Slightly off the point of de-branding, but a new website called Mikons is offering punters the chance to design their personal logo. Once the preserve of Royalty, and terrible childrens' entertainers (jLo, Victoria Beckham etc) with inter-stella egos, now we can all encapsultae our identity in a convenient home made icon.



Does a pop star's desire to summarise their talent in a logo belie their fears that they really have none at all.. talent that is? Actually no, it's a very smart way to shift records, perfume and pink velour jogging pants to 12 year olds girls. That's talent for starters.

This last week has been a crucial test of will power for me. I have been gradually weaning myself off my beloved brands this past few months, and feeling more confident about the general outlook post-bonfire. Then the sales hit. Huge reductions on famous brand names. Prices slashed across the store. The powers that be have turned the branded tractor beam up to 9.5 (just below the full 10 of Christmas) and I am being dragged towards Selfridges against my will.




Actually, it's my own damn fault. A consummate professional shopper, I have managed to get myself on the mailing lists of all my favorite names; Burberry, Heals, Liberties etc, so that I get personal invitations to preview sales and 'special valued customer' evenings. Invites to some sales, like Vivienne Westwood's are notoriously difficult to obtain, and I would often attempt to crash the party, or piggyback in with incredibly lucky holders of the golden tickets. Receiving those invite cards through the post would tell me that the brand still loved me, still needed me, still wanted me; a reward for the devotion I had offered after all these years of spending.



At the peak of my insanity, I would get up obscenely early and queue outside certain stores waiting for the sales to start; you had to, otherwise the best stuff would be gone by the first afternoon. Over time I came to recognize the same people in those queues, and I would feel a curious sense of camaraderie with the others (which would evaporate as we fought over the one remaining Eames chair and footstall).

Serious shoppers would dress for the event. Just as big game hunters would nail deer heads to the wall of their study, we would drape hard to find, sample-only gear across our backs; vintage 'pieces' that were highly prized, but unlike the mugs on the high street, we never paid full price. That was the point; we were special, we were 'in' with the brands. Regular shopping was for tourists.



This year sadly, I'm out of the game entirely. Hundreds of essential items at low low prices are slipping away, as I observe the self-imposed exclusion zone around town. Right now, someone is rummaging through a rack of Ralph Lauren shirts, putting their dirty hands all over stuff that has MY name on it. Stuff that would add new dimensions to my life, new levels of happiness, new ways to express how cool and confident and successful and satisfied I am. The football, coupled with the nice weather have managed to lure the British public away from the high street this summer and the shops have been hit hard, so these sales are going to last well into the Autumn. Ah well, I guess I'll live. Come the end of August, it'll only be fuel for the fire.

Colleen McLoughlin, fiancée to Wayne Rooney is surely the most branded celebrity in the UK. Of course, her fame originates from being the partner of a famous footballer. But there are hundreds of (arguably prettier and smarter) WAG's (wives and girlfriends) for the press to feed upon. Colleen's fame really lies in her spectacular consumption of luxury branded goods.

Colleen McLoughlin, the teenager fiancée of popular star Wayne Rooney was left red-faced after her credit card was rejected thrice at an exclusive boutique in Madrid. McLoughlin was buying a Chanel belt worth £1,343 but unfortunately her card was rejected three times.
www.celebgossip.us



At the start of her fame, Colleen was treated as something of a joke in the press, labeled a 'Super Chav' for spending so much money on Juicy Couture tracksuits and garish Dior handbags. But now she has refined her taste in luxury, and started spending money on 'the right' brands, the press have brought her in from the cold. Our Colleen is all about Balenciaga and Prada now, and the chav label has been duly dropped, appearing in the pages of Vogue no less.

The Independent reported yesterday that the local press are growing tired of the WAG's antics in Germany (clearing boutiques of Gucci and LV, guzzling Cristal and enjoying endless beauty treatments); one reporter remarked 'How can you tell the difference between the species of English women and the majority of German women? In 10 minutes, they spend more cash on clothes than ours do in a lifetime'.

If you asked most people, in the UK or otherwise, what they would do if they suddenly found fame and fortune, I'm guessing it would be 1. go shopping 2. celebrate continuously 3. pamper themselves endlessly 4. travel the world and flaunt it. Which is exactly what Colleen and friends are doing. This is the modern aspiration of success and these girls have achieved it. To be honest, I'd probably do the same.

As Colleen has discovered, there is an art to being successful; that is to say, its not enough, in the eyes of the establishment, to enjoy success as one would from the lower orders. To be accepted into the upper echelons of society, one must conform to their steely standards of good taste, what what?



As a young boy, bullied by other kids in the playground for not having the right football/ sports bag/ lunchbox, I used to wonder, exactly who appoints members of the fashion police? Who decided that Diadora sneakers were the entry point to acceptance in the cool club? When I became a very low-ranking officer of the fash police at Sleazenation, I used to sit at my desk and ponder the same question; who made us all guardians of directional good taste? The one thing I did learn was this; while peddling the myth of branded beauty, all the fashion and beauty editors were largely (a) not very fashionable themselves (b) not very attractive either (c) all very very single (d) slightly nervous that the whole industry is built upon a house of cards. Next time a fashion expert pops up on TV, or their picture appears next to a column in the papers, take a good long look at them. Ollie Picton Jones, Anna Wintour, Hadley Freeman, the chunky lady with the black bob and half moon glasses on GMTV who looks like a posh witch… rotters, every single one of them. The people who specialise in making us feel fat, ugly and inadequate aren't much cop themselves. It's all, as far as I can see, a load of old cobblers.

When I was growing up, my favourite TV shows all seemed to revolve around cars. Knight Rider, Dukes Of Hazard, Magnum, Inspector Morse (on a Sunday as the least worst alternative to Songs Of Praise). I always imagined, assumed even that I would own a cool car when I grew up; something like a vintage Aston Martin or an 80's Mercedes 350SL… sexy but classy all the same. I would be able to afford it, after all my Grammar School kept telling us in assembly that we were the top five percent in the country and that we would all be going to work in the City and be successful young Thatcherite foot soldiers.



What happened? At 31, I'm driving my fiancée's 1995 Citroen AX. Admittedly it's a question of priorities, having chosen to live in central London I spend my money on a crippling mortgage and mostly cycle or use the bus anyhow. Unfortunately that doesn't wash when you're sitting at the lights, beside a sexy brand new open top Audi, with a teenage boy behind the wheel and a beautiful girl in the passenger seat (surely a drug dealer, no one could be that successful/ happy/cool legitimately could they?). The status anxiety is crushing. As I pull away from the lights, I try my best to keep up with the shiny new cars that cut in front from all sides, but it's no use pretending; I'm driving a old banger made by a shit brand an that's that.

To drive that Citroen is to experience a roller coaster of emotions. I get in the car. The interior is cramped and flimsy. The Citroen logo greets me on the steering wheel. Ugh, Citroen, what a rubbish brand; the luke warm also-ran to Peugeot (who aren't much cop either). The kind of car driven by people who don't care about cars. But that’s okay, I'm not a 'car' person any more. I'm just getting from A to B in this thing and its not worth the worry. I pull away from the curb, craning my neck to see round the Range Rover parked in front. Bloody SUV drivers; surely the dumbest car owners in the world. They should be taxed double. Ah, I actually feel virtuous driving the AX. Its economical, reliable and if anyone ever asks, I tell them it's not mine but my girlfriends. Next minute, I'm being cut up by an arrogant BMW driver. I speed after him and pull up alongside him at the lights in front. Ever keen to row with ill-mannered strangers, I begin to roll the window down and give Mr BMW some choice road rage lines. He looks over at me from his cocoon of air-conditioned, leather-trimmed luxury, waiting for me to explode. I stop short however, suddenly feeling deflated; it doesn't matter what I say, it doesn't matter who was right or wrong… one of us is driving a beautiful car, and it's certainly not me. So who's the winner here?

For the rest of the journey, I drive like an eighty year old vicar, allowing all and sundry to speed pass as I wallow in my branded shame. I feel angry with myself, angry for not making enough money to afford a decent car, angry at how shallow I still am for caring, angry at everyone else on the road for making feel this way. When I drive the car to my parents, I'm sure they feel embarrassed to have it parked by the house (neighbours' curtains twitching furiously 'what a failure that Neil Boorman turned out to be'). If I ever drive to work in the thing, it's parked far from the view of my colleagues.




Brands transform (or at least promise to transform) the experience of consuming a product.

Driving a car

Driving a sports car

Driving a Mercedes sports car

The utilitarian function of driving a car is made more pleasurable for having the perceived security and status of the brand that is attached to it.

I was leaving a party in the car recently, when the editor of Intersection (an automotive style mag) spotted me and shouted 'Citroen AX... design classic mate!'. I turned to the missus and we both wondered if he was taking the piss. Now i'm extremely broad minded brand-wise, willing to consider all sorts of brand revivals and cultural re-evaluations. But not Citroen. I wonder, would my perception of that car be transformed if it had an Alfa Romeo or Audi badge on the bonnet?

Actually, that Citroen has transformed me over time, in the same way the one careful lady owner (my missus) has. When I first met her, I consumed brands without question. I was adamant that the Gucci flip flops and the Dualit toaster and the Aveda shampoo made me more sophisticated, more loveable, more me. But she would look at the expensive trinkets lovingly displayed in my flat and just laugh. I've been diligently ignoring her for many years, but finally I'm prepared to admit she's right. She doesn't go through this torment every time she drives the AX. It's a car. It gets you from a to B. end of story.

In a few months from now, I'm going to drive, no, cruise that car around Shoreditch and Soho for all to see. Yeah, that’s me, behind the wheel of an AX; wanna make something of it or what?

Daily Mirror, 14 June 2006
WELCOME TO IPOD CITY
THE 'ROBOT' WORKERS ON 15-HOUR DAYS
By Nick Webster

THEY sleep 100 to a room, toil for 15 hours a day and are paid just £27 month.

This is life in iPod City, once the Chinese fishing village of Shenzhen but now home to the factories that churn out millions of Apple's astonishingly popular music players every year.

Relentless demand for the world's coolest gadget means production lines never come to a standstill. In the UK alone Apple has sold more than two million of the MP3 players with their iconic white headphones.

But despite Apple's carefully cultivated Californian-cool image, they are assembled in China by staff such as Zhou Yan Hua.

As a line manager Zhou earns £80 a month - almost three times the salary of a new worker and just enough to free him from the regimented, spartan factory dormitories.

"The dorms are single-sex, with more than 100 people in a single large room," he says. "They're really overcrowded. There are too many people for comfort but they are free.

"Now I pay rent and I have to share a bed with my colleague, who works a different shift. It costs £20 a month but it is better than the dorm. They are very heavily monitored. There's even a guard in the dormitory. And no visitors are allowed.

"The factory is very strict and there are two places where you are searched. Both have metal detectors so you cannot take anything into work such as your phone. You even have to take off your watch."

Security is tight throughout the complex, with police on gates, CCTV and barbed wire everywhere to prevent industrial espionage. The workers are discouraged from speaking to strangers for the same reason.

A year ago Zhou left his home in central China and joined the flood of workers heading for the industrial sprawl of Shenzhen, just across the border from Hong Kong.

In 1980 it was just a sleepy fishing village, but then the communist government designated it a special economic zone. Now it's home to 12 million people.

One of the biggest employers is Taiwanese electronics giant Foxconn, which manufactures the iPod nano for Apple. Foxconn has 200,000 workers beavering away in 10 large factories and 11 research units in a sprawling complex covering several square kilometres. Salaries start at £27 a month.

OUTSIDE, posters appeal for workers aged over 16 - the legal working age - while a steady stream of new arrivals are herded into the dormitories, carrying their few possessions and maybe a bucket to wash their clothes.

They're guaranteed jobs but under strict rules and discipline, and often work seven days a week, forgoing many freedoms and pleasures western workers take for granted.

As well as no visitors being allowed on the huge site, staff rarely venture out of the heavily guarded gates. Instead of meals out or films, any cash they save is usually sent home to their families.

An insider says: "They get up, work, eat a small bowl of noodles and rice, do their washing, go to bed, get up and do it all over again."

After sleeping in shifts, they slip into a uniform of jeans and beige jacket and head for the factory in a long, orderly crocodile. The only break from the routine comes with what's called "professional education".

Like soldiers on parade, the young men and women are ordered to line up on the factory roof and drilled for up to three hours, often in searing heat.

On occasions they're required to stand still for hours without moving a muscle.

These extraordinary exercises were devised to ensure the workers toe the line.

China is experiencing an unprecedented capitalist-style economic boom, but many of its methods are still rooted in communist forms of control.

An insider says: "They discourage individualism, effectively turning the workers into robots as much as they can. Except, of course, they're a lot cheaper than robots."

It's a lifestyle which has already become all too familiar to Zang Lan, 21. She's been working at Foxconn for a month on the assembly line for Apple computers and is already exhausted.

"The job here is so-so," she says, "but we have to work too hard, I am always tired and am still in training, which I do not like.

"It is like being in the army. They make us stand still for three hours. If we move we are punished. They do not hit us or anything, but they might make us stand still for longer or make the boys do push-ups.

"We have to work overtime if we are told to and can only go back to the dormitories when our boss tells us we can go. We do not have any choice about overtime.

"The longest day I have worked so far was 15 hours, when I stayed until 11.30pm. I felt so tired."

Compared to European working and living conditions the lifestyle sounds incredibly harsh. But industry experts insist these are not sweatshops.

Gary Bowerman, editor of the Shanghai Business Review, says: "They do work long hours, they don't get paid very much, but the factories are state-of-the-art. They really are impressive.

"Yes, it's monotonous and routine, but the quality of the factories is even better than in Europe. They're clean, hi-tech, even air-conditioned - not sweatshop stuff. They're purpose-built for high-volume production and have to turn out high quantity and high quality."

Last year Apple achieved a record billion-dollar profit, boosted by the launch of the nano, the size of a credit card and weighing just 40grams (1.5oz).

IT was so popular that Apple sold a million in just 17 days, including one to the Vatican for Pope Benedict XVI.

Although it is one of America's most prestigious brands, nearly all Apple's products are assembled abroad.

While Foxconn makes the nano, the iPod Shuffle is put together by Asustek in Suzhou, two hours outside Shanghai at another sprawling site - the size of eight football pitches and employing 50,000 people - bordered by a canal and river and surrounded by barbed wire to deter intruders.

Its six gates are manned by zealous security guards, checking all workers' bags as they enter and leave. Security is especially tight at gate No 5, which leads to factory eight - where the iPod shuffles are manufactured. A 26-year-old security guard, who would not reveal his name, explains why.

"Factory eight is mostly women as I they are more honest than men," he says. ' "And the iPod shuffle is very easy to steal because it is so small."

The guard knew speaking might put his job on the line, but he finally relented... in the hope that he'd be rewarded beyond his wildest dreams. The payment he asked for: an iPod.

THE iPOD FACTFILE

THE iPod digital music player was launched in 2001. More than 42 million have been sold, earning Apple around £5.2billion

TWO million iPods have been sold in the UK.

IN 2003 Apple launched the iTunes Music Store. More than one billion tracks have been downloaded.

THE store's global share of digital album and singles sales is estimated at around 70 percent.

From the New Yorker's Facebook (a community website, like Myspace, but for people at Harvard) profile, May 15 2006....

'Facebook allows advertisers to sponsor user groups, such as the Nike group, the Abercrombie & Fitch group, and the Apple group, where members can discuss a company's products. Some of these groups are surprisingly popular with students, who evidently are less suspicious of American corporations than previous generations of college kids. "At Harvard, there's a group called Not A Corporate Whore," Chris Hughes says, "but a lot of those people are also in the Apple group".

As global brands go, they don't come any bigger than Apple, but it's not surprising that kids with anti corporate feelings still find themselves drawn to the company. Back in the late 80's, when it was struggling as a small company against giants like IBM, Apple cleverly took advantage of their 'outsider' status with the 'Think Different' campaign. They used brilliant but wayward icons like Einstien to say 'you're different, we're different too'. This very much appeals to the individually minded consumer who feels disconnected from 'the system' but has no real desire to completely break free from it. Thus Apple is the corporate brand of choice for the armchair anti-corporate.

Of all people though, the brains at Harvard should be a little more self aware, or aware of the irony at least. I'm one to talk though... I was bristling with pride the other day watching Al Gore's film 'An Inconvenient Truth' as he was running a powerpoint show off of the exact same Mac as mine. And he has the same Treo phone.



On another note, I started therapy yesterday, and already it has thrown up some interesting points.

'Do you have a history of setting fire to things?' she asked me.

'No' I said 'just love letters from broken relationships and the odd picture of Posh Spice on the cover of Sleazenation'.

'I'm trying to understand why fire is so important to you Neil. Lets talk about your father... what does he do for a living?'

'Oh, he makes fire alarms.'

A film crew visited my flat yesterday, to interview to me about the bonfire project and probe my thoughts on the nature of cool (the programme is called 'The Purchase Of Cool' for C4). As I was showing the camera around the flat, talking through the items that were destined for the flames, I was struck down by a wave of status anxiety. Was my stuff branded enough, flashy enough, exclusive enough to be burnt? As we toured the flat, were the crew thinking 'yeah, but I've seen better'? To be honest, I experience this anxiety whenever people visit my home. I puff with pride and confidence when visitors comment on my hand built Michelle turntable and Bryston/ THX power amp. I wilt a little when they peer into the spare room where there sits an embarrassingly large pile of branded footwear, in an Imelda Marco goes to Footlocker type way. And when they enter the kitchen to find I still have the awful white Magnet cooker (inherited when I bought the place from the previous owners) I feel plain embarrassed and vow to make amends as soon as I can drag myself down to the directional oven store.

Ah well, there is light at the end of the tunnel; I start psychotherapy next week (and for the next 20 weeks thereafter) in an attempt to understand my branded madness. After contacting the British Association (of media friendly) Psychotherapists I met Carol, my therapist, for the first time this week. We were due to meet in a café, but neither of us knew what each other looked like. Arriving after me, she walked past my table, giving me the once over, but walked straight past; obviously deciding that I didn't look much like 'me'. We eventually found each other, and sitting down, she said 'I spotted you as I came in but somehow you did not fit the mental picture I had of you.'



It's slightly unnerving to discuss another person's visual expectations of yourself. Perhaps she thought I would be dressed in head to toe Vuitton monograms (sadly I'd given the Chris Eubanks country gent LV plus fours the day off). Who cares, Carol is going to help me deliver myself from this insanity.



Talking of insanity, World Cup tyranny continues to envelope London at an alarming rate. I was walking to my local store to buy some Jaffa Cakes ('Win Two Tickets To The Cup Final With McVitties'), a can of Coke ("Win World Cup Tickets Every Day In June') and a newspaper ('Rooney Fit To Play: THERE IS A GOD!'), when a passing white van man leaned out of the window and made me jump in the air, shouting 'EN-GER-LAND!'. The van looked like a two-bit Roman chariot with umpteen George Cross ™ flags and stickers plastered over the chassis. The Conservatives are upset that Tony Blair wasn't flying the flag at No. 10 (he is now, after immense pressure). Any bar that isn't showing matches on huge screens will surley be facing bankruptcy. Even the Google homepage logo has been given the World Cup once-over (surely the pinnacle of ubiquity is to have Google do one of their little logo re-drawing for you, or is that something one can pay for?) Football fever is a full-blown epidemic, and only the very brave whisper words of dissent. As with all our national sporting epidemics, England should be knocked out in the closing stages and we'll all get back to the serious business of shopping. Thank god.

I think everyone will agree with me that British football, along with most popular spectator sports, was purchased many moons ago. But for this World Cup, it seems that the spectator him/herself has been entirely purchased too. Sure, fans have always forked out money for tickets, replica kits and Pukka Pies, but every aspect of team support is now facilitated through a brand. Mars tap in to our collective yearning for glory by urging us to 'believe' on re-branded packaging, a micro site with screen savers and tie ins with Metro newspaper.



Coca-Cola dig the well of emotion deeper still, simply asking us to 'Love' our footballers. Not only is the physical experience of supporting the team (watching on a Phillips Amber screen TV in an Umbro shirt, eating Pringles crisps, waving a Sainsbury's George Cross, drinking Budweiser beer, buying Pizza Hut takeaway with a Mastercard credit card), but the public and private emotions attached to the game are now wholly associated with brands.

At school, I was rubbish at football. Even worse, I didn't have the right kit or a decent Adidas ball, so I've always hated the game. I'm not going to moan on about footie fans, but it is an interesting experience to be standing outside the marketing frenzy that is sweeping this country at the moment. Realists claim advertising's power lasts only until you look away. But there is no looking away here in London at the moment. If anyone needs me, I'll be hiding under a rock until it is over.

Going brand-free does not, it seems make for a good haul of presents on your birthday. The usual catch of luxury consumables and entry level designer knick knacks were this year replaced with no name alternatives (green boiler suit anyone?) by friends who are diligently preparing me for the upcoming fire. One couple stuck by their branded guns and gave me some chocolates and biscuits from the ultra fancy department store Fortnum & Mason, and I can tell you that these tasted 1000 times better than the 'artisan' wholefood chocolates (guaranteed handmade by a wizened old crow in a barn in a rainforest somewhere) someone else gave me. The transformational power of the brand eh?



In planning for the bonfire, I have had to supply a list of goods to be destroyed for the local council and fire department. As I wrote this out this morning, I again began to conceive secret plans to hide some of the best gear from the fire, and replace it with products for which I hold no emotional value. I am going to have to ban myself from charity shops, dumps, car boot sales etc near the time to prevent brand burning fraud.

Bonfire Item List (approximate and incomplete)

Clothes:
150 tops
30 trousers
10 shorts
25 coats
30 trainers
10 shoes
10 hats
20 underpants
20 socks
5 sunglasses

Jewellery:
2 watches
10 chains
1 money clip
3 keyrings
5 badges/ broaches
4 rings

Luggage:
2 wallets
3 shoulder bags
2 overnight bags
1 trolley bag

Electricals:
1 turntable
1 amplifier
2 speakers
1 radio
1 land line phone
2 mobile phones
1 kettle
1 fridge
1 washing machine
1 hoover
1 dvd/ vhs player
1 television

Cosmetics:
20 assorted bottles aftershave, shampoo, moisturiser, deodorant
15 assorted bottles/ boxes detergent, cleaning agents

Furniture:
2 wooden chairs
2 plastic chairs
1 sideboard
8 plastic storage boxes
1 waste bin
1 rug

Crockery:
5 cups and saucers
1 teapot
6 plates
2 vases

Others:
1 bicycle
4 pillows
1 duvet

Some obvious items, the ibook for example, are missing from the list because I so far not figured out a way to live/ work without them. I will therefore be paying for these items to be de-branded. See, I am taking this seriously.



On another note, is there a single branded company on the planet that isn't cashing in on the World Cup? Is there a single professional footballer on the planet that hasn't signed some sort of sponsorship deal? On almost every TV advert last night, one player or another was playing keepie-up with fast food packaging, credit cards, sun glasses, toilet cleaner, ten tonne lead weights (I wish). And the nation's brand, the George Cross flag now flies atop every white van on the road; the high strength cocktail of corporate sponsorship and flag waving nationalism making me feel dizzy at times. The one place on television that is brand free at the moment is Big Brother; Channel 4 routinely cover packaging with black tape to prevent any unpaid endorsements from slipping throughout he net. Football, Reality TV, which is worse? Ah well, I could turn the damn TV off and do something less boring instead.

I am reliably informed in a comment posted by edinburghsloth666 that hairy Bristolian TV presenter Justin Lee Collins is attempting to bring back Brut aftershave in a documentary (he recently tried to reunite the A Team, presumably digging up George Peppard's grave in the process). This coincides with an interesting report on > BBC Radio 4 about brand orphans; brands that are dropped and sold off by their owners, and then brought back to life on popular demand. It usually happens to brands you once loved but somehow forgot about (Smash instant potato mash, Camp coffee). Judging by the aroma of the burly old geezers who work out at my gym, I thought Brut aftershave was still very much alive and well. I have to say that Brut and Old Spice trigger fond memories inside me whenever I smell them. Come to think of it, perfume can be just as powerful as music in triggering memories and emotions. Whenever I catch a whiff of Benetton's perfume I think of my first proper girlfriend. But then I also think of her when I hear the theme tune from Psycho.



People get very excited about familiar brands being discontinued or altered in some way. The obvious example is the new Coke debacle, but recently fans of the Ask Jeeves search engine delivered a huge petition to its owners, in reaction to the news that the friendly butler mascot was being dropped, along with the 'Jeeves' name. I'm told more people signed up to that than a recent petition to end land mines. I myself am just as bad. When I heard the news that the Helmut Lang label was being discontinued, after its head designer walked out, I went into mild shock for a day. Refusing to believe it was true, I surfed the web, called up journalist friends, I even trecked over to Selfridges dept. store to search out the horrible truth. I simply couldn't believe it, my favourite designer, well one of them, gone, forever. It really did feel as if a friend had died or moved to Australia (same thing).



See how sad I am? Understand why I'm burning all this lot now? The good news is that I am slowly coming to terms with the brand addiction. Today is my birthday: traditionally I would be expecting expensive designer gifts from my friends and family (and become slightly riled that only my fiancé would actually come up with the goods, God bless her). This year, I can honestly say I want for nothing. Primarily because any branded thing I am given will be destroyed in a matter of weeks, but also I think I might be turning a corner in my addiction to material gain. I feel almost liberated, a constant raging urge to consume is beginning to subside. One trip to the shops may tip me over the edge again, but for now I believe I am on the road to recovery.

I start therapy next week. I'll be attempting to understand how I have come to rely on brands for my self-esteem and personal identity. That's when the real tears begin to flow.