ENGLISH humorist Jerome K. Jerome famously said: "It is impossible to enjoy idling thoroughly unless one has plenty of work to do."

Well, in my case, I enjoy shopping the most when I'm broke.

It's one of those cosmic perversities. Here we are, a family of three struggling to stretch a couple of hundred dollars until the end of the month. Then, I go off on a rare girls' afternoon out. And before I know it, my girlfriend and I are trying up a storm in a shoe store.

"Those look fab on you," my consumer-in-crime, Ms F, eggs me on as I try on a pair of black, patent leather stilettos with a sexy T-bar.

"I'll die walking in them, you know!" I moan, clutching her arm for balance and moral support. Still, I preen in front of the mirror in the high heels.

A voice in my head asks me where I intend to wear those shoes to - the market while carrying a 12kg toddler? I ignore it.

For three hours, Ms F and I squeal over purses, bags, shoes and dresses. We met at City Hall MRT station and haven't even make it out of the CityLink Mall. We weave our way from shop to shop like possessed women drunk on the smell of new, mass- produced goods.

By the end of our spree, I have spent a couple of hundred dollars. I swear I swiped my Nets card so much at the cashiers that sparks flew.

Nothing I bought is terribly expensive. However, I am tapping my patent leather-shod feet to the tune of Big Spender in my head.

Shopping while you're broke - or "broshping", as I shall christen it - is not unlike the high that gamblers get, going for all or nothing in the casinos. That heady throwing of caution to the wind. The knowledge that you'll be admonished for the heedless act later, before plunging headlong into it anyway.

For two minutes, as I wait for my purchases to be rung up, I am liberated of my prosaic identity as a penny-pinching housewife. I am the customer = always right = The Queen.

It is my belief that billionaires probably don't get as much out of shopping as I do. After all, how much danger, thrill and, and... frisson can there be when you can afford to buy $20,000 designer handbags?

I SMS to my husband to tell him I've been buying things. Sad emoticon face. He messages back: "It's okay." Suddenly, I feel very loved. I may have splurged away the grocery money, but all is forgiven.

The next day, the spouse and I stop by the ATM for a reality check. There's $10 left in his account. We hug one another.

Yes, there's fear. But there's also hope and excitement at braving the odds. And we'll always have love and fresh air.

The writer is a freelance writer and a mother of a two-year-old boy. This is a weekly column on motherhood and not-so- desperate housewivery.