“Depression” is a filthy word. It smacks of weakness, lack of determination and/or moral fibre. It conjures up images of those with no spine; pasty coloured ninnies, “freeloaders, the lot!” “No balls!” “Tossers!” “They’re the sort that are just as likely to let the side down.” As if it were a lifestyle sort of thing, it can only be deemed to be a choice. The stinking label is spat out at others – by those who’ve never seen the underside of that leaden blanket – as mindless yobs might throw pebbles at stray dogs. It is often dished out with the same snarling pleasure, ignorance and acidity as “poof” and “wanker” might be used to put someone down. Years ago, whilst going through something of a dark patch, I remember sitting in the passenger seat of a friend of mine’s car and he seemed to find amusement in whistling the tune of Vinicius de Moraes’ “Tristeza nao tem fim” (Sadness has no end, in Portuguese). I suppose he was telling me had no time for my antics. Who needs enemies?… But can I blame him? I watched a presentation on TED this evening by a young lad called Kevin Breel who pointed out that if you happen to break a limb just about everyone you know will rush forward to sign your plaster cast. Bring up depression, however, and most people scatter…