Eva Bradley: Pure sounds of dirty secrets

We all have dirty little secrets in life - embarrassing activities and habits which we'd rather our friends and family didn't know about. Some of us have a penchant for picking our toenails.
Even the best of us has a fondness for eating Nutella straight from the jar after midnight or puffing on a sneaky little ciggie when we're sure no one is watching.
For my sins, I confess to belonging to a choir.
When I was a school girl this was nothing to be ashamed about. In fact, when it scored me a trip overseas or got me into the end-of-year musical and consequently in the company of the boys from the neighbouring school, being in the choir was positively cool.
Now in my early thirties, I am not so sure. I am so convinced that my new extracurricular activity would be widely scorned that I have gone to quite some lengths to fabricate alternative engagements every Wednesday night rather than admit I'm heading to the King George Memorial Hall to join with my co-conspirators in 90 minutes of pure, unbridled choral joy.
Although, to be fair, choral might be overstating it a bit. Our choir is called Punk Frock and our speciality (in fact I suppose one could almost say our signature style) is exclusively 80s pop.
Our girl band is a strange and somewhat disturbing mix of Madonna singing the songs of her past with the wrinkles of her present and Glee with a little less plot and a whole lot more middle-aged spread.
A deliciously mixed bag of wonderful women brought together by a shared need to sing, we arrive at 7.30pm and shed our working-week personas of harried mother, harassed wife and stressed professional and instead become the rock stars of our relative youths: Cyndi Lauper, Annie Lennox, Debbie Harry, Chrissie Hynde ... all of us have a little bit of each of them in us just waiting for an opportunity to be heard. Loudly. Sometimes in key.
But although our three-part harmonies sound to my untrained ear like the very sirens themselves (perhaps with a little less pulling power than Homer's hotties), I have found as the weeks have gone by that the singing is secondary to something I never expected to find at the King George Hall on a Wednesday: Camaraderie.
There is always a certain comfort one takes when spending time in the company of other women, but singing with them creates an affinity and sense of collective purpose not found in this modern world where so many of us seem to be singing solo.
It also reminds us that no matter how old we get, the bright spark of the school girl never dims. It may have been decades since we held the role, but at choir practice we all revert to type: The naughty class clown always talking when she shouldn't be, the quiet one who says little but contributes a lot, and of course the eponymous class swot and teacher's pet, studying the songs ahead of time and sucking up to the conductor.
It's a role I play to perfection.
Although the angelic choir girl is a title I thought I had long lost claim to, I am finding that as I belt out the harmony for Karma Chameleon, Tainted Love and Material Girl, there is a little bit of her left after all.
Who would have thought my dirty little secret could sound so pure and sweet?