or even just "message me on WhatsApp" — she'd convert more of the people she's already caught. The card earns attention. It doesn't yet earn action.
Interviewer: Is there anything about receiving this card that we haven't discussed but matters to you?
Sanne: One thing. The fact that it's in English. "Everyday Living Interiors" — it's an English name. "Flexible interior design services for real homes and real budgets" — that's English. In Holland Park, that's probably fine — it's an international neighbourhood. But I'm Dutch. And there's a tiny part of me that notices when a local business doesn't use Dutch. It doesn't bother me, but I notice it. And for some of my neighbours — the ones who've been in Diemen longer — it might bother them more.
Interviewer: That's a really valuable observation. Thank you so much for your time and honesty. Your feedback will directly help shape how this service communicates with people in your neighbourhood. I really appreciate it.
Sanne: Thanks. And honestly — tell Sara the card is lovely. I mean that.
Post-Interview Analysis
The bin-or-read moment
Sanne's decision point was almost instant — and it was tactile, not textual. The 300g weight and square format separated the card from everything else in the letterbox before she read a single word. Her trained eye for typography meant the serif font functioned as a secondary quality signal. The card survived her "brutal" sorting system because it did not look or feel like a flyer. This is the card's primary strength: it escapes the junk-mail category through material quality alone.
The comprehension gap
Sanne understood the general category (local interior design service) and correctly inferred the positioning (accessible, one-person, aimed at Holland Park residents). However, significant gaps remained: she did not know what the service actually involves (consultation? styling? redesign?), what it costs (her guesses ranged from 100 to 300 euros with no confidence), or what a first interaction would look like. The card generates curiosity but does not resolve it — and for a persona as research-oriented as Sanne, unresolved curiosity creates friction rather than urgency.
The local signal
"Holland-Park . Diemen" functioned powerfully as a belonging signal. Sanne explicitly connected it to the neighbourhood's lack of local, independent businesses — the card becomes evidence that "someone is building something" in a place that feels developer-built rather than community-grown. This emotional resonance may be the card's most underestimated asset. The choice of "Holland-Park" over "Diemen-Zuid" was noted but accepted; Sanne acknowledged it as a deliberate targeting decision.
The category barrier
"Interior design" triggered an immediate exclusion response: expensive, for homeowners, for people at a different life stage. However, the card partially broke this barrier through two mechanisms: (1) "Everyday Living" in the brand name pulled away from aspirational connotations, and (2) "real homes and real budgets" created what Sanne called "a tiny crack in the wall." The barrier was not fully broken because the card lacks proof — no price, no example, no tangible evidence that the service is genuinely for someone in her situation.
Critically, Sanne also revealed a psychological barrier beyond cost: a feeling that she "should be able to do this herself" given her planning background and design knowledge. The card needs to address not just affordability but permission — making it acceptable to seek help even when you are knowledgeable.
The physical response
The card's material quality was the single most important factor in Sanne's engagement. She compared it to "a postcard from a gallery" and explicitly stated the weight alone prevented it from being binned. She would keep the card as an object even if she never used the service — a finding that confirms the production investment is justified for this persona type. The square format was read as intentional, further reinforcing the design-competence signal.
The action pathway
Sanne would keep the card (kitchen counter, against the tile behind the kettle). She estimates a 50-50 chance of scanning the QR code, contingent on timing and mood. The website must match the card's quality or credibility collapses instantly. The most likely conversion path is not immediate action but delayed browsing during an evening design-content session. The most likely failure path is migration to a drawer.
Her QR scanning habits are context-dependent: restaurants yes, marketing material rarely. The card's production quality elevates it above typical marketing, but the QR code alone may not be sufficient as the sole call to action for this persona.
The referral test
Strong referral potential. Sanne would photograph the card and send it to a friend, leading with the physical quality ("feel this paper stock") rather than the service description. The card becomes social currency — an interesting object worth sharing. The local angle strengthens the referral: "there's this woman in my neighbourhood" is a more compelling framing than a service recommendation. The card may generate more word-of-mouth value than direct conversion for this persona type.
The missing element
The single addition that would most improve conversion for Sanne is a starting price point. Her stated reaction to "from eighty euros" was immediate and definitive: "I'd scan the QR code tonight." The unknown cost is the primary barrier between interest and action. A secondary addition — a concrete description of what a first session looks like ("a sixty-minute home visit") — would further reduce the ambiguity.
A before-and-after photo of a real Holland Park flat would be the most emotionally compelling addition, but Sanne herself acknowledged the design trade-off: adding imagery changes the card's character from a calling card to a flyer, potentially undermining the very minimalism that earned her attention. This is a genuine design tension with no clean resolution.
The language observation
Sanne's unprompted comment about the English-only text is strategically important. While it does not bother her personally, she flagged it as a potential friction point for longer-established Dutch residents in Diemen — a neighbouring persona segment the card may need to reach. A bilingual approach or Dutch-language variant may be worth considering for broader letterbox distribution.
Key quote
"The card earns attention. It doesn't yet earn action."
This single sentence from Sanne captures the card's current positioning with precision. For design-sensitive, financially cautious renters, the card succeeds at Stage 1 (escaping the bin, creating intrigue, signalling taste) but stalls at Stage 2 (providing enough concrete information to motivate the next step). The bridge between attention and action is the strategic gap Sara needs to close.