In one last frenzy, I scattered every fashion magazine I could grasp into my already heaving basket of press. This is photographic evidence of a final binge, my one last time, the ultimate hurrah - because, my friends, a fashion ban has been imposed. Self-imposed. 

I'm subscribed to a plethora of fashion titles: Vogue, Harpers Bazaar, Marie Claire, Glamour, and yet I supplement my feast with the junk food of mag-land - the weeklies. I devour their contents, and once satiated, chuck them into my recycling bin, week after week. The bin men dread Mondays. 

Admittedly, enveloped by naivety, this little vice was once regarded as 'research' because I aspire to pen fashion copy for a style rag. However, the people witnessing my descent knew better. I am an addict.  Not a day passes without Grazia or Look poking out of my Luella handbag. Forget footprints, I leave a trail of magazines when I walk. 

However, my fashion fixation is not limited to the excessive consumption of magazines, oh no, it extends to the compulsive purchasing of clothes and shoes. See it. Want it. Buy it. The motto that has left me with bags and bags of unworn loot destined for eBay.

In a bid to quell my cravings for fashion crack, I am giving up fashion for six weeks. I can look but I very definitely can not touch. I want to truly overcome my addiction. I want to be in Waitrose and not instinctively hunt down the latest copy of Vogue. I want to see fashion, feel clothes, pair items in my head knowing that that pair of shearling booties would look oh-so-perfect with last season's parka, and then, I want to walk away. 

I'm removing my fashion-shackles. Cold turkey. Six weeks. See you on the other side... 

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