For about the past nine months I've been following The Selby, a blog which delves into the apartments of well-to-do, almost famous creative types, and photographs the results. Despite the fuss about these "creatives" (musicians, publishers, writers, trust-fund-kids-cum-art-students, filmmakers) one can only but notice the sameness of each abode, to the point where they all become indistinguishable. Every apartment is drowned in organised, somewhat intentional, clutter, and is guaranteed to feature at least one, if not all, of the following: stacks of rare coffee table books, a brick wall covered in asymmetrical, slanted framed prints, an impressive record collection and an abundance of kitsch memorobilia. The homes recall Claire's old bedroom, but without the hyper-colour, slightly majestical Disney tinge. And yet for some strange reason I am completely addicted to the site. It could be because I'm a busybody (I like to snoop through people's book and CD libraries), because I'm bored and have no life (the most probable answer), or because it relates to my much mocked, suprise dream of being an interior designer.

Whatever the answer, see the site for yourself here.