All I wanted to do was sell some clothes, but what began as a simple attempt to turn a large box of old unwanted items into a small amount of money turned into a racist street outburst.

Like most people in the UK my clothing consumption often approaches the ridiculous, and we, as a family, are often in danger of disappearing under mountainous regions of washed but unfolded and unput-away-able clothes, as cupboards are already jammed shut against a possible avalanche of checked shirts and seasonal sweaters.

It’s a disease, I know. An addiction that I think stems from my childhood of ill-fitting and faded hand-me-downs resulting in numerous bouts of derision from my childhood peers. This has left me with a “clothes maketh the man” attitude that is often exacerbated by my ability to justify purchases on the basis that about 80% of my wardrobe has been bought in…