My first psychotherapist tried to cure me of my interest in fashion. I was in my early twenties and had gone to see him about my morbid fear of the dark. Every week, en route to his Fulham office, I would stop by a dress agency (appropriately named Hang Ups) and pick up second-hand John Galliano and Romeo Gigli pieces, mostly for around £40. On seeing my ever-changing outfits, and my ever-present shopping bag, he took it upon himself to try to persuade me that my interest in clothes was unhealthy.
It was expensive (for an art student) and betrayed a pathological investment in my own image. He suggested that I try wearing the same clothes for a week to see how I felt and to uncover the repressed, unconscious wishes behind my desire to dress up. I hated him so much I dropped my original symptom. I was cured!
Seven years and two more therapists later, I began to train as a psychoanalyst myself. I was
