With a face like mine, this shuts everyone up

Dig meets important people all the time. And when he claps eyes on Greg Dyke, Melvyn Bragg and the Duke of Edinburgh, he does not, unlike Grit, feel the need to slap his hands to the side of his head, let his lower jaw droop open in an affliction with the palsy, then suddenly shout Oh My God! Look! LOOK! and point with a full repertoire of facial tics and wild gesticulations at a passing minor celebrity like they've just risen from the dead.

Grit, unfortunately, spends her days with children and hippie mothers who home educate. She doesn't have anything to say about anything. Except who's got their finger up their nose and the new recipe for salt dough. Clearly, she doesn't get out enough.

So tonight, while she is wined and dined and sat at the top table, with all the big, big, names sitting all around her chatting about twenty-first century politics and Princess Di, she tries to keep her mouth shut, opening it only to fill it with buffalo cheese. One false move and she could find herself kicked out on the pavement.

After an hour, Neil Kinnock can bear it no longer. He leans across the table, grips my arm in a manly grasp and asks me who I am. I am at a loss. So I say, Neil, I am here for you. Tonight, I am your eye candy.