I am depressed. It's not any one thing. It's a series of them, all intensely personal. I haven't done much work for two or three days. It's all I can manage to try to get to grips with the mounting disorder of my studio and office. I don't want to talk about it.In my worst moments, I resort to visual valium. I look at fashion online. Usually, I don't look for anything particular. Hell, I'm so bloody picky that even when I do, it's rare that I actually buy. I find it soothing to scan the shapes, textures, and colours – materials that look good to touch and colours that will set off the few pieces of organic-looking jewellery I wear. It's a simple, self-indulgent exercise: completely superficial and devoid of meaning or the desire for human interaction. The clinical, thumbnail colour photographs and raw specifications of each product are absorbing, calming. I try not to think about the uglier aspect of such avid consumerism – a culture in which, more and more quickly, we create, use and discard in the pursuit of status, superficial identity, and self-gratification – just as I try not to think about what's really troubling me. Call me shallow but I just want the soul-less, beautiful surface of expensive fashion accessories to render me numb.