IT'S amazing what a woman can buy when she's hormonal and having a strop.

Last Saturday, I bought a long red wig, a sequinned mask adorned with feathers, a bicycle (plus panniers) and a Strawberry Split, all in under an hour.

Since most of that time was spent striding the shop-less zone alongside the River Ouse, over the Millennium Bridge and across the field to Fulford (and back), this was quite an achievement, even for me, plus I lectured the poor ice-cream man about how idling his engine was adding to global warming The worst of it is, I can't even remember what I was being stroppy about. I suspect it was money, or the lack of. That usually makes me want to rush out and buy something straight off. But I did need the mask, honestly.

My friend H was celebrating her 50th birthday and to mark the occasion she was throwing a masked ball. It was originally planned to be in a castle but a fire had put paid to this ("The castle, and I, are gutted," she emailed).

The ball was downsized slightly to a party at H's house, but since her parties are always fabulous I saw no reason to scale down my outfit. My pal Pauline had made me a full-length evening dress with a train, inspired by the red-carpet gowns from this year's Oscars ("Who do you want to be? Kate Winslet or Scarlett Johansson?" she asked, flicking through Now magazine) and I am not a girl to let a frock, or a friend, down.

Concerned that my hair, which is currently a little Kevin Keegan-ish, might not live up to this femme-fatale image, I also bought a wig as a result of my hike to Fantasy World (never tell someone with curly hair how lucky they are: you have no idea how easily it can all go Tracy Beaker).

Besides, I always buy wigs for H's parties: last time it was a white disco-diva wig sprayed with glitter for her Silver Party; the time before that, a long black one for her "Come as Your Inner Super-Hero" Party (I went as Nigella Lawson, aka the Domestic Goddess, complete with a necklace of measuring spoons). I also have a rather matted blonde one, but that party's a blur.

The bicycle, in case you are wondering, wasn't part of the get-up. It was hard enough trying to see through the curtain of hair and not trip over my hem in my high heels; arriving by bike would have definitely been de trop and probably disastrous.

The reason for the bike is that Pauline's workshop is next door to the Bike Rescue Project at Parkside, the business units on Terry Avenue. I have, for a long time now, been planning to get back on a bike - it's one of my "eco-challenges"- and buying an old bike that's been made good again appeals because it is literally "re-cycling".

It seemed perfectly logical to pick up a bike and a ballgown together, and a few minutes later saw me wobbling away, shrieking, down the drive.

By the time I'd lapped Rowntree Park car park and managed to gear-change with only a minimal amount of clunking, I had stopped shrieking and started smiling. It's true what they say: riding a bike is just like falling off a log. Or is it elephants? I forget.

I sailed back home a happier person, which was a shock to the husband, who was expecting Grumpy Katie and not a freewheelin' one (it's OK when it's Bob Dylan, but Kate-on-a-bike is just another Cause For Concern in his book).

I admit I haven't been out on it again since, but friends have promised to accompany me on my first few nervous excursions along some back roads and nice safe cycle tracks and promises of picnics have been thrown in, too. Just don't expect a wave if you see me; my signalling's a bit dodgy and I might veer off into the verge.

Anyway, I did go to the ball, and the husband cheered up considerably when he saw me in my get-up, which I have included here so that you can have a laugh, too.

The party was great fun - the garden was decked out like a magical fairy grotto - and H was on top form and wearing even more feathers on her mask than me. When we had our picture taken together, it looked like two cockerels displaying.

The gown was a hit, too, though it was hard to bop to the Alabama 3 holding up a train. And I don't mean in a Ronnie Biggs kind of way. As to the wig, it was a novelty to have so much hair to swish but I kept getting quiche stuck in it. I bet that never happens to Scarlett Johansson.