WELL, Ascot's finally here, and after two years of belly-aching about how it would bring our city to a standstill, I've decided to do the hypocritical thing and make my personal contribution to the congestion.

There's just one teeny snag. With only half a shopping day to go before my pilgrimage to Knavesmire, I still haven't sorted out the most crucial bit of my outfit for what we apparently must not call Ladies' Day.

It's not my hat - choosing that was a no-brainer, given my somewhat restrained budget and the variety open to me as a consequence.

No, as every sensible woman knows, the most critical part of any race-day ensemble relates to the other extremity entirely.

I'm talking about shoes. They can be the difference between misery and delight, and not only because they make or break your outfit.

There is a law of physics that governs women's footwear. The more covetable, the more elegant the shoe, the deadlier an instrument of torture it will be.

I've often thought this is why many men love stiletto heels; such shoes are gorgeous to look at, and they lend a thoroughbred air to the object of your affection.

However, they are also so crippling to endure they make it impossible for the said object of your affection to do a swift runner on you.

It's a fact oft overlooked by the writers of children's fables. Crystal slippers may make the wearer look like Cinderella; but after a hard night on the dance floor, her bleeding heels, blistered toes and agonised arches will make her feel more like the Little Mermaid, she who swapped her fish tail for a life of walking on knives.

If I were a sensible person, I'd resign myself to going in for something with a broad fitting and a nice, chunky, one-and-a-half-inch heel.

It's the sort of thing the Queen would choose, and she should know - she's made a career out of days such as Ascot.

The trouble is, I'm spiritually closer to the Queen Mum on this issue. Remember the skyscraper heels she used to favour in blithe disregard of the fact that she was pushing 100?

Frivolous shoes are much more my scene, too, although I must try to remember that the Queen Mum always had a carriage tucked away somewhere to whisk her to and from events.

Not for her the unalloyed joy of limping barefoot with blackened soles down Tadcaster Road, locked into an existential search for an empty taxi.

The outfit I've chosen means I could get away with wearing a pair of shoes I have already broken in. Unfortunately, I do not 'break in' shoes; they break me in instead, which is probably why I have a shoe rack bursting with almost-identical high heels, all of which have been worn precisely once.

Several of my colleagues are caught up in the same dilemma; and one of them has heard of a possible solution.

In Newcastle nightclubs, dispensing machines sell something called Sole Mates. These are not condoms, but disposable folding flat shoes that come in a drawstring bag. The idea is that at the end of a long evening's stagger round Bigg Market, you slip off your agonising four-inch heels, stick them in the bag and put on the flatties to walk home.

I believe you can get them on the Internet; but alas, not by this time tomorrow.

So this afternoon will see me making another disconsolate tour of the M&S Foot Glove range, in the vain hope of finding a pair of shoes that is both elegant and comfortable.

Updated: 10:15 Wednesday, June 15, 2005