A perfect night. Proof, at the Arts Theatre, followed by calamari salad and a mambo king - champagne and raspberry vodka in a sugar encrusted flute - at Asia de Cuba. Historic. And a sign that the past is behind me. Because the bar used to have special significance. But no longer does. It's both weird and sad that the past becomes the past so quickly... My ex husband, however, might challenge that statement. He's ruffled at being mentioned in a piece I wrote last week;-) For some reason tonight, the theatre was only half full. "It's because the play's about maths," said my companion. Who teaches it. And stage whispered at one point, "I'm so glad you got that joke, it's very mathematical." Actually, her reasoning doesn't add up. It's about life and love, set against a backdrop of numbers. And the kiss, tentative, no tongues, and on a step, is wonderfully erotic. Go see it. On the way out we saw the eclipse of the moon. Or a bit of it. Last night, dancing. At Dover Street. The first time in years. After our last visit, we swore we'd never return. It was impossible to move. And filled with besuited lechers. This time we made similar promises. Because the place was half empty. And lacking besuited lechers. I blame it on the truly dire band. Trying, and failing, to dance to their flat rendition of Knock on Wood, I took matters in hand. And approached a manager. "When does the karaoke finish?" I asked. "What karaoke?" "The bloke who's singing. Don't tell me he's a professional?" Well, it made me laugh:-o