[shuffles nervously] Ummm, hi... I'm ladymisstree. Ummm... this is my first meeting. I'm... I'm... oh gods, I didn't realise this would be so hard... Pull yourself together, girl. It's OK... You can do this... [deep breath] I'm... I'm... I'm a sequin slut! [bursts into tears]

It's true. And you would be amazed at how many of us are out there. It's a problem society refuses to face. It's swept under the carpet, ignored by politicians and the media. No one wants to admit to a deep yearning to throw on sequins, seed and bugle beads.

For me it began so innocuously. Like so many others, I was lured in by the promises of learning an ancient art form or getting in touch with your inner goddess. Perhaps it was offered as fun and fitness or as an intriguing hobby. But those of us deep in the subculture know, belly dancing is not about ancient art forms, it's not about honouring your inner goddess or even your inner houri and it certainly has nothing to do with fun or fitness.

It's all about the sequins.

Some people try to legitimise it by taking up ballroom dancing, as if that added a veneer of respectability to their addiction. Others blatantly revel in their depravity, becoming showgirls or carnival dancers. The rest of us, we shelter under the exotic banner of Middle Eastern dance and history.

"This is the oldest dance form known to mankind!"
"We're preserving a fast disappearing cultural heritage!"
"It's sensual and natural and a beautiful way to express yourself!"

Denial.

It's not just a river in Egypt, Cleopatra.

I knew what I was getting into from my first class. I knew that, before the end of term, I would be hunched in front of the TV, frantically attaching every sequin I could lay my hand on to bras, belts, skirt hems, anything that would sit still long enough. I would send myself blind threading bugle beads onto dental floss (impossible to break and minty fresh!) to create metres of fringing. I would scream in frustration as I tipped over a dish of seed beads for the hundredth time and have to scurry around on hands and knees picking the damn things out of the carpet.

I knew. I didn't walk into this an innocent.

I just didn't realise how slippery the slope really was.

It was second term when my teacher let me try on one of her professionally beaded costumes. We're talking nothing less than 2 kilos/4 pounds in weight for the bra and the belt.

Each.

So heavily were they encrusted with beading that sections were half an inch thick.

I put on the bra. I clasped the belt low around my hips.

I shimmied.

It was GLORIOUS!

The susurrus of the fringing, the swing of the beads, the weight it gave my movements. There was no turning back.

I walked out and began spending quantities of money on beaded costumes that I would ordinarily reserve for white goods or airfares. Beaded hip scarves, bra and belt sets, sequined skirts that beggared belief.

But nothing could satiate my need.

Headpieces, jewellery, beaded slippers... I couldn't get enough.

So now I find myself here, in your hands.

Perhaps I will serve as nothing more than a warning to those more innocent than I. But perhaps there is hope. Perhaps I can be cured. And then I can start on my other addiction. You see, I have ADS. Attention Deficit Syndrome.

A deficit of your attention, not mine.

I'm an attention slut too.