Charted for the first time in my writing career.  They Jewel Box is only at 48, but hey, you have to start somewhere!

Last night, at the newly opened Salamander Dinner-Dance Club on Coventry Street (they serve one of London's better steak-au-poivres accompanied by brisk, stirring jazz) a louche gentleman in a top hat wreaked violent Charleston on me, and simply would not be shaken off .  Today I am officially 'In Recovery' – the kind that necessitates a night at home with a fish-paste sandwich and a mug of cocoa.  For it's not merely my head that's aching – it's not just the usual ringing of the ears, rasping of the throat and churning of the stomach.  No, today my lily white tootsies are black and blue too.  Reader, I can barely walk!

            As you know, it's been over a year since the Charleston stepped off the boat and took up residence in our better night-clubs.  They dance it dandily in Paris and New York.  So how much longer is it going to be before the Londoner learns how to do it properly?  Men are generally the worst.  There's something, frankly, convulsive about those kicking, flailing legs.  At the Salamander, you take your life in your hands when you step on to the dance-floor.  In fact, I wouldn't even advise taking a table beside the dance-floor.  But many of the fairer sex are not so much better – really, there are a lot of farmyard hens strutting about the West End, pecking and flapping. 

            The solution?  Lessons, of course.  Trust me, girls, it's a sound investment.  I suggest any of you with a nagging suspicion that your Charleston may be of the feathered, clucking sort, should seek out, post-haste, Miss Leticia (known to her friends as 'Teenie Weenie') Harrison, of Mayfair.  Take heed:  This might change your life.  In an ideal world, one would of course take the hubby or boyfriend along to Teenie Weenie's – but if he thinks he's too fine and manly for classes, you'll have to teach him yourself.  Let's face it, we've been educating our men in so many departments since long before we - that is, those of us over thirty – got the vote (NB. the under-thirties would have my sympathy were it not for the fact that I covet your tender youth) and we'll be doing so for as long as men are men and women are women.  Embrace your fate. 

            Two irritating comments that I regularly encounter, of an evening, now my fame is spreading:

            "Miss Sharp, where do you find the stamina to go out all night every night?  Your job must be the hardest in London."

- and –

"What an easy job you have, Miss Sharp.  All you have to do is go out and enjoy yourself and then tell us all about it."

            Also, I am outraged at the reports of various pretenders claiming to be me in order to blag good tables and complementary cocktails.  Doormen, if ever in doubt, ask 'Diamond' to blow you a smoke-ring.  This is a very particular talent of mine, and should instantly reveal any fake gems.  Oh, and by the way, I have never in my life had to ask for a free drink!

 

 

           

Diamond Sharp