Party girls like Pippa need to give terminal bores a miss Who would be a younger sister? The older one gets the kudos, the best family trinkets and the calm air of moral superiority that settles over her shoulders like a silk cloak. In Kate Middleton's case, they also snaffle the heir to the throne. Meanwhile, sister number two has to turn adventurer to claim her place in the scheme of things, then runs the risk of being labelled a social butterfly. So I have great sympathy for Pippa Middleton, who seems to find herself at some rum bashes. Take Vicomte Arthur de Soultrait's (crazy name, crazy guy) 30th birthday in Paris on Friday, where the host sported a leather dog collar, posh girls wore corsets, a burlesque artiste jumped out of a cake and three dwarves greeted partygoers. The shindig resembled nothing so much as one of those awful evenings on Big Brother when the housemates are given a bottle of bubbly and a pile of dressing-up. If this is Ms Middleton's idea of fun, good luck to her, but from where I stand it seems a high price to pay for being sister-in-law to the future King. The day after the Royal Wedding I wrote, "the great peril for Pippa will be that so many opportunities and doors will be open to her that the chance of taking a wrong turn increases." This dilemma was perfectly illustrated this weekend when a friend of the Vicomte driving Pippa to the Gare du Nord pulled a gun out of the glove department and trained it on a photographer. Whether the weapon was a fake or not, it was a crass thing to do in a country recently traumatised by a rogue gunman. None of which is poor Pippa's fault, but it is a fact that we are all judged by the company we keep. And the more you are pictured with witless Euro-twerps, the wider berth you'll be given by the kind, judicious types who would put your best interests first. This is a shame, because what every goodtime girl needs - as I well know - is a party-hating husband to drag her away before things get out of hand. Imagine how much better another younger sister would have done with a man who declared, "Say goodnight to those ghastly people, Margaret Rose, and come home now!" Instead Princess Margaret chose chaps as social as herself, but the relentless quest for gaiety never seemed to bring much joy. No one desires such vivacious beauties to give up on going out; you just wish them rescued from the bores and hangers-on. I hope that Pippa Middleton meets a reclusive millionaire at a service station and he saves her from the curse of French socialites: terminal ennui. When I moved to Cambridge, people would ask me if I had met Mary Beard, in the sort of reverent tone reserved for other eccentric insider treasures, such as the Sir John Soane Museum. The thing about Professor Beard, as I realised when our paths finally crossed, is that she combines erudition with charm, wit and warmth in a way that's rare in academia. Which is why she's presenting an enthralling documentary for the Beeb, Meet the Romans (starting tonight on BBC2). This, despite the fact she's in her fifties, has long grey hair and doesn't wear an ounce of slap. Would it be too much to hope that brains could be the new glamour? One thing seems certain: within weeks, impressionists will be polishing their "Beard" and Cambridge's secret will become a national treasure. No one would begrudge the four young Matildas their shared Olivier award. But spare a thought for some other great child actors, who weren't even nominated. I am talking about the adult cast of Tom Morris's production of Swallows and Amazons: not for one second did I ever doubt I was watching two crews of little girls and boys messing about on boats (even if one thesp was fully 6ft tall and had whiskers). Catch it on the final leg of its national tour: bliss for small and adult children alike.