When is a glittery, floor-length evening dress ever a work of art?

When it is trussed-up with 400 designer outfits and displayed in a moody setting by the Royal Academy of Arts. Or that's what I found when I went to meet Giorgio Armani (it's not very often you can say that) at the press opening of his Retrospective exhibition in London.

Everyone seemed to be going to great pains to stress that he was a contemporary artist who had defined the spirit of the times. And there was me thinking he was a just an Italian fashion designer who had criminally put women in power suits in the 1980s (It's OK, I kept my opinions to myself).

There were many 'bellissimo' moments at his press conference when a panel of otherwise sensible art afficionadoes turned into creeping sycophants. They began saying 'thank-you for being my friend, Giorgio', and other such nonsense. Even the hundreds of hard-bitten journalists sat in awe of the man and only the ladies in the most sylish suits got up to ask him a question.

Armani himself turned up with an entourage of frighteningly slick, bi lingual women looking immaculate in Armani. They rushed around him translating and fixing up interviews with high-profile journalists.

I looked around and suddenly realised I'd made a terrible mistake by failing to have sought the help of a personal shopper for this occasion. Everyone around me - including the journalists - had coiffeured hair and hundreds of pounds of haute couture on their backs.

I looked at my own sorry outfit. It might have gone unnoticed on the high street but my tailoring was just woeful, darling. And my shoes were sensible Clark's round-toed numbers, not the snake-skin pointy-toed delights that everyone else was wearing.

Never mind, I thought, and ever the pushy journalist, I asked if I could have a personal audience with the artiste himself. His PA looked at my Top Shop jacket and nearly fainted, but I eventually found myself third in line for the job.

By this stage, I was very dry-throated and more than a little awe-struck. I had never been so close to greatness. Before I knew it, I was staring into Mr Armani's perma-tanned face and being given a bone-crunching handshake. It was only then, in that moment that I realised I had absolutely nothing to ask him.

Nothing. After that, I think I began hyperventilating but I can't be sure because I blanked the rest of it out like trauma victims do. The lesson I learned that day is never to turn up to see Mr Armani if you are not wearing one of his suits. The other lesson was never to ask to speak to someone when you have nothing to say, even if you've seen them on the telly and they're dead famous.