It was the hottest ticket in town. Theatre critics up and down the country had been vying for preview seats for months to no avail.

Even the Evening Press's Charles Hutchinson - something of a theatrical institution in these parts - was left out in the cold, pressing his nose up against the window and whimpering quietly to himself as he tried to get a sneaky peak at the dramatic events within.

But it was hopeless. The rule of admission was simple: if you don't have your own miniature thespian, you ain't getting in.

Luckily I had a four year old not averse to the odd am dram moment close at hand, so I was through the door before you could say Bob's your uncle and Berwick's your aunt.

My own little Larry Olivier had a pivotal role in the school theatrical extravaganza that was 'When Santa Got Stuck Up The Chimney'. As a dancing scarecrow - as if there is any other kind - he had to stand in a line with half a dozen other raggy-clothed ruffians and perform a perfectly synchronised dance routine that would make the Royal Ballet look like a bunch of hairy-bummed prop forwards in hobnail boots.

The dance didn't go exactly as rehearsed of course, as the scarecrows spent most of the time waving at their mums, grinning maniacally for the camcorder paparazzi jostling for position at the back, and laughing at their teachers who were desperately trying to keep them on track by animatedly singing 'I'm A Dingle-Dangle Scarecrow' from the wings.

Perhaps by the time the show hits the West End - well, if Ben Elton can do it, anyone can - the creases will have been ironed out. But I hope not.

This rag-tag bunch of shouting, giggling, scratching and wriggling thesps provided 20 minutes of top quality family entertainment.

There was laughter when Rudolph the Reindeer launched himself into a slapstick dance routine that was nothing short of Chaplinesque (only it was funny); there was drama when it became apparent that Santa was actually stuck in the cardboard chimney; and there were tears when it all became too much for one of the assorted singing snowmen (and most of the tissue-clutching mums).

It was perfect panto - and cheap too. Forget your Equity rates, this lot were happy to perform on the promise of a fairy cake with a Smartie of their choice on top.

So watch yourself Berwick, a new breed of babbies is on its way.

Even the most Neanderthal of bosses - the ones whose knuckles drag on the carpet on the way to the canteen - can't fail to have noticed that women are more than capable of doing the same amount and quality of work as their male counterparts.

So why are they still paying us less?

The latest Labour Market Trends report shows that we are losing out in the workplace, and that we are actually being paid less in relation to our male colleagues than we were a year ago. This means that average gross hourly earnings for women in full-time employment are now only 81.1 per cent of what they are for men.

Does this mean that we are working only 80 per cent as hard as the chaps? No. Does this mean that the quality of our labour is only 80 per cent of theirs? Of course not. All it means is that New Labour talks the talks when it comes to gender pay equality, but it still allows employers to walk the same old Neanderthal walk.

Debbie Coulter, senior officer for the GMB union in Yorkshire, is calling for action - and I'm right behind her. And so, to get the ball rolling - a difficult task when you are fighting an uphill battle - I have decided I am only going to write 80 per cent of a column this week.

Which means that it will end... now.

Updated: 12:33 Tuesday, December 17, 2002