As a student, I am a firm believer in adhering to the second Sabbath – the “Orange Wednesday.” Thus, on the last holy day, I found myself cushioned into the contemporary surroundings of the Cambridge Picturehouse to enjoy The Social Network. (You mean you can take a glass of wine to your seat? Well that sure beats the sticky-floored Cineworld back home). I'd arrived early, because true cinema fans know that the best part of going to the movies is watching the adverts and planning when you're next going to take your next trip.

But this is when the true contrast with my hometown cinema became apparent: projected in all its 12-foot glory, my fellow film-lovers and I were submitted to a 45-second advert... for a job vacancy. It appears that Green & Black’s care so much for employing only the very best candidates in order to create the very best chocolate, that they are willing to spend a considerable budget on cinema advertising. Well isn't that respectable, I thought. But as the next advert drew to a close and my stomach started to rumble, I realised that I no longer wanted to sit through the commercials. All I really wanted right then was to go back into the foyer and purchase a slightly overpriced bar of G&B's 70% cocoa delight.

And here you can see the issue. I'd done it again. I'd been charmed by yet another example of post-modern advertising into thinking that I have retained my independence as a consumer. Furthermore, the idea only became even more apparent when I later opened my gyp-room cupboard and the packaging of my "honest, tasty and real" cereal beckoned me from the top shelf. Not even an Innocent smoothie could wash away the sour taste in my mouth that the manufacturer might not be my true friend.

But then again, maybe I’m being too harsh on my dear chums at Green & Black’s. At least, after all, the montage edits of warm chocolate-y goodness left me in no doubt that I was being entertained by a confectionary brand. Which is more than can be said for many advertisements in this age of branding. More frequently than I would prefer, I am forced to cross my legs a little tighter in order to delay my ritual Gossip Girl loo-break whilst I wait to find out what the bloody hell the silly screen is trying to sell me. Our generation is united in that unparalleled minute-long bewilderment we all shared the first time Cadbury’s drumming gorilla imposed itself on our living rooms. I mean, it had been annoying to always be humming “Everyone’s a Fruit and Nut case” but at least I was conscious for the indoctrination.

Yet I cannot seem to escape this disconcerting realisation that my product choices are mocking me. Before I reached Cambridge, I desperately attempted to find an oasis of calm, upper-middle-class cultural delights to soothe my new abrasive awareness of isolation; where else but the Tate Modern?

A reassuringly pretentious-looking ale was my chosen antidote (only in the members’ lounge, dahhhling!). But it seems that even one’s afternoon tipple has now acquired its own unique form of branding. “You want to define yourself with bland, tasteless and cheap commodity beer?” screamed the label. My dad’s always warned me never to try to calm my fears with alcohol…