Last October I awaited the arrival of my new university roommate. He arrived toting shoe boxes, piled high. They swayed side-to-side as he walked, and he shuffled cautiously to assure they didn't fall. He dumped them of his bed; I guessed they contained books. After he'd brought in his clothes he opened the small boxes: CDs, shiny plastic cases. I counted 560.

I wasn't a musical kid. I brought my first album at 16 - Dido - and had recently, at 18, started listening to Boards of Canada. Why anyone would need so many CDs puzzled me, but, I assure you, he did need them. Music played all day: Kraftwerk, The Human League, Sebastien Tellier, Air Lemon Jelly The Divine Comedy MorcheebaMassiveAttackdarfpunkkidloco...

I loved it. I found my musical niche - electronica - and started listening. The change from music novice to music whore was gradual, as my last.fm attests. But I'm now listening to music 10 hours a day, often falling asleep with it playing. Like a rollercoaster, there's the gradual grind up one side of a large drop, then the clicking stops, and everybody holds their breath, and you fall. Headfirst. You can't escape gravity.

I wish it hadn't happened. It's hard to think with music gushing into your ears, it's a constant nag on clear thought, so you turn it off. But that's worse. There's something missing. It's like the feeling having forgotten something, you pat yourself down, you look around, everything seems fine, but something's amiss.

It's playing with my head. Seriously.