I WANTED to be a goddess but had to make do with being an icon instead. You are Audrey Hepburn, I was told by a ridiculously fresh-faced mum-of-three with glitter in her hair. You are the epitome of Hollywood glamour.

Okey dokey, I thought, but somehow I don't think Audrey would have worn this jumper. And I'm not entirely sure that glamour is the right word to describe the way the pale wool is moulting on to my black trousers, making me look as if I have rubbed myself liberally all over with a sheep in the taxi on the way over.

A taxi in which, I have to say, I was royally ripped off - again. Every time I take a cab in this city, the driver takes me on a convoluted, nonsensical mystery tour up and down the most congested streets he can find.

On Friday night, a journey which I have done dozens of times in less than 15 minutes took almost half an hour, mainly because we got stuck on Gillygate. Why we were anywhere near Gillygate, never mind stuck in the nose to tail traffic, is anyone's guess. On my journey from A to B, Gillygate was an as yet undiscovered 27th letter. We had no business being there, but there we were and there we remained until £4 of my precious money had ticked away on the meter.

But did I say anything to the wheezing, man-mountain of a driver? Did I point out that while he may be under the impression that I am an imbecile with about as much sense of direction as Mark Thatcher, I am in fact a seasoned driver with more than enough grey matter to know when I am being taken for a ride (down blummin' Gillygate of all places)? Of course I didn't. I thanked him politely, wished him a good evening and gave him a healthy tip.

Sometimes I am just too English for my own good. Which is one of the reasons why I probably looked more than a little surprised when on entering my chum's house (half an hour late - sorry), I was immediately ushered into the dining room and declared an icon.

I have been called many things in my time, not many of them printable in a family newspaper such as this, but I have never been christened an icon before. At last, I thought, someone has seen through my bumbling, slightly dishevelled exterior to the true me within - the legend, the icon, the goddess. No love, I was quickly told, the goddesses are over there by the bookshelves, you're with the icons on the sofa.

Talk about bursting someone's bubble. Not only was I not allowed to call myself a goddess, I was also expected to share my iconic status with about half a dozen other women. Cheek!

I considered throwing a diva-like tantrum and flouncing into the kitchen like J-Lo in a strop. But, frankly, I haven't got the bottle - or bottom - for flouncing. Instead I knocked back a couple of glasses of wine (knocking one of them over my moulting sweater in the process, so now I looked like a sheep and smelled like a brewery) and got into the swing of my first cosmetics party.

The goddesses by the bookshelves got to try out the Goddess range of products, while we icons basted ourselves in - yep, you guessed it - the Icon collection.

By the end of the evening, we were all a-shimmer. There really is no other word to describe us. Our skin was so smooth, soft and glittery, the Italians could have piled us up in St Mark's Square during their power cut and bathed in our collective glow.

But they didn't. Instead we all went home, where our nearest and dearest celebrated our homecoming in a fashion befitting goddesses and icons.

A fashion which mainly comprised of loud snoring and leisurely scratching.

Updated: 09:07 Tuesday, September 30, 2003