SOMETHING unprecedented happened at Ikea this week. A couple left the vast temple of Swedish style in Croydon without spending a bean.

How do I know this? Because the couple was us.

I've written before about how it's impossible to walk through the store's acres of shopping area without putting at least five candle holders and a dozen multi-coloured tumblers into your

pallet-sized trolley, even if you'd promised yourself to buy a sofa and nothing else.

My husband and I promised ourselves we'd buy a light for the bathroom and nothing else. And we didn't even manage that.

We couldn't find anything we both liked - in any department - and arrived at the check-out empty-handed.

It was an unusual scene. All around us were weary shoppers lugging heavy packages and bag-loads of kitchen utensils on to till conveyor belts while we dithered with embarrassment looking as if we'd come in at the wrong entrance.

No wonder the staff were eyeing us suspiciously. One seemed ready to frisk my husband just to check he wasn't hiding a flat-pack dining table and chairs on his person.

For a few brief seconds I felt panicky and was about to purchase a multi-coloured rag rug for £5 just because I was standing next to it.

But my husband led me towards the exit and we stepped into the shining light of the big outdoors feeling purged of the sins of temptation.

Some might regard this as a shopping failure. I see it as a success. In fact, I've come to realise that many of my most successful shopping trips have ended like this.

On several occasions I've gone out with the intention of buying a particular item and have persuaded myself not to go ahead with the purchase at the last, vital moment (much to the annoyance of sales staff) because it wasn't exactly what I was looking for. It's always the right decision.

I've learned from experience that if I get something I'm not sure about, it will only make me miserable in the long term.

My husband can verify this. During our last trip to Ikea I bought some flimsy, unflattering slippers for £1. Within days they had caused me to sink into a depression.

I just couldn't get a grip on reality, or the stair carpet. And they left my feet feeling cold, unprotected and unloved.

My husband bravely said I should bin them, but I was shocked that he could even suggest such wasteful consumerism. We rarely throw anything away, as our groaning loft will verify.

It took me four months to do it - and that was only because one had already gone AWOL (and no matter how ridiculous and impractical they had been

as a pair, they were useless when separated).

Immediately, I felt heaps better. Slippers gone, happiness returned. I didn't need the slippers... and they didn't need me, as the missing left one had already demonstrated.

It taught me the valuable lesson that you should never let yourself be owned by your possessions. Because they really don't care about you.

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.