I've got birthday cake on my birthday suit

On my birthday I like to share cake, so this year I decided to become a cake - and to share myself. My Marie Antoinette gown will be decorated with macaroons to be eaten off me.

It's close to midnight, and I've finished performing at a country house party at Stoke Place in Buckinghamshire. Coachloads of people in fancy dress have been bussed out from Oxford Circus for the revelry.

Neanderthal is helping me into my dress, pressing the macaroons onto pins down my sides.

But Neanderthal's primal desires - food and women - packaged as one are proving a distraction. Lots of cakes are crushed beneath us in the process. By the fourth attempt he has had his fill, and helps me replace the

missing confections.

We've run out of the caramel - his favourite - but I have a friend in the business who provided me with supplies from Covent Garden's Bougie, and there are 19 more flavours left.

Neanderthal aids me down the staircase and I wonder where everyone has gone. There are hundreds of people at this party but the hall is deserted.

A clock chimes. I realise - they are at the midnight feast. I worry they will be full and my efforts will be in vain.

I walk slowly onto the terrace, trying not to dislodge the macaroons, and wait for dinner to end. Neanderthal lights up a cigarette. His appetites sated, he has lost interest.

Contented faces spill out of the dining room doors. Among the crowds I spot my Berliner friend and fellow burlesque dancer Octavia.

"Ooh. Is this the birthday cake?" she shrieks, and starts to sing Happy Birthday at the dress. Everyone looks at me and suddenly I feel like an oasis in a desert. Clearly the feast was not enough for so many tipsy people.

As the crowds gather I cry: "Let them eat macaroon! It's my birthday!"

Some people are polite and gently pluck at my skirt. Others dive at my bodice mouth first. "One each," I scold, smacking a large man with my fan.

I now have just one macaroon left, on my right hip. It's chocolate, glistening with gold powder. I look around for someone to give it to. I spot a chubby man sitting on his own looking glum.

"What's the matter?" I ask. "I missed the midnight feast," he says. Offering him my last cake I see a glint in his eye, but I can't quite tell if it's me or the macaroon that excites him.