Not my cup of baby formula
I am quite happy with my addiction, thanks for asking, and you need not offer me any of your twelve-step recovery plans. I have met some delightful artisans; I have spent my money where it will make a difference to talented people; and I have received some lovely jewellery, scarves, etc with which to draw attention away from the fact that my appearance would otherwise be far from fetching.
But there is no denying that some of the things which are held out for sale in the furthest corners of the site are ... strange. Strange is by no means necessarily bad, of course, and one man's meat has long been another man's poison. Items to which I would not personally give house-room under any circumstances are enthusiastically snapped up by customers whose tastes are evidently geometrically-opposite to my own.
Most of what is on offer in this shop, if I'm honest, scares the bejeezus out of me.
Now, admittedly, I am one of those rare women who lacks whatever gene it is which leads to cooing over babies. I simply don't find babies attractive. I can understand, intellectually, that one would more than likely be very fond indeed of one's own infant, and would probably deem him or her to be cute beyond all telling. But the warm, damp, squawling little bundles leave me entirely cold.
Combine this infant-indifference with the fact that I have read Graham Masterton's book, "Walkers", in a paperback copy illustrated with a screaming face bulging through brickwork, and you will understand why this, to me, is a ceramic rendition of a bloodied and distressed baby trapped behind a wall.