Morning:
9°c
I glanced up into the gallery during Prime Minister's Questions recently and there was Peter Mandelson, surveying the battlefield. It's not so much the policemen getting younger that causes affront as Mr Mandelson back yet again while never looking any older. Either he visits a beautician we don't know about or he's rejuvenated by the prospect of politically outliving Tony Blair and Gordon Brown - and how very like Peter that would be.
As I revealed many years ago, Mandy's self-preservation is due in part to an invigorating dancing sideline, which entails flair, a lack of self-consciousness and an erotic frisson. Settle down at the back - it is what good dancing has been about from the pas de deux to the salsa and beyond.
Shortly before John Sergeant's dramatic exit from the world of sequins, I bumped into that other Westminster dancer extraordinaire. He launched into detailed account of his training schedule. A very attractive female Strictly fan joined us. "Are you honestly telling me that when Kristina pressed her body against yours you felt nothing," she asked. "Nothing at all," replied Sergy. "And if I did it?" she murmured enticingly. "It would be strictly professional," said the flushed but earnest national hero. Mrs Sergeant is a very lucky woman.
* Top tip for the chilly stiletto season. Bastien Gonzalez, the prince of pedicures, in the Cadogan Hotel. A friend counselled that the best London treat was nothing to do with foie gras and trumpets, which sounds awful to me - but eating tea and cake on a double bed with Bastien. His clients are global, you get an inside track on the world economy as he rescues your trotters.
I used to think this was idle chat, till on one visit he predicted the fall of the Argentine peso, which duly plummeted the following week. Now he's expanding from London-Paris-New York to Russia on the grounds that only the diverse will survive the financial squeeze. Gives the Footsie a whole new meaning.
* Bracing for the pantomime season, but not yet quite ready to contend with the decibel level, I took my brood to Treasure Island at the Theatre Royal.
It's a proper story, with twists and turns, really frightsome pirates and Keith Allen (below) wearing such a huge wooden leg we wondered if Lily might be inside it. We need more children's theatre that isn't just panto. Meanwhile Allen père is such a natural stage rogue that there must surely be a part in Shakespeare out there with his name on it.
