YOU'LL be pleased to know I eventually solved the wardrobe dilemma I was wrestling with last week -- and with literally minutes to spare before the big night out -- which was nice.

Or, no, it wasn't really, now I think of it. It was a bit of a nightmare but, then, what's new around here?

If you must know I ended up hot-footing it down the M60 to the shopping mecca know to millions as The Trafford Centre, a place I frequent so frequently that if destinations were BT phone numbers it would be top of my friends and family list.

I actually see some of the staff in some of the shops more often than my friends and family if truth be known -- and I recently discovered that an old school friend works in Debenhams.

Anyway, yes, there I was, walking the malls, looking for that outfit with a certain je ne whatever it is, but could I find anything I wanted or looked even the slightest bit glamorous in? No.

Same old story. You know, whenever you have money to spend and want something in particular there's never anything you want. Take the money and purpose out of the equation and there would no doubt have been a whole host of perfect outfits in every shop.

As it happened there was one suit I liked.

Only problem was it was about eight times as much as I had budgeted for. Four hours and 14 horrendous ensembles later though and it seemed perfect so I did what any self-respecting girl would do. I whacked in the old credit card and headed for home before anyone spotted me.

So, there I was, huge yellow cardboard carrier bag in hand. You'd have thought I was sorted wouldn't you? For about 15 minutes. Then I realised I had no chance of every paying for this stylish black velvet two-piece wrapped so carefully in three trees worth of tissue and some snazzy Selfridges sticky things.

No sooner had I hung it up than I'd packed it back in the bag. Only snag in the return policy plan was that I didn't actually take it back to the shop.

I thought about it, of course. I pondered, procrastinated, paced up and down the bedroom for hours, knowing full well it was far too much money to blow at one go.

But still it didn't go back.

In fact, the only place it did go was out last Thursday night -- after everything else I possessed paled into insignificance in its magnificent John Richmond designer glow.

A couple of friends have since instructed me to try to take it back anyway but as half of Manchester witnessed me crawling around in it on my knees on the dance floor between about 1am and 2am, I don't really see how I can.

Then there's a funny mark on the back of the jacket that looks suspiciously like a discarded bit of kebab meat. Either that or someone was considerately sick on me at some point.

Not to worry though, eh?

A quick dry cleaning job and we'll get it sorted out, I'm sure.

And at least I've got something to wear these days. Another five years of wearing it once a week and I might have go somewhere near my money's worth too.

It'll be another five before I pay it off, though.