1
Send
Forward anything — a thought, an article, a PDF, a photo of a receipt. No format to learn, no app to open. A photograph of the tin, sent from the hallway floor, is a complete filing.
Room to think.
Peon is a lever for an overloaded head. Email it anything — notes, links, receipts, reading — and it's filed into a private wiki of your life. Your attention stays on what matters; your memory stays a question away.
Invite only at the moment — leave an address and we'll write when a place opens.
Your own private wiki. You never wrote a word of it.
A real article, exactly as the wiki renders it: a trip nobody typed up, assembled from the confirmations as they arrived. Every figure traces back to the email it came from, listed at the bottom.
The stuff with nowhere to live.
Not important enough to do something about. Important enough that one day you'll need it again. The serial number. The surveyor's line about the fence. The paint you liked. The name of the plumber who actually turned up.
It isn't a task, so it never reaches a list. It isn't a document, so it never reaches a folder. There's no place to keep this sort of thing — so it goes nowhere, and two years later you're guessing.
Peon is the place. Email it and let it go: shelved, cross-referenced, and waiting under a question you haven't thought to ask yet.
Your brain is a thinking organ doing a storage job.
Appointments, half-read articles, the plumber's quote, shoe sizes, the idea from the shower — each one takes a little of your head just to stay alive. None of it is thinking.
Hand the holding to Peon. It files things while they're fresh, connects them to what you already know, and answers when you ask — so your brain gets back to what it's actually for.
Three verbs, all of them email.
2
Filed
Peon — a tireless little librarian — reads it and writes it into your wiki: sorted into articles, cross-linked, every fact tied to the email it came from. It writes back to tell you where it put things.
3
Ask
Weeks or years later, ask a question in plain words. The answer comes back from your own life, with a link to where it's written down and the mail it came from.
Where your email goes.
What people hand to Peon.
Four of them, start to finish. Note the dates: nothing here was worth opening an app for on the day, and all of it was worth having later.
The renewal racket
Recall as negotiating leverage.
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Renewed car insurance. £512 with Aviva — they opened at £645, haggled it down by phone.
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Added to Car — Insurance. That's the third year running the opening quote dropped when you called — I've put the years in one table.
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Renewal quote is £698. What's my history?
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2023: £455. 2024: £487. 2025: opened £645, paid £512 after one call. You have never paid the opening quote.
Insurers price on you forgetting. Peon is the customer who doesn't.
The washing machine dies
A warranty assembled from two emails, two years apart.
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Forwarded the receipt. No comment, no subject line.
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Forwarded the warranty-registration confirmation.
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Matched this to the Bosch you bought in March — Washing machine now has the receipt, the serial and the warranty to March 2030 in one place.
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The washing machine's dead. Am I covered?
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Yes — registered warranty runs to March 2030. Model WAU28T64, serial from the registration email, £429 receipt attached. Everything the claim form asks for.
Two forwards, no thought, two and a half years apart. Peon is what joined them up.
The clipboard at reception
The form you fill in from memory, wrongly.
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Dentist says Marta reacted to the numbing agent — articaine. They'll use lidocaine from now on.
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Added to Marta — Medical: articaine sensitivity, noted 9 Oct 2026. Cross-linked from Marta.
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Which anaesthetic did Marta react to?
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Articaine — reaction noted 9 Oct 2026; the practice switched her to lidocaine.
Some blanks on a form are worth more than a guess.
January
Twelve months of receipts, one question.
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A charity receipt. A desk chair. The accountant's invoice. Forwarded in five seconds each, whenever they landed.
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Added to Tax year 2026–27 — that's 7 items so far.
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Everything for the tax return.
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Eleven items, £1,142 total, as a table — dated, categorised, every row linking to the original receipt.
The filing happened all year, in five-second forwards. January is just reading.
And the questions nobody keeps an app for.
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“What paint is the hallway?”
Brand, shade and finish — from a photo of the tin.
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“The bike's been stolen — frame number and purchase price for the police report?”
Both, from the receipt you forwarded the day you bought it.
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“When did I first report the damp to the landlord?”
Dated, with their reply promising a fix — linked.
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“Who gave us the slow cooker?”
Asked quietly, before you regift it to them.
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“What size is Oscar into now?”
Their mum mentioned it in March. You wrote it down without meaning to.
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“Where did things land with Chris last year?”
£300 lent 12 Jun, £150 repaid 20 Aug, nothing since. Too awkward for a spreadsheet, too much money to forget.
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“What was that plant the garden centre recommended?”
Read off the photo of the label you took and forgot about.
What a memory worth trusting looks like.
A place, not a pile
Everything lands in a wiki you can read, browse, and edit — not a chat log that scrolls away.
Receipts for every fact
Articles cite the mail they came from and keep their full revision history. A memory you can audit.
Recall on demand
Ask by email, get an answer drawn from your own articles, with links back to them.
Reminders that resurface
Mention a date once, and Peon brings the note back to you when it matters.
Photos and files, understood
Attachments are read and images described. A photographed receipt becomes a searchable fact.
Private by definition
A memory shared with everyone is a billboard. Your wiki is yours alone.
The price to forget.
The point of a second memory isn't to remember more. It's to be allowed to forget. Send it to Peon and let it go — it will be filed, linked, and waiting when you need it again.
$5/month
$4 of filing credit each month
For a personal memory: notes, links, receipts, the odd PDF.
- 250 MB of wiki and attachments
- Fresh each month — spend it or it resets
- Every feature, no gates
Most room to grow
$25/month
$24 of filing credit each month
For someone who forwards most of their week to Peon without thinking about it.
- 3 GB of wiki and attachments
- 6× the entry allowance
- Fresh each month — spend it or it resets
- Every feature, no gates
$50/month
$50 of filing credit each month
For heavy filers and big libraries — long documents, photo journals, years of it.
- 7 GB of wiki and attachments
- 12.5× the entry allowance
- Fresh each month — spend it or it resets
- Every feature, no gates
Run out and you can top up. One-off credit at $10, $25 or $50 — no subscription, and unlike plan credit it never expires.
The small print, in full.
Running out is not destructive
At a zero balance Peon stops filing and says so, keeping the email rather than bouncing it. It is processed once the account is funded. Your wiki stays readable and exportable throughout — nothing is held hostage.
Top-up credit doesn't expire
Credit you buy in a pack stays bought, with no monthly minimum. A plan's monthly deposit is the other kind: it refreshes with each payment, and whatever is left of the month it belonged to lapses with it. Going quiet for a season costs you nothing beyond that month's unspent deposit.
Auto-renew is off by default
A plan starts as a single paid month — it doesn't renew unless you turn auto-renew on. Turn a renewing plan off any time and it runs to the end of the month already paid for; we'll also email you before a month you haven't renewed ends.
Paid through PayPal
Plans and packs are bought through PayPal. Card details never touch this app.
The legal small print exists too — a Privacy Policy and Terms written to be read.
Less to carry. Nothing lost.
Peon is invite-only while it's being built. Leave an address and we'll write when a place opens.