I live in a state of controlled chaos – as anyone ill-advised enough to open a cupboard door Chez Buttercup will attest. Even the stuf I enjoy looking at on a daily basis – and, gadzooks, there’s a lot of it – has to be corralled lest it smother me in my sleep. I’m not materialistic in a diamond-studded, solid gold, dolphin-shaped bathtaps sort of a way. In fact very little of my decorative clutter is worth a light. But just as the absence of colour wounds my soul, minimalism confounds it. I’m a self-expressive sort and my possessions, like my clothes, are an extension of who I am; their display a means of creative expression. Indeed, during the sartorial lean periods all fats are familiar with, it’s been one of my only means of creative expression.