"I need a little down time," he said. "Get what I mean? It would be best for us both if you go."

So I went.

Well, when the taxi finally found the right address, after having gone up one hill and down another, in an aimless pursuit of the correct number, I was let off in front of a dowdy looking brick place with paint pealing from the windowsills.

When I knocked at the door, it was Stepmoney who let me in. Obviously, they don't believe in paying help, and so the mîtress herself had to open the door. Now, really, for somebody with such extensive means, I don't understand why she can't do a better job of a makeover. First, her colorist should be fired for that hideous root job, and then the Botox can only go so far to counteract the natural course of gravity. There's a wonderful Swiss spa that can do miracles with ointment derived from lamb's fetus, but perhaps none of that would really be necessary if she could just say no to dessert. Heavens! How can the American press suggest she wears Chanel, when that size doesn¹t even exist in made-to-measure couture? You'd have to be either blind, or a fashion yo-yo, to realize that the only thing Chanel were her shoes - even the Camilla pin was fake.

Be that as it may, I overlooked these slight peccadilloes and tried to be charming. But that woman just rubbed me the wrong way. Fortunately, John-John came to the rescue, and so I tried to focus on that cute little pork chop from North Carolina.

"I was fixin' to", he kept saying, and smiled and smiled.
The giant tried to smile too, until the Stepmoney pinched him.

By the time we got to the table, I cut the farce and started speaking in French. The aspiring first couple looked around to see who was listening and then indulged me by responding in my native language.

"Mon Dieu," said Stepmoney. "Ma bête noire est W." She was dipping a fork into a plate of Boston baked beans when she said this. "And you know, I've researched handicappé cerveau croisé syndrome in several medical journals, and can assure you this is a case of it."

The giant said, "I agree - err - or maybe I do." Then he turned to me. "What do you think?"
I said I thought W.'s brain was crossed but his cowboy two-step rocké.

"I can dance too," said the giant. "Can't I money - I mean honey."
"That's a matter of opinion," she said. "My husband used to do such a graceful waltz." She was looking indignantly around the room until her gaze fell upon a Waterford crystal vase full of bloomed roses. They had not reacted well to the stuffy unairconditioned premises and had begun to wilt.
"You do remind me of him in other ways," she said with a slight sigh.

By the time the main course arrived, Yankee pot roast served with no mustard but a glass of white wine, a great silence had fallen round the table, and even little John was beginning to get restless. Finally, he spoke up, "I don't know about you, but I think Uncle Dick is a real potty mouth."
"He says it made him feel good," said the giant. "Can you imagine that - feel good? I agree with you on that lil' John, 100%. Or do I agree to disagree?"
Suddenly Stepmoney came out of her protracted silence. "I just can't understand why you can't get it up," she burst out. "The poll numbers are flat despite all the cash-heavy advertising, even with little John's smiling slice." Then she looked at me, "what's to be done?"

"Now let's not overact," said the giant. "There are plenty of people on my side: Whoopi, you, the World. And who's he got anyway? Falwell, Laura and Rummy. Even Ronnie Jr.'s voting Democrat!"

"The proof is in the pudding," said Stepmoney. "And that reminds me, where is dessert?"

It came. A lemon pie as sour as battery acid, topped with mounds of sticky meringue.

During this interval, I had been pondering the 50 million dollar question. It was then that I made my fatal faux pas. "Well," I answered at last. "If you want a winner, you need to invest your money in little John and Hillary - then watch the fur fly!"

"How dare you!" cried Stepmoney. "We've been made fools of!" She threw a glass across the table, and had I not ducked, it would have landed on my diamond brooch. As it was, it broke the Waterford vase. Next across was her Chanel slipper, size 15AAA, followed by assorted forks and knives. The giant was trying to restrain her, but to no avail, she was a woman enraged.

Realizing that no good was coming of this arrangement, I scurried back out the front door faster than you can say Al Gore. Little John was chasing me, but I could run faster. Down the hill I went to Charles Street, where I looked bewilderedly for a taxi. That's when the nicest little intern from Mass General Hospital came unexpectedly to my rescue.

"You need something," he said.
I replied that I certainly did and he would do.
Roberto is now learning French, and says he wants to study medicine at the Sorbonne. Poor Corporal Lance. Circumstances required that he reenlist, and that tour of duty won't be over anytime too soon.

FL: How would you describe Mr. Kerry's personal style? Is it Euro-friendly? Heaven knows, we hope so.

Dull. That's how I would describe his style. He might be Euro-friendly, but he needs to loosen up. Even old man Chirac still lets his hair down - especially on his private airplane when Bernadette stays home. Stewards have told me stories that could make the windows steam over.

FL: A fake camellia pin on Mrs. Kerry? What a disaster! Do you think Mr. Kerry could be motivated to wear the Real Camellia pin on his lapel, perhaps as kind of olive branch, when he visits France?

If he did, it would only be behind the firmly closed gilt doors of the Palais Elysée when nobody was watching. As it is, he pretends not to understand a word of French if primetime media is present - and he can run from a camera faster than could Jackie O.

FL: A certain slutty television comedian named Dennis Miller suggested that John Kerry and his running mate John Edwards hug each other so much that "they should get a motel room". What is your take on all of this Republican Party speculation about other people's sex lives?

Ah...the Republicans are just jealous. The thought of W., Uncle Dick and Rummy frolicking in a Jacuzzi is enough to turn even Peggy Noonan frigid.

FL: Do you think Mrs. Kerry will take up a cause, if her husband is elected, like literacy or the mentally ill?

It would probably be improving Vitamin C nutrition in Africa - in which case she could pass out miniature bottles of Heinz ketchup.

FL: Did any of the guests you met mention Michael Moore or any impact they may believe his documentary Fahrenheit 9-11 is having on the election?

All lips were sealed - "Confidential". But it's safe to say they are all hoping that a film which has drawn more of an audience than the candidate IS the proof in the pudding.

FL: Mr. Kerry looks to us like he needs to renew his Botox injections, especially when he stands beside his running mate. Do you think Mr. Kerry will ever come forward and help the entire cosmetic and medical field by admitting to a little injection here and there?

I doubt you would ever get a straight answer out of him on that subject.. However, he'd probably agree to be a L'Oréal spokesman in return for the 27 electoral votes of the State of Florida.

FL: Fashionlines voted Boston the worst city for fashion in 2003. Has it improved at all?

Not in the least. With Teddy-style baggy khakis and candy striped polos all over Newbury Street (even in front of the Cartier boutique), the town desperately needs something deeper than Laura Ashley.