Here's me, pulling a belt 2cm higher or considering what colour socks to wear with these particular jeans, and then here's these clothes – all by the young British labels that Susie champions on her blog – that leap out and mug you.
But getting a mug isn't one of them.
When I emerge from several mean weeks of 10ml doses of semi-skimmed in each mug of tea, I'm never actually flat-bellied, and my face appears unhealthily gaunt.
It is now at once the twee height of Englishnessbut also the most basic solution to any problem, a coddle in a mug.
Me: I was thinking of a mug, actually.
They are ready to duel to the death over how long a bag should be left in a mug, or whether a bag should even see a mug in the first place, whether a bag should be locked in the prison of a teapot and squeezed of its blood through a spout.
When I broke a mug and felt relieved to be able to throw something away, I knew that I probably needed to reassess my relationship with responsibility, and fast.
I started missing home after just a few days, every last stupid mug and spoon, and the point on the horizon I looked to became my return date, rather than just the endless horizon.
He rattled through the stories of Turing's peculiarities – burying his silver bullion and then forgetting where; chaining his mug to his radiator; cycling in his gas mask to ward off hay fever.
It could be a picture of a frog you've been dissecting in the lab, that mug of cold coffee you never managed to drink, or a diary with no social plans because your work has taken over.
Dressed in Saturday morning lounge-wear, he greeted me cautiously and prepared me a tea in a Cadbury's Caramel Easter egg mug.
