I once had a friend called Sarah (Gemini) whose nom de plume at the Tottenham Ct Rd Spearmint Rhino was Sacha. She revealed all to me over a vanilla latte one day when I asked her how she got time to wash, dry and straighten her hair every morning. She said if it wasn’t her job remit she’d be slicking back wet hair into a ponytail and donning the loose Ts, tacky bums and flip flops worn by many of the tired looking parents on the school run. Sarah was thirty five and still working the pole. She’d split from a husband who used to drag her beautifully straightened hair across the kitchen floor before smashing her face with the fridge door and desperately needed to raise some cash for her and her little girl.

I sadly lost touch with her after 3 year old Violet (nicknamed Violence) was asked to leave on account of her hitting the other kids a few too many times. I was sad for Sarah because I knew the whole sorry story (her daughter had seen Dad hit Mum regularly) and gutted for me because she was fun and definitely the friend with the most interesting job. I later hooked up with one of Violence’s nursery teachers who said they wondered “about Mum’s career path” after Violet brought a marabou-trimmed g-string saying ‘hot mama’ on them for show and tell.

Back to tonight’s display. No I am not at the fireworks. I am sitting on a velvet sofa between the Swedes looking at Hot Mama pants and nurses outfits’ as Eastern European teenagers decorate the sofa around us, plying their trade for a £20 dance.
“Hi, how are you? Are you having a lovely time here tonight? Can I get you anything? Show you anything?” Bland, bland, bland. I can see why guys love coming here. These girls are the right side of twenty, scantily clad and don’t answer back when spoken to: so no threat to a man’s ego at all. Feeling like I should pick for a winner for my Swedish pals and hating to let the girls in front of me down I say, “What about her, she’s sweet?”. “How about the lady in latex, she’s lovely and you have to admit she’s put alot of effort in?”

“Wait, wayyyyyt,” says J in a soft sleazy tone that resembles the “T-rust in meeeee,” of the snake from the Jungle Book. “The besssst ones normally come lasssst.” Jan is looking clearly pissed off with his lack of date and not feeling a bit like having a dance with some girl who does it for money. I put my hand on his and tell him I’ll buy him a dance if he perks up. He cracks a half-hearted smile.

“Why don’t I dance for you and your lady friend,” says a blonde girl shaking her strawberry flavoured hair into J’s face? “She’s the one,” says J, leaping to his feet. Come on Abi, show me you are not typically English.” Well I clearly want to see every gory detail of the job my friend used to do and who knows, if Mr Was Right starts getting lax with the mortgage payments and freezes my housekeeping, I might just need a career. So I head behind a wooden screen to watch Misia, the Russian, yes J’s established her name, gyrate a very young bottom in front of us. She’s completely shaved, covered in baby powder and, unless she’s thirteen years old, has clearly had some surgery done to her undercarriage. It’s all very boring and I feel a bit nauseous so I put my hand on J’s muscular thigh to steady myself, which, he says later, is the best bit – fibber.

“You did really well,” says J when the whole excruciating experience is over. “No other girl I’ve brought here has ever been behind the screen with me.” God, he could have told me that before. Oh well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. It’ll be a great story to tell a few of my more enlightened friends.

 I’m going to dust down the cobwebs and shake my booty at the Mansion tonight. This supposedly super-chic restaurant set in a small excuse for a mansion and overlooking a  park famed for flashers and a surplus of dog plop is doing so badly for punters on account of its rather tasteless decor that its manager leases it out to club promoters once a month. I tried eating here once but the smell of the fish glue they used to stick the orange rubber flooring down kind of overpowered the sushi. I later heard from my DJ friend Salamander, that the guy who bought this place is into gimp attire and sado-masochism. OK so this is one place I won’t be scouting for work. As open-minded as I think I am I can’t work for a guy who walks around on all fours attached to a lead for fun. Still, the club nights are wicked and it’s the only place close enough to walk home from after getting my dance fix.

Tonight I have gone for chic rather than foxy. I am wearing my favourite part-suede part-patent purple and blue Miu Mius, a midnight blue Vanessa Bruno dress and the hair is up and back and styled with To Sho bands in an Audrey Hepburn stylee do. “You told me to dress sexy,” says my Polish au pair friend Kasia (Cancer), “You look so smaaaarrt.” If by smart she means I don’t look kinda slutty which Kasia has gone for, her low cut leopard print dress flashing a pair of boobs which are so tightly pushed together she looks like she has a bum on her chest, then she’s right. Our idea of sexy is clearly very different but, kerching, mine seems to be pulling in the boys.

I get us a couple of JD and Cokes. “The man at the end of the bar would like to buy you a bottle of champagne,” says the  latex-loving owner who must be short-staffed since he is working as barman tonight.  I look to my left and spot a 5 foot troll of a man dressed in a kind of Miami Vice get up with the sleeves rolled up on his pastel pinstripe jacket and long ginger hair tied back in to a limp pony tail. He starts waving and gesturing for me to come over. He clearly doesn’t recognize me. “Thanks but I’m sorted,” I shout to the person I last saw picking up his daughter from Nancy’s school. Good God, I talk to his gorgeous wife all the time. I’ll never be able to look her in the face again.

And just as tonight is starting to unravel and look like the biggest mistake since Gordon Brown  I spy the most drop dead gorgeous man walking into the room. The people dancing close to me seem to go into slow motion as I turn, he smiles, I flash a smile with a Princess Diana duck of the eyes back and Mr 6ft tall, dark and handsome sidles over.

“Hi, you here with friends?” I say

“Yes I am, madame, you having fun?”

He has a lovely accent, the bluest eyes and dark, dark spiky hair.

“Where are you from? “ I ask, unable to decipher the accent.

“Sweden by way of Italy.”

I’m in fucking heaven!!

“I’m Joachim. What’s your name.”

“Abi”

“Abeeeeee, I’m in fucking heaven. Come and meet my friend Jan,”

 We walk towards an equally gorgeous but blond man I take to be Swedish too. The next twenty minutes is taken up with two guys fighting over me by trying to outcharm me and outwit each other. Who cares if this is possibly some kind of Swedish line-up for a threesome? I’m loving it. Kasia has gone home with the gimp owner/barman and I am here with two guys who look like they just dropped straight off the catwalk. Looks like I am following the Dalai Llama’s philosophy to the letter but when did Happy feel this Good?