SHE beams down in her private astral plane from the planet Showbiz,

assuring us breathily that, hey, we're all especial as she is.

Twenty-five years in the business and she looks better than ever, like a

doll, a Barbie doll, all hair and purple glitter.

We remember Diana from way back. We have come to validate our youth

and our journey to maturity. Hey, we have all come a long way; we are

sophisticated now. We can afford this night of nights -- but hey, if

we've paid #20 for a seat we are going to sit in it most of the time.

Diana slips into something scarlet and flouncy for a Supremes medley.

Hey, very smooth. No sweat. Five songs in five minutes, including that

one that Phil Collins did . . . what was it called?

Hey, no sweat, but Diana becomes a little uncool. ''I need you to blow

on me . . . just pucker up'' she orders us. I hold my breath and wrinkle

my nose. Suddenly she steps down from the stage and, at a safe distance,

she is among us. Her outfit transforms itself suddenly into harem pants.

We gasp. On average her costume changes every five or six songs. We keep

gasping.

Diana gets hey, raunchy with a punter during Muscles. He takes his

shirt off and is swiftly banished. ''I always thought this was about

seafood,'' confides my companion. A fat man reaches the stage. Happily

his shirt stays on. No sweat. Sophisticated. Grown up.

The interval looms. We exit in search of fresh air. Enough is enough.

We don't go back in. If Diana Ross is seafood she's a bit of whitebait,

I'd say. Stuck in the name of soul music and what Motown once was to

coin a song title.