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