Saturday 23rd July 3.09am

Feminisation.

I don't think it's a word. But it should be. Feminisation. You know that moment where a man you work with calls you 'Honey' or 'Darling'? You think it's all well and good until you think about it properly, and you think, 'hold on, you didn't call HIM darling, or her honey'....why do I deserve a pet name and they don't? Why is it, because of my feminine assets, I have to be simmered down with a 'honey' or a 'darling'? Why don't you just ask me to join you in the other room like the rest of the 'guys'?

Ok, I'll be the first to admit that when a dreamy prince calls me darling I may melt at his call, BUT, within a professional context, if you are male (and I do mean straight OR gay), why am I darling? why am I your honey?

In all honesty, I am not your honey. I am a professional. A professional woman that has studied hard at an art form she respects. Yes, I realise within this industry we are all 'lovies' and 'darlings' but it's when it is reduced down to a nickname for the only blonde in the cast I begin to take notice. "Oh, Sam, Simon, Robert, we are in the next room. Joanna honey, sweety, would you care to join us also?". Yes, I would care to join you, just like Sam, Simon & Robert, because it is my job, and just because I have a pair of tits and a vagina does not mean you need to be nicer about asking me. My female form does not give you reason to treat me like I am delicate. I, within my life, will deal with pain beyond your non-vagina imagination.

Men, I like you, but this pussy-footing has to end. You know those women that want you to ballet dance around them?

Those women will be the death of you.

Those women have double standards.

Any decent woman today realises the death of petty nicknames is imminent and the blaspheme they place on our 'race' should be extinct.

I call to you women: Next time someone calls you honey, ask yourself why? Ask HIM why. Why is it you must be referred to as a sugary sweet substance when other gentleman may proceed in their job without a comment? Why is it that our tits (yes, tits), something that we are born with, something that is natural, something that is part of our unchangeable form, must dictate passers' by opinions? Bosses' opinions? Builders' opinions?

I have rather large-ish boobs. And a day won't pass without a comment or a wolf whistle.

Imagine if men had to display their penises for all to see. All hours of the day. First thing in the morning, after a hot bath, after a cold shower, after an all night session. Imagine if their sexual assets were constantly a topic of conversation. They walk past you in the street and you have the right, the audacity to comment on size or form (and what that makes you as a person).

Anyway, enough. Goodnight.

Sunday 17th July 2011 11.56pm

So. Had my last night at Proud Cabaret last saturday. Got a little bit teary. It really is a shame to think that it may be the last time all us girls (and some boys) get to work there all together. But hey ho, we move on, things change. Such is the way of life. I really grew at Proud Cabaret. Starting off as an occasional Saturday night singer for the Tassel Club and slowly advancing into a compere (something I never thought I could do, nor want to do). I loved that the show was mine to play with. There's no secret, acting is my first love, and I love having someone else's guidance with direction but it was terribly exciting to do what I wanted to do, to make creative decisions on songs I thought would work etc. I do wish to be a director one day, but at the moment I think I have my fingers in enough pies as it is!

But yes, quite sad to leave. I really enjoyed hosting by the end. It's exciting and challenging to have the audience in your grip and to be the link between the performers and them. And my gosh I will miss those performers. What a welcoming group they have been.

After my last performance there was (of course) a VAST amount of alcohol consumed. Which is to be expected. Only problem was, I hadn't packed for my trip to Malta. And I left at 6am that morning. After a trip to Maccy D's (too much cheese) and an hour 'nap' (drunken stupor), I arose and "packed" and hopped in my cab feeling like a badger's behind. (Let's just say on arrival to Malta my outfit choices were interesting).

I was in Malta with 2 drama school chums and a friend of a friend. I have never been on a 'girls holiday' before and so was looking forward to the time out immensely. I have never been a girl's girl. Ever. No offence ladies, but I do tend to get drowned in some typical female conversation. (Hence, women I find inspirational go way way up on a pedestal for me). But, despite fears that I would find so much girl time difficult, and despite old paranoias' creeping back in from the hell that was drama school, I had a fabulous time.

Sun, sea, sand, food, a casual jelly fish sting (not mine) and before I knew it, it was over and I was on a plane outta there. Goodbye sun. Hello precipitating London.

Flew to Jersey yesterday to do a corporate Burlesque show with the gorgeous Folly Mixtures. Despite drunken pervy grabby corporate men we had a pleasant time. Really good to get to spend some time with the girls and very much hoping our ambitions of putting together a September show together come true.

Now I'm sat at home. A bit lost for what to do to be honest. I start my new job tomorrow. A job I feel like I've been waiting for my whole life. (You see how I manage to build it up and stress myself out?? - such a drama queen.) But no, really, playing Audrey in 'Little Shop of Horrors', in a professional show, with a big stage, a big budget and a top creative team really is a dream come true. I seriously can't wait to get stuck in. And yet, I am also shitting it.

C'est la vie.

Saturday 2nd July 1.11am

1am. Home. Bed. Laptop.

My life is crazy. I sang my whole life, went to top drama school, do random acting jobs and then somehow have ended up as the hostess/ringmaster of one of the biggest Burlesque shows in London. I, who used to cringe at the thought of a short skirt, now parade myself around in corset and frilly pants for all to see, draping my limbs across pianos, pulling on ties and sitting on laps.

I share a corridor (yes a corridor - not a dressing room - oh the glamour) with several skantilly clad women who talk passionately about work, life, ambition, make do and mend, vintage lifestyle, men, being self employed and where to buy the longest lasting lipstick. These women, these "strippers" are the most excitingly passionate and hardworking women within the creative arts I have ever met. Meticulously planning every move, every tease, every carefully placed crystal.

Sex is a powerful thing. (oh like you didn't know that). I don't really know when I realized that I could be sexy. And that it could be a good thing. It was sometime around 'A Little Night Music' at drama school when I had to play a saucy, sexually active maid. But that was just the start of it. Burlesque has undoubtably changed my life. These women are empowered. I really hope Burlesque continues to blossom and grow as it has been because (especially as a typical ex-body-hating girl) it is so SATISFYING to see women ENJOYING their bodies and being PROUD of what they are and how they use it. The media has, for too long, made women feel like they should never be satisfied, that it should hurt to be beautiful. It's really not true. I used to look at skinny skinny women and envy them like mad. Now I just think how much better I fill a corset. How Coca-cola bottles were modeled on figures like Marilyn Monroe not Kate Moss.

I'm not saying that being thin is unacceptable. Far from it. (I'm just coming from the background of someone who has never been thin). In Burlesque, EVERY female body is worshipped, Big hips, small hips, huge boobs, no boobs, cellulite, balletic legs, it doesn't matter. All the girls OWN it. And that's what makes them sexy.

Never giving away too much. But just enough to make you go weak at the knees.

Yes please. Boogie on reggae woman.