Growing up in the seventies, it was inevitable that my memories would be punctuated by the pertinence of popular culture. Inescapable that the cross pollination of those kitsch influences on my developing psyche would help create what I am today.
Episodes of Mission Impossible, The Mod Squad and The Persuaders encouraged my Spy Girl instincts.
The Night Stalker and Invaders instigated sleuth of the supernatural kind; but in my twelfth year, as I watched an old video of The Sting with Paul Newman and Robert Redford it was like watching history unfold. It was an epiphany.
I wanted to be a stripper.

I remember watching open-mouthed, stupefied by their infamous sting, manipulated by the masterful monkeying, but mesmerized mostly by the fabulous bump and grinder in the first act. I was twelve and the sleazy strip joints of The Great Depression's Downtown Chicago held an action I was unfamiliar with. It was positively delicious. There were fans, there were feathers, pussies, pasties and nipple tassels.
Oh and to my virgin ears, the rag time trumpet, the sleazy brass, the triumphant baboom of Marvin Hamlisch's Hooker's Hooker conjured a 30's strip joint vibe so tantalizing I could taste it. The wiggling arse, the jiggling tits, I wanted it all. Encrusted with rhinestones. Oh and I wanted that applause, baby, that unrestrained appreciation from the audience.

So I planned my execution. I practiced my art. I watched the video repeatedly, played my Mum's vinyl soundtrack, wiggling and jiggling what little flesh there was on my scrawny pubescent body to the brassy bump and grind.
After a week of preparation I decided to unleash my talent upon the world.
My Nan would be first. It would be a soft opening, of course, given that she was often blinded by the sunshine streaming from my bottom.

"Oh Nan, you must come and watch me," I pleaded, "I have been learning a new dance and I'm very, very good at it."

"Ooh, I'm looking forward to it, luv," she beamed, settling into her armchair, "I love to watch you perform. Why are you wearing all those clothes?"

"Because I have to take them all off" I smiled, through inches of my mother's makeup, carefully placing the needle on Track 4.

The raunchy jazz trumpet lurched out of the speakers as I began a similar escape from my clothes. I swirled and I twirled, bumping and jumping as cardigans, scarves, t-shirts and skirts flew around me in a frenzied whirlwind of fabric, special effort given to working my missiles in with the music which squealed like a firecracker at particular moments of disrobing. Some of them landed on the carpet, some on the furniture and some in my Nan's lap and as I followed their shameless trajectory I saw the steely eyes, the furrowed brow, the tightening set of the lips. It was a bump and grind down to my camisole when I heard the

"Blinkin' 'eck!"

"Wheee" I trilled as my skirt twirled about me before inching down my thighs.

"That's enough!" cried Nan, "That's quite enough! Now just stop it!"

"But Nan" I squealed, half-mast in my skirt, my little bottom preparing for its final wiggle. "I'm not finished yet! I'm not -"

"Get thee skirt on now before I get wooden spoon round it!" she spat, rising from her chair, her lovely face contorted with anger. "Just a blinkin' tart in this get up. Absolute nonsense."

I stood and stared up at her, my red lips quivering, tears hot and stinging, welling in my mascared eyes before rolling down my rouged cheeks.
The music flounced and giggled around us in a shameless and saucy mockery as my Nan looked down at me in unspeakable horror.

"But I just have one m-"

"Upstairs now!!" she bellowed "And put ye blinkin' clothes on!"

It was a dirge, a funeral march up the stairs as I slunk to my room, clutching my skirt and what was left of my 12 year old dignity. I closed the door, sniffed and looked at my bare legs tottering in Mum's heels. I looked at myself in the mirror, a mess of running makeup, teased hair and weediness. I stuck out my bottom and wiggled it. I giggled. Indeed, the jubilant frippery of my flirtation with stripping was alive and kicking despite the scolding. I peeled the camisole away and looked at my tiny breasts, bedazzling in their tinselled pasties, crudely plastered with sticky tape.
Silly Nan. I could still hear her tut-tutting downstairs and scratching the record in her haste to remove it. She didn't know what she was missing.

Years later, I miss my Nan and the laughs we often had about the same curious penchant for removing my clothes after a few drinks.

"Perhaps I was stifled," I'd wink at her.

"Not blinkin' stifled enough," she'd return, with a tut, and a wink of her own.

Obviously not, as my record of unholy behaviour will verify.
But while my aspirations never drove me to strip on stage it is disturbing to note how many times they have driven me to disrobe while under the influence of other intoxications. And in the privacy of my own home I am never far away from the sleazy spy jazz of John Cacavas or the brassy burlesque of The Stripper.
For it seems I am an ecdysiast after all; my wardrobe is fabulous, my routines are polished to perfection, I can bump and grind with the best of them and, what's more, what's best, is that I have a most appreciative audience.