Diaries of a Showgirl
The Strawberry Siren has started working on her memoir and publishing short stories of her adventures. You can read her published work on her medium account here or on her Substack account here.
I’m in my 40's, with no children, but a million hilarious stories to tell. Normally, families will pass stories down through generations, but I’m not sure I’ll have that chance, and I don’t want my stories to be lost.
I enjoy writing; I find that it’s an easier and clearer way of expressing my feelings and sharing my thoughts, and I like having the time and space to find the right words and the confidence to say them without stuttering or succumbing to the fear of what someone else might think.
I use writing as therapy; it’s a helpful tool when I’m trying to “unpack my baggage”. I journal through turmoil to clear my head and to work through my emotions and grief. And I find comfort in reading about the traumatic experiences of others, as it confirms that you’re rarely alone in your experiences and there’s always someone that can relate to what you’re going through.
My own epic story is a unique one, lived through theatres, carnivals, and travel, and full of the drama and mayhem of infidelity, addiction, lies and religion.
So, strap in.
I enjoy writing; I find that it’s an easier and clearer way of expressing my feelings and sharing my thoughts, and I like having the time and space to find the right words and the confidence to say them without stuttering or succumbing to the fear of what someone else might think.
I use writing as therapy; it’s a helpful tool when I’m trying to “unpack my baggage”. I journal through turmoil to clear my head and to work through my emotions and grief. And I find comfort in reading about the traumatic experiences of others, as it confirms that you’re rarely alone in your experiences and there’s always someone that can relate to what you’re going through.
My own epic story is a unique one, lived through theatres, carnivals, and travel, and full of the drama and mayhem of infidelity, addiction, lies and religion.
So, strap in.
If you would like to support Strawberry and afford her more time to write her memoir, please subscribe to her Buy Me A Coffee account.
the day my mothers heart stopped. (2023)
After watching my mother’s memory shatter, like a puzzle box that’s slipped from the shelf and emptied on the floor, loosing pieces between the cracks and never again being able to be complete, I’ve realised the importance of sharing stories and experiences.
I woke up on a Tuesday morning to the sound of my alarm. I was working twelve-hour days at the time, from midday till midnight, and this was my one day off for the week, so I let myself sleep until around 10:00 a.m. My partner and his daughter had already left for work and school, and I was snuggled in bed with my cat.
I had turned on sleep mode on my phone before going to bed, so I didn’t receive notifications during the night, but the sleep mode on iPhone is supposed to deactivate if you receive more than one call from the same number.
When I finally rose and strolled downstairs to the coffee waiting for me on the stove, I turned off my alarm and sleep mode and saw my notifications come through. At first, I thought my phone was broken, as there were almost 50 notifications! I had missed calls from my mum, my sister, my brother, my brother-in-law, and my cousin. I assumed from the people on that list that my grandfather must have passed away, as he was 89 at the time and not well.
I rang my sister straight away and she burst into tears as she answered. When she told me that mum was in hospital in a coma, I froze. I couldn’t quite grasp the reality of what was happening. I hadn’t had my coffee yet; it just felt like a bad dream. I told my sister I was on my way, quickly got dressed and drove a nerve-racking 40 minutes to the hospital in absolute disbelief.
...
The past year has been a hectic storm of emotions and a huge lesson in how fragile life can be. Like a storm, your world can change dramatically in a single moment, and you can never predict what might happen from this one to the next. It would be six weeks before my mother would remember my name and start to grasp who and where she was. And it would be three gruelling months before she would be discharged from the hospital and able to be at home under Karl’s care.
I miss her. It has been one year since her cardiac arrest, and one year since I lost her — as I remember her at least. The damage to her brain resulted in major memory loss and a reset of what she knows and understands of the world.
Our memories help form our personalities and our perspectives of the world; when we lose those, everything changes.
Her personality is not the same, her physical appearance has changed dramatically, and she no longer has the capacity to offer parental guidance or engage in detailed adult conversation. She still has stories to tell, but we’ll never know what’s lost. I’m grateful she’s still alive, but sometimes I just miss my mother.
Continue reading here.
I woke up on a Tuesday morning to the sound of my alarm. I was working twelve-hour days at the time, from midday till midnight, and this was my one day off for the week, so I let myself sleep until around 10:00 a.m. My partner and his daughter had already left for work and school, and I was snuggled in bed with my cat.
I had turned on sleep mode on my phone before going to bed, so I didn’t receive notifications during the night, but the sleep mode on iPhone is supposed to deactivate if you receive more than one call from the same number.
When I finally rose and strolled downstairs to the coffee waiting for me on the stove, I turned off my alarm and sleep mode and saw my notifications come through. At first, I thought my phone was broken, as there were almost 50 notifications! I had missed calls from my mum, my sister, my brother, my brother-in-law, and my cousin. I assumed from the people on that list that my grandfather must have passed away, as he was 89 at the time and not well.
I rang my sister straight away and she burst into tears as she answered. When she told me that mum was in hospital in a coma, I froze. I couldn’t quite grasp the reality of what was happening. I hadn’t had my coffee yet; it just felt like a bad dream. I told my sister I was on my way, quickly got dressed and drove a nerve-racking 40 minutes to the hospital in absolute disbelief.
...
The past year has been a hectic storm of emotions and a huge lesson in how fragile life can be. Like a storm, your world can change dramatically in a single moment, and you can never predict what might happen from this one to the next. It would be six weeks before my mother would remember my name and start to grasp who and where she was. And it would be three gruelling months before she would be discharged from the hospital and able to be at home under Karl’s care.
I miss her. It has been one year since her cardiac arrest, and one year since I lost her — as I remember her at least. The damage to her brain resulted in major memory loss and a reset of what she knows and understands of the world.
Our memories help form our personalities and our perspectives of the world; when we lose those, everything changes.
Her personality is not the same, her physical appearance has changed dramatically, and she no longer has the capacity to offer parental guidance or engage in detailed adult conversation. She still has stories to tell, but we’ll never know what’s lost. I’m grateful she’s still alive, but sometimes I just miss my mother.
Continue reading here.
Trading Pu$$y for Prada. (2025)
A glimpse into the beginnings of my decade working in the sex industry and how I developed a passion for fashion.
To me, sex and art are of the same fabric. As an artist I am drawn to all different types of art… Architecture, fine arts, visual arts, music, fashion, and the written word. Sex is also an art form. It inspires so many aspects of art and artist’s lives. In my mind, you can’t have one without the other.
As a young girl in the 90’s I dreamed of working in the fashion industry when I grew up. I would draw designs of the outfits I wanted to wear and I desperately wanted to be a model. My mum put a lot of effort into making sure that my siblings and I always looked great when we left the house, and that made a real impression on me. Family friends used to say we were the best-dressed kids in town. My mother sold children’s clothing for a “party-plan” company.
I would go to the parties with her to model the clothing for her potential customers. It was my first catwalk experience and I loved it. I would help my mum pick out which outfits I would model and what order I would wear them in. She even paid for a professional modelling shoot for me and I treasured my first, real, printed image of me as “model”.
I developed a passion for putting together a good outfit. If there was a casual clothes day at school, I would spend weeks planning my “fit” for that one day. In a newspaper interview I did in 1998 while on tour with The Flying Fruit Fly Circus, I stated that, although I enjoyed being in the Circus, “I want to get into the fashion industry, either as a designer or a model. Being a circus performer is not what I want to do in life.” It’s funny how our passions and desires ebb and flow throughout our lives and our situations can lead us in directions we never expected.
During the first year of my stripping career, I was out for lunch with my boyfriend one sunny Saturday afternoon in Fitzroy, and after a lovely meal we did a spot of shopping on Gertrude Street. We wandered into a small, vintage, fashion store that housed nothing but pre-loved one-off high-fashion pieces from labels like Versace, Dolce & Gabbana, Dior and Galliano.
The first piece I noticed when we entered the store was a little Vivienne Westwood, Gold Label, black, cropped sweater. I tried it on, it fit me perfectly, and I quickly threw down the $250 for it from the cash I’d made the night before. I had plenty of VW shoes, having been sponsored by Melissa for a few years, but this purchase gave me a thrilling jolt of pride in my new career as a stripper — it was the first piece of VW clothing that I’d ever been able to afford and I paid for it with stripper cash.
As we were walking out of the store, I noticed a stunning mini, green, Prada clutch. I pulled it down off the shelf and looked at it in awe. I had just spent most of the money I had on hand, so I couldn’t really justify buying the clutch as well. I looked at the sales assistant and said, “I’ll be back for this soon”. Now I had the drive to go to work that night and make some more cash.
On the way home, my boyfriend asked, “What should we do tonight? I’d love to get a movie and a bottle of wine and hang with you.” To which I replied, “I have to work; it’s Saturday night!” That wasn’t the answer he was hoping for. He was extremely disappointed that I didn’t want to bail on work to spend time with him. I apologised but said that unless he was willing to pay me the $1,000 I’d be missing out on by not going to work, then he’d just have to accept it. He understood. Then, after thinking about it for a minute, he delivered the line that would spark the thrill I felt trading sexual attention for high fashion:
“I don’t feel comfortable giving you money to stay home with me, but I will buy you the Prada handbag that you want.”
So I stayed home, had a lovely evening on the couch watching movies, drinking wine and having great sex. The next morning, we walked down to the vintage store and he bought me my first piece of Prada. The sales assistant recognised us from the day before and looked at me with a crooked smile as my boyfriend handed over the cash. There’s a distinct look women give to each other when they recognise and acknowledge that someone has used their feminine wiles to hustle a man. It’s a subtle way of saying, “Get it, girl!”
Continue reading on my medium or on my substack.
To me, sex and art are of the same fabric. As an artist I am drawn to all different types of art… Architecture, fine arts, visual arts, music, fashion, and the written word. Sex is also an art form. It inspires so many aspects of art and artist’s lives. In my mind, you can’t have one without the other.
As a young girl in the 90’s I dreamed of working in the fashion industry when I grew up. I would draw designs of the outfits I wanted to wear and I desperately wanted to be a model. My mum put a lot of effort into making sure that my siblings and I always looked great when we left the house, and that made a real impression on me. Family friends used to say we were the best-dressed kids in town. My mother sold children’s clothing for a “party-plan” company.
I would go to the parties with her to model the clothing for her potential customers. It was my first catwalk experience and I loved it. I would help my mum pick out which outfits I would model and what order I would wear them in. She even paid for a professional modelling shoot for me and I treasured my first, real, printed image of me as “model”.
I developed a passion for putting together a good outfit. If there was a casual clothes day at school, I would spend weeks planning my “fit” for that one day. In a newspaper interview I did in 1998 while on tour with The Flying Fruit Fly Circus, I stated that, although I enjoyed being in the Circus, “I want to get into the fashion industry, either as a designer or a model. Being a circus performer is not what I want to do in life.” It’s funny how our passions and desires ebb and flow throughout our lives and our situations can lead us in directions we never expected.
During the first year of my stripping career, I was out for lunch with my boyfriend one sunny Saturday afternoon in Fitzroy, and after a lovely meal we did a spot of shopping on Gertrude Street. We wandered into a small, vintage, fashion store that housed nothing but pre-loved one-off high-fashion pieces from labels like Versace, Dolce & Gabbana, Dior and Galliano.
The first piece I noticed when we entered the store was a little Vivienne Westwood, Gold Label, black, cropped sweater. I tried it on, it fit me perfectly, and I quickly threw down the $250 for it from the cash I’d made the night before. I had plenty of VW shoes, having been sponsored by Melissa for a few years, but this purchase gave me a thrilling jolt of pride in my new career as a stripper — it was the first piece of VW clothing that I’d ever been able to afford and I paid for it with stripper cash.
As we were walking out of the store, I noticed a stunning mini, green, Prada clutch. I pulled it down off the shelf and looked at it in awe. I had just spent most of the money I had on hand, so I couldn’t really justify buying the clutch as well. I looked at the sales assistant and said, “I’ll be back for this soon”. Now I had the drive to go to work that night and make some more cash.
On the way home, my boyfriend asked, “What should we do tonight? I’d love to get a movie and a bottle of wine and hang with you.” To which I replied, “I have to work; it’s Saturday night!” That wasn’t the answer he was hoping for. He was extremely disappointed that I didn’t want to bail on work to spend time with him. I apologised but said that unless he was willing to pay me the $1,000 I’d be missing out on by not going to work, then he’d just have to accept it. He understood. Then, after thinking about it for a minute, he delivered the line that would spark the thrill I felt trading sexual attention for high fashion:
“I don’t feel comfortable giving you money to stay home with me, but I will buy you the Prada handbag that you want.”
So I stayed home, had a lovely evening on the couch watching movies, drinking wine and having great sex. The next morning, we walked down to the vintage store and he bought me my first piece of Prada. The sales assistant recognised us from the day before and looked at me with a crooked smile as my boyfriend handed over the cash. There’s a distinct look women give to each other when they recognise and acknowledge that someone has used their feminine wiles to hustle a man. It’s a subtle way of saying, “Get it, girl!”
Continue reading on my medium or on my substack.
Barbie V's Strawberry. (2023)
The opening scene to Barbie was like a childhood flashback for me. Just like the young girls in the scene, I enjoyed playing “mum” with my dolls, it was my favourite role. I would hold my dolls to my chest, wrap them in cloth to nurse them to sleep, and change their imaginarily dirty nappies. One of the first things I remember wanting to be when I grew up was a mum.
I recently joined the hoards at the cinema to see the film, and I thought the humour, themes, style and characters show Greta Gerwig’s skill, artistry and sophistication as a director, and it triggered many memories of growing up in the 1980’s. Except, I didn’t have a close relationship with Barbie as a child, and I wasn’t overly drawn to the whole Barbie enterprise. That’s because my mother focused a lot of energy on making sure that I wasn’t. My mother may have been young — she was born the same year Barbie (the doll) was released — but her focus in life was purely on giving her children the best human experience possible. She thought outside the box when it came to gender stereotypes for children and the kind of ideas that we should be exposed to. But my mother did not like the idea of me having a Barbie.
She would refuse to buy me one when I asked. She even refused one as a gift to me from a family friend, right in front of me. She didn’t like the hyper-feminine image Barbie portrayed and she didn’t want me idolising such an adult character. At the time, I guess my mother wanted me to dream of being more than just a Barbie, so, to distract me from Barbie’s allure, she introduced me to Strawberry Shortcake, who had a very childlike demeanour and a more attainable figure. She was slightly plump with rosy cheeks, curly red hair and adorable outfits — definitely a doll I could relate to or aspire to be.
I became obsessed with the whole Strawberry Shortcake enterprise, and my mother over-compensated for her withholding of Barbie by buying me every piece of Strawberry Shortcake merchandise. I had all the dolls, bags, purses, pencil cases, bed spreads, curtains, story books, videos, stationary, colouring books and jewellery. It was insane. My mother even got me a doll house with all the Strawberry Shortcake furniture.
I think this behaviour awoke a type of addictive “brand loyalty” in me. Ever since my childhood, I have gone through phases of being obsessed with particular brands. I would only buy their clothing or goods, and everything had to match. In the 90’s it was Sportsgirl. In the 2000’s it was Playboy and Pin-Up’s. In the 2020’s (because now I can finally afford it) it’s Vivienne Westwood.
Just recently I went into Peter Alexander (another brand I’m loyal to) shopping for pyjamas and discovered the Strawberry Shortcake collection they had released as part of their “vintage” range. I screamed in the store when I saw all the paraphernalia. Beautiful pinks, whites, and kitsch patterns with the original design from the 80’s (not the awful re-design released in the early 2000's). The shop attendant came running over to see if I was ok after hearing my scream and I quickly told her that Strawberry Shortcake was my favourite character as a child, that I had owned every doll and had even named myself after her when I became a performer — Strawberry Siren.
She understood that my scream came from a place of joy and happily helped me decide which set of pyjamas I was going to purchase. It was such a memorable experience that she now remembers me by name whenever I go into that store. When I got home, I sent pictures of my new purchase to the family chat, with my over-excited face and many exclamation marks. My mother was the first to respond and she wrote “Who is that?” The little girl in me broke down and cried.
This was the first moment since my Mum had returned home from hospital that her memory loss really hurt me. I had been managing to cope quite well with the changes her brain injury caused to her memory and personality, until that moment — until I was unable to share the joy of my childhood memories with my mum. I had to explain to her who Strawberry Shortcake was and what she meant to me as a child. Relaying these memories to her helped spark some of her own, but the details and associated emotions have definitely been lost, along with the hope that it was the right distraction from Barbie.
It had been a distraction; I had loved every moment of playing in Strawberry Shortcake’s world. I immersed myself in all the different characters and acted out the stories from the cartoons and books. But it wasn’t a distraction for ever. Although I loved her and all her friends, I never imagined myself being Strawberry Shortcake. And as much as my mum might have wanted me to dream of being anything but Barbie, dreaming of being Strawberry Shortcake wasn’t it.
Continue reading here.
I recently joined the hoards at the cinema to see the film, and I thought the humour, themes, style and characters show Greta Gerwig’s skill, artistry and sophistication as a director, and it triggered many memories of growing up in the 1980’s. Except, I didn’t have a close relationship with Barbie as a child, and I wasn’t overly drawn to the whole Barbie enterprise. That’s because my mother focused a lot of energy on making sure that I wasn’t. My mother may have been young — she was born the same year Barbie (the doll) was released — but her focus in life was purely on giving her children the best human experience possible. She thought outside the box when it came to gender stereotypes for children and the kind of ideas that we should be exposed to. But my mother did not like the idea of me having a Barbie.
She would refuse to buy me one when I asked. She even refused one as a gift to me from a family friend, right in front of me. She didn’t like the hyper-feminine image Barbie portrayed and she didn’t want me idolising such an adult character. At the time, I guess my mother wanted me to dream of being more than just a Barbie, so, to distract me from Barbie’s allure, she introduced me to Strawberry Shortcake, who had a very childlike demeanour and a more attainable figure. She was slightly plump with rosy cheeks, curly red hair and adorable outfits — definitely a doll I could relate to or aspire to be.
I became obsessed with the whole Strawberry Shortcake enterprise, and my mother over-compensated for her withholding of Barbie by buying me every piece of Strawberry Shortcake merchandise. I had all the dolls, bags, purses, pencil cases, bed spreads, curtains, story books, videos, stationary, colouring books and jewellery. It was insane. My mother even got me a doll house with all the Strawberry Shortcake furniture.
I think this behaviour awoke a type of addictive “brand loyalty” in me. Ever since my childhood, I have gone through phases of being obsessed with particular brands. I would only buy their clothing or goods, and everything had to match. In the 90’s it was Sportsgirl. In the 2000’s it was Playboy and Pin-Up’s. In the 2020’s (because now I can finally afford it) it’s Vivienne Westwood.
Just recently I went into Peter Alexander (another brand I’m loyal to) shopping for pyjamas and discovered the Strawberry Shortcake collection they had released as part of their “vintage” range. I screamed in the store when I saw all the paraphernalia. Beautiful pinks, whites, and kitsch patterns with the original design from the 80’s (not the awful re-design released in the early 2000's). The shop attendant came running over to see if I was ok after hearing my scream and I quickly told her that Strawberry Shortcake was my favourite character as a child, that I had owned every doll and had even named myself after her when I became a performer — Strawberry Siren.
She understood that my scream came from a place of joy and happily helped me decide which set of pyjamas I was going to purchase. It was such a memorable experience that she now remembers me by name whenever I go into that store. When I got home, I sent pictures of my new purchase to the family chat, with my over-excited face and many exclamation marks. My mother was the first to respond and she wrote “Who is that?” The little girl in me broke down and cried.
This was the first moment since my Mum had returned home from hospital that her memory loss really hurt me. I had been managing to cope quite well with the changes her brain injury caused to her memory and personality, until that moment — until I was unable to share the joy of my childhood memories with my mum. I had to explain to her who Strawberry Shortcake was and what she meant to me as a child. Relaying these memories to her helped spark some of her own, but the details and associated emotions have definitely been lost, along with the hope that it was the right distraction from Barbie.
It had been a distraction; I had loved every moment of playing in Strawberry Shortcake’s world. I immersed myself in all the different characters and acted out the stories from the cartoons and books. But it wasn’t a distraction for ever. Although I loved her and all her friends, I never imagined myself being Strawberry Shortcake. And as much as my mum might have wanted me to dream of being anything but Barbie, dreaming of being Strawberry Shortcake wasn’t it.
Continue reading here.
