The perils of a wilful wardrobe

Honestly, we really are quite good at what we do. However, you wouldn't necessarily know that from observing us in class.

This week's class was a clothes calamity, an outfits outtake, and boa bedlam.

In quick succession we had the Sparkly Bra Pixie's corset striking out for independence, leaving her standing astonished in just her bra and knickers. Then the Voluptuous Jules caught her heel in the bow of the other shoe's lace and nearly head butted the rear wall of our dance space as she struggled to free herself. Boas stuck to gloves and refused to drop silkily to the floor. Gloves dangled unhelpfully from the gusset area, looking like extraordinary surgical additions. Knickers twirled inventively around nether regions and had to be rescued inelegantly.

It was a hoot.

On a chilly night an hour of this knockabout nonsense takes one's mind completely away from the week to date and the week to come.

And the dancing's pretty good too! No, really, it is. The troupe is doing us proud.

Yours, a walking, strutting comedy in heels,

Burlicious x

Time off for bad behaviour

No class tonight, you sexy slinksters and seductive strutters. We're off for a little Valentine's Delight.

There's nothing to stop you from wearing the outfit, though, if that's what takes your fancy!

See you next week, Wednesday 21st February, for more delicious Burlicious.

Yours, with hearts and hugs,

Burlicious x

Burlesque for the bewildered

There is a delicious, informal, knock-about quality to our classes. It's fair to say that the task of learning the routine is sometimes made a little bit more challenging for our showgirls by the fact that, as we're dancing, it's not unknown for me to forget entirely what I'm doing.

Distracted by a piece of feedback that I want to give; or by pondering to myself how big a chunk of routine we might mistress before the class ends; or entertaining a wistful thought about it being time for a little smackerel of something; I lose track of where we're up to as we dance and sort of gently peter out.

This has a predictable ripple effect in the rows of showgirls behind me.

Like a busload of the elderly bewildered, we wind down slowly, each doing something slightly different as we go gently astray, with just the Sparkly Bra Pixie at the very back of the class sticking to the original script and wondering why she is the only one to do so.

It's entropy in action. And it's very funny.

Soon we'll be employing carers to get us back on the straight and narrow and to help us dress ourselves again after we have thrown off our evening gloves and boa. Me, I blame the feathers. I think they're filling up my head with brightly-coloured nonsense and crowding out the dance steps.

Yours, a sequin-clad walking liability,

Burlicious x