Sunny Day

It's a sunny day. The back door is open, the cat is lounging about looking nonchalant, and a man with sexy eyes from British Gas has just checked my boiler and all is well. Unemployment has its benefits it seems. Earlier today I found myself feeling something I haven't felt for a long time; a sense of delight at the world. I sued to feel like this a lot, but in recent years, it was replaced by an almost permanent irritation and a conviction that the world was full of cunts. I spent most of my days sitting somewhere I didn't want to be, doing work I didn't want to do for someone who clearly believed the less I knew, the better. It took its toll and my resentment grew along with my sense of disconnection from  life.

The last month has been a momentous one in so many ways. Since I lost my job on June 12th, I've pretty much experienced the full spectrum of human emotion. The first week I felt relief it was all over and by the end of it, experienced a huge crash as the full weight of the physical and emotional trauma of redundancy hit me. I worried another depression was on its way, I went back to see the psychiatrist, I had a sports massage with a local 'sports rehabilitation therapist' that left me covered in bruises and I had the support of my friends. After all that, I had a ridiculously busy week, with three shows, two training sessions, two lunches, two meetings and workshop to teach, and my mood began to lift. Having thought carefully about the future, I've decided to spend the next couple of months writing and living life. There are so many options open to me right now, and I don't have to rush into any of them. If the worst comes to the worst, when the money runs out, I can supply teach and look for another full-time job. But in the meantime, it's summer, the weather is actually pleasant, my diary is full of shows and training sessions and I have a book to write. Oh, and a blog to start updating regularly again.

Goodbye To All That

It's been too long. I'm sorry about that, but as my now ex-boss reads this blog more often than he would have me believe, I felt uneasy writing about life when it was dominated by the redundancy process. Still, it's all over now; I am unemployed, and I've spent the last week recovering from a process clearly designed to prevent employers abusing redundancy, but which casts one into the realm of uncertainty and false hope with all its peaks and troughs. The one benefit of this, of course, is that when the final blow is delivered, one experiences palpable relief; it is only afterwards the shock and grief sets in. So I am exhausted, and still reeling, but also rallying, and hope blossoms.

Thank you for all your message of support and kind words. I will update properly as soon as I can, because aside from the whole shitty redundancy thing, a lot of good has gone on. Have a sunny weekend, Gentle Reader.

And The Next, It's Gone!

The last week has been interesting - 'interesting' in the sense of that old, apocryphal Chinese curse, 'May you live in interesting times'. Tuesday began well enough and trapeze class was fun, even if I did manage to pull another muscle whilst practising that damn Amazon. Despite this, I went home in good spirits, buoyed up by a sense of achievement and the pleasure of spending an evening in such excellent company.

Wednesday promised a bit of glamour, and although tired, I headed off to Waterstones in Notting Hill after work to see Immodesty Blaize read from her new novel and discuss it with Rowan Pelling. The last time I was in the shop, I was taking my clothes of in the Self Help section for charity, so it did feel a little peculiar sitting in a chair and watching two women talk in that very spot. Immodesty looked very glamorous. I'd met her before, about three years ago and we'd had a drink and chat in Soho but I didn't see much of the woman I remembered. She was a little spiky at some of the questions she was asked - admittedly, some were a little insensitive - and I realised that she has reached a level of success and celebrity where it is necessary to construct and maintain a certain persona and surround it with a degree of mystique. Ergo, some of her views have shifted a little, and she appeared keen to distance herself from the rank and file in burlesque - people like me. Like Dita, her life appears to be one of luxury and glamour, unobtainable to mere mortals. If I look back over her career, I can see how she has done this, and I applaud her for it, all the while feeling a little sad she left us.

After the Q&A and the reading, we all queued up to get books signed - a special offer and a complimentary ticket meaning it only cost me £4, (cheapskate? Moi?), and I got chatting to another author and a budding performer who I was sure I'd seen somewhere before. They were both lovely and I was almost sad when we got to the front of the queue. I wondered if Immodesty would remember me, and she did, which was sweet of her. One of my new friends took a picture of us, I returned the favour for her, and then we bumped into Rowan Pelling who was fabulous.

I've always admired the woman, not least for making it acceptable to have a brain, and education and a sex drive in England. We chatted amicably until everyone dispersed and then I headed across the road to the pub where I met a few pals who had also been at the reading. After an intoxicating mix of conversation and laughs, I headed off into the night, feeling good after such an invigorating time mixing with good company.

This feeling of good fortune and well being accompanied me into the office the following morning. Upon arrival I noticed a colleague in a meeting room with the Managing Director, which was unusual as they don't work together on any projects. It could only mean one of two things and time would tell which it was. As soon as the MD approached me half an hour later and asked if he could speak to me, I knew which of the two it was, and I was right. Sure, things have been quiet around the agency, but I was still shocked, if not entirely surprised to find myself being told my job was 'at risk of redundancy'.

In the UK, the law is very clear about such matters and a process is now underway that it is not appropriate for me to discuss in this forum. Needless to say, I was upset, and so left at lunchtime, utterly bereft, utterly at a loss about what to do. There was only one person I really wanted to speak to, one person who I knew would know what to do, and that was The Buddhist Hunk, the one person I'd promised myself I would not contact again and who I was sure would not want to hear from me. But I was desperate, so I sent him a text asking if I could call him that evening about 'a work-related matter'. He replied in the affirmative and later asked if I would prefer to meet. I said I would as it would make things easier if her could read the letter I'd been given, and we arranged that I would drive over to his place that evening.

When I got home, I found the house full of gas, and had to call the emergency gas engineer to come and fix the leak. Great. But he came, found the problem, fixed it and I was no longer in danger of the house exploding and instead sat on the sofa in shock at the news of imminent unemployment. It was hard to control the tears, had been all day, but even then I knew that the sooner I could get my head around it, the better it would be.

At the appropriate hour, I met my ex, sat on his sofa with a gin and tonic in my hand and explained the situation. In turn, he explained the exact nature of the process I was now in, what my rights were, what my employer's responsibilities were, and what I needed to do. In short, he was absolutely fucking brilliant and I felt so much better about the situation after talking to him. I cried a bit. He hugged me - long and hard. I watched him talk to me and thought how good he looked and how much I still wanted him despite everything that had happened between us. I cried a little bit more when I spoke of my now painfully uncertain future. He pulled me to my feet and hugged me again, wrapping his arms around me and insisting I did the same to him. We talked some more and after he'd comprehensively sorted me out, he set about getting me drunk and seducing me - thank goodness for that!

When I drove home on Friday morning, I felt determined and clear, but fate was not on my side and after spending a few hours surrounded by various responses to my predicament (not mine alone; there are five of us), I left. I am fortunate to work with some truly lovely people and many have been kind and sensitive at this difficult time. For some, however, whether embarassed or concerned it may be contagious, eye contact is too much to ask; I am persona non grata for them. Then there's the woman I have stuck up for and defended on more than one occasion whose reaction was beyond insensitive and who continues to behave with such an astonishing absence of sensitivity that I am finding it hard to be in the same room as her - something of a problem in an open plan office. But there we go; there's nowt to be done but work towards acceptance.

There's no doubt I was still in the denial stage of things come Friday afternoon. I did mention it to the gynaecologist when I saw him for a follow-up appointment regarding my recent surgery, but when I picked up the photographer from the station that afterwards, I kept it to myself and even forgot all about it during the photoshoot. Elsa, the photographer, turned out to be a lovely woman. She's putting on an exhibition in a trendy Shoreditch gallery of photographs of burlesque dancers in their homes. I felt flattered that she had approached me, warned her that Chez Glamour was a pit but undeterred, she hopped on a train anyway. First she had me in my old lady costume, then she had me in my floor-length, hot pink, satin robe and knickers with pink rhinestone pasties. I posed in the pole studio, on the sofa and in the garden, hoping no one would come down the passage at the side of the house as I stood there, practically naked among the greenery. My cat, Mitzi Sparkle, was intrigued by the visitor and muscled in on most of the shots, but Elsa indulged her. It was fun, and she was happy with the shots. I drove her back to the station then spent a numb evening feeling hollow and sad.

That feeling persisted through much of the weekend and then turned to anger; just as life was becoming more settled, just as I was making ends meet and getting on with building my performances, change had been thrust upon me. As I sat waiting for Immodesty to appear on Wednesday, I scanned the 'Top Ten Business Books' on the display shelf opposite. Number ten was 'Who Moved My Cheese'. I looked at the cover and chuckled to myself, remembering the book and its simple message. Who knew that the following day someone would take my cheese and toss it off Beachy Head? Thursday's news has wiped the slate and I cannot even begin think about my new acts and all the things I have to do for Miss Glory Pearl. In one day, I slid right back to the bottom of Maslow's hierarchy of needs, a place I struggled in for a good two years after changing careers. The thought of going back there is deeply distressing; I simply haven't got the strength for it.

You Can Never Have Too Much Good Advice

The Merchantess and I have a long history of giving each other crap but genius gifts. For her birthday this year, she received a guitar-shaped bottle of Sangria (for stripping varnish), a Sex Maniac mug (perfect for those NCT coffee mornings), and a pair of red lace knickers (should she wish to take advantage of the effects of the sangria).

In return, I received two books; A Year of Beauty and Health by Beverly and Vidal Sassoon, a veritable treasure trove of late Seventies advice about how to live your life properly, and Easy to Crochet, another treasure trove, this time filled with ugly things to make from wool should you lose the will to live and have already eaten your own toes with boredom.

It doesn't take one long to realise that in Vidal and Beverly's world, you can never be too brown, nor wear too much eyeliner - regardless of your gender. It is also clear that Beverly doesn't work or have children, but we won't hold that against her just yet. She is also very bendy - the few photographs in the book demonstrating her yoga prowess. And the instructions on how to clean your teeth are downright patronising. Some of her recipes for homemade face masks are decidedly dodgy and the one recommending a mixture of raw eggs and decent cognac lost my respect entirely - not only is it disgusting, with spurious benefits for one's complexion, it is also a damn waste of good brandy. Shame on you Beverly - you'll never end up in The Priory if you carry on pasting your face with the stuff. Still, there are hours of fun to be had with the book and I'm chuffed to bits with it.

Sadly, I can't say the same for the crochet book. Antimacassars are not in great demand these days and although the prospect of crocheting all my costumes is likely a cost-effective one, it is also one that makes me think I would rather stick my head up a dead bear's arse. Never fear, I shall be 're-gifting' the book; likely to The Merchantess, or her mother, this Christmas.

Hunky Dory

I'm sure we all have those days where we walk down the street and people turn and stare because we're exuding something irresistible - charisma, well-being, pheremones. We feel attractive, feel good and the world notices. And then there are those days where we seem to be invisible and people bump into us left, right and centre and have no qualms about shoving us out of the way. Today is one of the latter type of days for me and is compounded by a groggy lack of sleep and too much David Bowie.

I forgot that listening to Bowie always reminds me of The Buddhist Hunk when I chose him as the accompaniement to last night's pole class, so once the girls left, I felt decidedly maudlin and determined to dig out his number and text him. But tiredness won out and the number is in the back of last year's diary, which is itself in a drawer somewhere, so I stayed where I was and fell into a restless sleep instead.

It never fails to amaze me how my moods can soar and plummet so quickly and comprehensively. Last Thursday's birthday ended well with Champagne cocktails and a slice of that fabulous cake and hand on heart, I could say I had a lovely, low-key day. Sure, I felt tired on Friday, but I went to pole class with Elena in the evening, where I was given a big hug and a kiss, worked hard and came away with pole-burned thighs for my trouble. My pole work is progressing slowly, largely because I never train with any consistency, but I have a base level of strength that sees me through and it was nice to feel a degree of confidence with most of the tricks we covered.

So I approached the weekend tired but in reasonable spirits, and only had three hours of teaching on Saturday and lots of pleasant things facing me. But as the days progressed the melancholy grew and a cold, hollow feeling set itself up in my chest. Come Saturday evening, I felt a little overwhelmed, but went off to meet a pal anyway, stopping by TK Maxx to kill half an hour, buying a dress that could possibly be revolting for twelve quid and arriving half an hour late as a result. We has supper in my old town, where I still find myself looking over my shoulder all the time, expecting ex-colleagues or ex-pupils to find me out. Two of her friends joined us and while they giggled over the waiter, I felt old and as out of place as I always did when I lived there. More than ever, I realised my life had moved on and the sphere I operate in has little in common with my old haunts.

After the meal, I drove over to The Pink Palace and delivered The Auburn Goddess a slice of the birthday cake she kindly bought me. We sat grimacing at Britain's Got Talent for a while, made a plan for the following day and I drove home wondering where the time went. That feeling persisted through Sunday. Getting up was hard but I had a lunch date with La Plus Glam Grandmere. The weather was glorious and we sat in her garden eating and chatting. She is a dear friend of mine. A long time ago I was in a bad place and she rescued me, brought me home to stay with her and looked after me; my affection for her is deep and true.

After the meal she told me something rather shocking; Evil Ex's son died of cancer recently. He was thirteen. It's been a good three and a half years since I saw Evil Ex and longer since I saw his eldest boy. I found his daughter easier to get along with, but her older brother wasn't a bad kid. The news of anyone dying that young is upsetting, but much as my friend tried to convey how hard it had been for Evil Ex, I simply couldn't feel sorry for him. Instead, I felt a strong sense of justice, that this man, who has hurt so many people in his life, who has behaved cruelly and who has lacked all compassion, should experience something so painful, traumatic and downright difficult. As much, if not more than the news, my uncharacteristic lack of empathy shocked me. And made me feel guilty. I didn't know what to do with the information and I was unsure why my friend told me of it. I toyed with the idea of contacting him but quickly discounted it, for anything I said would be insincere or insensitive. I have no wish to add to anyone's suffering, but it seems right that this man should suffer, that he should come to understand the pain he has caused others - me included - for his selfish, cruel, and dishonest ways.

By the time The Goddess came to pick me up that evening, I couldn't have felt less like going out to party. But I had on the new dress, a pair of turquoise heels and a spritz of Nuit Noire and tried not to flinch as The Goddess drove like a maniac up the A2. Sunday is cheat day for her, which means she can eat what she likes, and what she liked that evening was a burger, so we had to get to Gourmet Burger Kitchen in Covent Garden before last orders at 9.45pm.

Everyone stared as we walked in. Well, it was largely populated with groups of men and the Goddess was wearing a floor length, clingy black gown, split to the thigh. It became a bit disconcerting after a while, especially as I was feeling a little delicate, but I tried not to notice, and before too long, we were back in the car and off to Metropolis, a large strip club near Bethnal Green. The club is closed on Sundays so had been taken over by Slumbarave. We arrived realtively early, which mean we had lots of space and lots of time to explore.

The club was set over three floors. On the ground floor there was a dancefloor and a stage with two poles and a single point trapeze. On the first floor there were a number of circular, private booths - with poles, and a car wash complete with pink, sparkly jeep, hose pipe, sponges and bottles of Matey. And on the second floor, there was a beach with large beds and cabanas, (ever tried walking on sand in heels?), and a harem, with persian rugs, velvet curtains and cushions everywhere. We lost no time taking ridiculous photographs of each other and amused the security staff and other clubbers by corpsing on the leopard-print-carpeted stairs.

Lots of people were dressed up in pyjamas - it being a slumber party, (of sorts), including a couple of fellows who offered to take a picture of us and who wanted to dance. One of them was fairly silent in a pair of Lilo & Stitch jim jams, but the other was sweet enough in his blue satin, embroidered dressing gown. Shame he shared a name with The Buddhist Hunk. Sigh.

We had fun, then the place started to fill up with Hoxton twats on drugs and it became less fun, so we left around 1am and drove home, The Goddess scarfing cake all the way to make the most of cheat day. Once home, I sat with the hollow feeling a while. It had been a fun night, but I'd felt quite disconnected from it all. The Goddess is on a very clear and definite path at the moment. She is single-minded about this goal. I respect that, but it feels as if she's moving further away, into a new world, with new people and it's a place that doesn't resonate with me at all. She looks great, and although her look is entirely different to mine, sometimes, I can't help but feel a little diminished beside her. I've written of this before, but something the plasterer in the dressing gown said brought it back. He seemed like a nice guy, but I still found myself feeling like the subject of Larkin's Wild Oats, which says more about me that it does my friend, for sure.

It was 3am by the time I went to bed and it was 12pm when I woke up. Again, I didn't want to get up, but I'd promised to visit The Merchantess and accompany her, The Veterinary, and their two small boys to their village primary school fundraising barbeque. The weather was gloriously sunny and hot, and plenty of people had the sunburn to prove it, but of course, with an event planned to take place in the garden of the village pub, black clouds gathered and big, fat raindrops fell from the sky. God bless the British weather. So it was that a hefty number of small children and their parents crammed into a small, poorly-ventilated pub where two rather fat ladies were belting out middle-of-the-road ballads, not always entirely sucessfully.

The scene quickly deteriorated into a Quaver-scented cacophany, only marginally ameliorated by the arrival of the food. Much as I love my friend, there's only so much Celine Dion and Shania Twain I can handle, besides, I had a class to teach, and so left her chugging her way through analgesic pints of cider. Sometimes, I think I might quite like to get married and have children, but as I drove home, the realities of that lifestyle choice weighed heavily on me and I realised it is not for me, not now anyway; I'll stick to the sparkles and the lonely nights.

Class went as well as could be expected with all the hangovers and tiredness, and after calling my friend, The Homeopath for a catch up and a dinner invitation, I went to bed. The weekend had passed quickly and while I'd caught up with good friends I haven't seen for a while, I felt rushed, stressed and behind with all the jobs I have to do. No doubt this is as much a state of mind as anything, and not helped by the plunging mood. My diary is pretty hectic this week, too, but I think more effort needs to be made to eat properly (and not live on cake and sandwiches), and get to bed on time. The truth is, I can barely look after myself properly; good thing I don't have small children.

Older? Check. Wiser? We'll Get Back To You On That One

Try as I might, my heart sank upon wakening this morning; birthdays do that to me. Sadly. But I tried to be cheerful, bought cakes for my colleagues on my way to work and put on a brave face. Through the day, the kind messages and birthday wishes have arrived. Princess of the Universe generously gave me an e-voucher for Agent Provocateur, my mother gave me a nice bottle of perfume, Mac The Nice bought me a sat nav that I have already named Gerald, and then late this morning a bag arrived from the Hummingbird Bakery, containing an enormous red velvet cake with the words 'Happy Birthday Dudette' on it from The Auburn Goddess. This made me cry, because I am a soppy mare at heart.

Later, I walked up to Les Senteurs and fulfilled another of my goals this year by buying myself a small bottle of Nuit Noire perfume. Now I sit at my desk waiting for the hour at which I can make my way to The Hospital for a genteel cocktail with Beau de Toujours. It has been a good day, and for that I am immeasurably grateful.

Born To Burlesque

As usual, I just wanted to go home and sleep. As usual, I made myself go along to trapeze class anyway. And as usual, I enjoyed myself. In fact, yesterday's trapeze class was great for lots of reasons. Firstly, I wasn't in pain and physically drained. Secondly, I managed a few things I struggle with and got a little of my confidence back. Thirdly, my teacher can explain how to do something in the kind of precise detail my mind and body appreciate. Fourthly, I train with some really lovely people. Honestly, they are so nice, caring and funny that it is a genuine pleasure to spend time with them.

One of the other students, Miss Lydia Darling, is also a burlesque performer. It was her ipod that accompanied our class and right at the end, as we cooled down and stretched, For Strippers Only by Sonny Lester came on. Instinctively, we both started moving to music, bumping and grinding then laughing as we realised what we were up to. 'Spot the burlesquers in the room.' I said and we laughed more and carried on our impromptu display. I smiled about it all the way home.