ROMANCE is not dead. Tony Blair is loyally standing by his wife Cherie and in Swaziland, King Mswati III has been so taken by the Miss Swaziland who represented his country in the Miss World competition that he plans to marry her.

The only hitch is that Miss Swaziland, 20-year-old Nozipho Shabangu, does not yet know of her imminent nuptials. She was last spotted living it up in London while back home the 34-year-old king was pushing ahead with his matrimonial plan.

The king has three fiancees and nine wives, but to make room for the newcomer he is offloading his least favourite wife onto his brother.

And even if Miss Swaziland does object, her chances of escaping his attentions do not look good, for the king has form. He was found guilty of snatching another of his fiancees from her school. This clearly broke the Swazi rule which forbids girls under 18 having sex, wearing trousers or shaking hands with a man. For his despicable offence, the king was fined one cow.

ANYWAY, Christmas is coming. Police in Worcestershire are hunting the thieves who took an 8ft-tall Father Christmas, a reindeer and sleigh, plus six singing and dancing snowmen from a front garden. The family who owned this £585 display are said to be devastated, but the police's investigation should at least be short.

All they have to do is look in the remains of the next door bonfire - and most right-minded people who find this craze of garish over-decoration rather worrying will gladly act as character witnesses for the neighbours.

Talking of taste, we note that Walthamstow dog track has cancelled The Gobble Cup. It was to be shown live on television in France, Germany and Russia. Twelve turkeys were to be raced around the track and the triumphant turkey would be spared the Christmas plate whereas the 11 losers would be served up with cranberry sauce. After objections from the RSPCA, the race has been scrapped.

YESTERDAY was Friday the Thirteenth. Anyone who was worried by the date was suffering either from triskaidekaphobia - fear of the number 13 - or the more specific paraskavedekatriaphobia - fear of Friday the Thirteenth.

Those who find this column troubling are suffering from hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia - the fear of long words. Or, more likely, rupophobia - a fear of rubbish.

We can exclusively reveal, though, that Mrs Blair is unlikely to be a sufferer of mythophobia - a fear of false statements.

IF you notice a joyful spring in the step of this column, it is because I have discovered the answer to something that has been troubling me for years, if not decades. You know that hard bit on the tip of your shoelaces which saves all the bother of sucking the lace into a point so that it can be poked through the holes.

The proper name for that hard bit is aglet, which comes from the old French word aiguillette meaning a small needle. It all fits perfectly into place.

I haven't felt this happy since I discovered that, technically, those funny, swingy things that flap over the top of keyholes to keep the draft out are called escutcheons. It is this sort of trivia which makes life worth living.