Drinks At No 10

Even a film premiere can't compete with a do at 10 Downing Street. In fact, there's little that can beat the thrill of gliding past the machine gun-toting policemen with a wave of an invitation and your photo ID.

In fact, I was so distracted I accidentally grabbed a hugely inappropriate sparkly lipgloss from the beauty cupboard on the way out of the office - and only realised when I got home later last night.

The official reason for last night's party at Number 10 was "to recognise the government's achievements for women" in the nearly ten years Tony Blair's been in the hotseat.

Of course, in practice, it was all about the chance to have a good nose around, but before we got inside, there was an extra flutter of excitement. Yesterday, of course, the British hostages in Iran were released, and as we came through the gates, the very tanned (and tall!) PM was emerging to make a speech to the dozens of reporters and photographers waiting outside. They, of course, were all terribly stern and immediately turned to file their pictures and copy on their laptops; we were having trouble keeping the grins off our faces.

The first thing that strikes you when you walk into Downing Street is how little it is - barely 100m long, with only a few houses that look like Number 10 in an L-shape to one side. The view west over the barrier is spectacular: straight over the river to the London Eye. Behind the glossy black door, there's a big square foyer, where you hand in your mobile phone and camera (dammit), and straight ahead along the corridor you can see the door to the cabinet room. In the name of investigative journalism, I tried to talk the staff into letting me peek inside, but they charmingly declined, and neither would they let me test how comfortable the PM's sofa is next door.

Climbing the famous stairwell lined with all the past Prime Ministers (worryingly, there only seems to be room left for Tony - I wonder what conclusion we could draw from that??), you soon realise that the building is like the Tardis. The first floor spreads out over the house next door, and there's a little courtyard garden that you'd never guess was there.

Upstairs, while we waited for Tony, we were greeted by Ruth Kelly, who, amongst other things, is Minister for Women. She'd been standing at the front of the panelled room for a good while without anyone recognising - and I swear, every person in the room turned to the person sitting next to them and mouthed, "No way!"

Best known for sporting shapeless trouser suits and no make-up, she was positively glowing, freshly blow-dried in a lavender jacket with eye make-up to match (very now - the make-up, anyway). Later, I asked another minister if Ms Kelly had had a make-over, and she insisted she always looks like that. Hmm. (She also told me she once spotted Cherie Blair carrying a load of laundry through the corridors of power, scattering stray socks as she went.)

Back to the do: after taking us through some of the changes that women have benefited from over the past decade (and no one can argue with minimum wage and a doubling of maternity leave), Ruth gave the floor to Tony, who arrived to take some questions. Images of The West Wing flashed through my mind when someone opened the door behind him and handed him something - could it be one of those mysterious slips of folded paper that tell you war has kicked off in a third world country, I wondered. No, it was a cup of tea, but hey, you can't have everything.

Together they fielded questions on everything from extending IVF on the NHS to whether population control should be a higher priority than global warming (as parents of four kids apiece, Tony and Ruth exchanged a look). And then, what with an international diplomatic incident on the go, an invisible door opened at the side of the room, and the PM was called away. "I'm going to get into trouble if I don't go," he apologised, and wished us all a nice evening.

Formal bit over, we wandered through into a reception room for wine and some canape the foie gras and duck pancakes were particularly delish, and the wine wasn't bad at all. Even though there were probably a thousand cameras on our every move (at least you'd hope so, as any fan of the current series of 24 would agree), I did feel a teeny bit naughty when I slipped out of the room to have a nose around. Through the windows you can see Leo Blair's toys in the back garden, and beyond, the Horse Guards Parade ground, and St James's Park.

A couple of glasses of wine later, I was tiddly enough to agree to having my picture taken outside the famous door - one for the mantelpiece when I'm an old lady, perhaps. Shame about the glittery lipgloss though?