A visit to the sauna where only Percie holds the key

I never thought I'd be standing in line at Chariots gay sauna in Shoreditch but here I am. I'm rescuing a friend, Percie Pomme, a male burlesque dancer.

There aren't many male burlesque performers around - especially ones who do a take on the banana-skirt dance of the Thirties entertainer Josephine Baker, as Percie does.

He has been staying at my flat for the week. During the festive season his particular brand of Parisian androgyny and ability to confuse an audience are in high demand for London cabarets.

Earlier this evening I parted with Percie, who went to perform at a show on Brick Lane while I went to a house party in Clapton.

With just one set of door keys I promised to leave them under a plant pot for Percie to pick up later.

I arrive in Clapton with Neanderthal and meet Annette and Octavia there. Both have brought their boyfriends - Brian and Reese. In the days when we were all single we would leave a party instantly if there were no dishy boys in attendance. It's good to have our men along these days so we can just enjoy ourselves.

I rummage in my bag for the bottle of rum I have brought and feel my keys. I roll my eyes, imagining petit Percie crouching on my doorstep in the cold.

There's no easy solution, so I tell my friends I'll be back and jump in a cab.

When it pulls up to my flat I don't see Percie anywhere. It's then I realise there's just one warm place he may have gone.

"Um, Chariots sauna please," I tell the taxi driver, jumping back in. He doesn't say a word as we head off.

I mince into the reception of the glowing spa and queue up with three men.

"Er Sorry, darling," says a gangly man behind the desk. "Yes, I know I'm not allowed in," I assure him. "I just wondered if a French man named Percie is here."

"Sorry, love, we don't take names here," he says. I plead, but he just looks at me. "You're right," I try to joke. "I wouldn't want to interrupt any amorous encounters."

He doesn't smile, so I leave a rushed message about keys and a plant pot as he ushers me out. Normally just having a pair of breasts is a ticket to the world, I think to myself. Here it's definitely a deficiency.

Next morning I wake to hear Neanderthal sweeping up the cigarette ends outside the front door. Then I hear Percie's perky voice. "Let me sweep," he says. "I deal with the fag butts."

"I'll bet," I call out of the window, laughing hard.