Char Borley's Galerie

Ghost tour at the Tower and I got here early enough to be the most dangerous thing on the grounds. This coat is only just winning the fight with what's underneath. Come stand close when the lights go down, baby.

The cape was meant for the party but I couldn't wait — it looks far better bunched underneath me than it ever will on. Tell me you'd take your orders from a woman who opens the door like this, baby.

Found the devil horns for Saturday but lost absolutely everything else somewhere between the bedroom door and this mirror. Tell me what you'd sell for this, baby.

Three bags of new lingerie on the floor and I can't bring myself to put any of it on — this is how I look best and we both know it. Tell me I'm wrong, baby.

Camden's celebrating the women who built punk and I've never felt more at home — the lacing on this corset gave up an hour ago and I've decided it stays that way. Tell me who the real troublemaker in this room is, baby.

ExCeL's gone full comic con and I came as the villain — this suit's zip gave up somewhere around the gaming stalls and I'm not fighting it. Tell me you'd queue all day for my autograph, baby.

They were working out how to make a woman look like trouble long before anyone paid me for it — this photography show has me taking serious notes. Come claim the other end of my bench, baby.

Literature festival has me parked in the Southbank foyer with a programme I'm not actually reading — this dress has decided my attention belongs elsewhere. Tell me which author I should misbehave for, baby.

Everyone else is asleep and I'm still wide awake and very much in charge — the mirror's had quite the private show tonight. Tell me you'd be on your knees for this, baby.

The Great Wave lands at Dulwich tomorrow and I've got three dresses fighting for the job already — the coffee isn't helping me decide. Come pick for me, baby.