I met exotic Moldovan lap-dancer Irena Nobalskaya – purely in the interests of research of course – in her apartment, as she snatched a few hours’ relaxation away from her gruelling schedule.

Most days Irena works well into the early hours of the morning – and sometimes beyond – as an exotic lap dancer at the renowned gentlemen’s club Fellas in downtown Paceville.

Some people see lap dancing as an original and legitimate art form; others, however, regard it as nothing more than erotic stimulation for dirty old (and some young) men. But it is very much in the former context that I pursued, metaphorically, this conversation with the delectable and extremely desirable Irena.

As I conducted the interview – entirely in the interests of research, you understand – I became more and more aware of just why Irena earned her living by dancing in punters’ laps. She has it all: gorgeous looks, big… smile, never-ending legs and a sunny, some might even say, outgoing personality.

Her apartment – or bed-sit – was certainly luxuriously appointed, with a large emperor size bed dominating the room. The décor was what one might term elegant opulence, yet subtly understated.

The curtains appeared to be made of black patent leather, as was the upholstery and the bedspread. The floor was deeply carpeted in white, providing a sophisticated monochrome colour scheme, which only added to the overall aura of sophistication and glitz.

Memories of back home in the Caucasus were provided with the many photographs of what appeared to be Moldovan peasants, strewn about on coffee tables and other surfaces. One particular framed photograph caught my eye; it was of a handsome young man in the uniform of a naval rating.

Irena’s boyfriend back home perhaps? She laughed with a throaty, mellow giggle and, in her dark-brown Eastern European voice replied, while wagging an admonitory forefinger close to my face: “Notty, notty. Don’t ask… now I tell you.” But she did not.

So – in the interests of research only – I quickly asked Irena how she was enjoying things in sunny Malta. She shrugged: “Same ass tings anywhere else. I juss lie back and tink off Moldova.”

I then asked Irena – still naturally in the context of research – what she thought of the men she danced for in Fellas. She pursed her bright vermilion lips, shrugged and replied: “Same ass men in Moldova… fealthy beast all of dem.”

So, in that case, should we take it that she does not enjoy her work among us? She grinned coyly and answered: “How you mean among us? I only permit to get so close to mens, not among… unless mens pay lot more moneys… and den only later. You want?”

Changing the subject yet again – and only in order to further the cause of my research – to a rather delicate subject… ahem. I asked Irena if she’d had any, erm, problems with the police? She shook her head and smiled: “No, no problems… every mans he very nice and say me ‘poliss’ before, den after say ‘tenk you’”. Erm… right.

I then asked her – purely as an academic question – if many Maltese men stayed on afterwards for… ahem, extras? She replied: “Not too many, most Maltese mans must go back home to wife.”

I enquired whether this was normal. She shrugged: “If not normal, then Maltese mans go home to husband.”

Again, always in the interests of academic research, I asked Irena how come she came to be plying her terpsichoreal talents among us here in Malta, rather than, say, Jeddah.

She explained that she finished up here because the club she was originally booked to appear in there was unable to open due to the lack of a building permit. Apparently the Saudis are rather bueaucratic in this respect.

By this time the luscious Irena was sitting extremely close to me and absently massaging my thigh… a purely involuntary movement, you understand.

Nevertheless I was finding the temperature a trifle warmish, so I said: It’s not fair to place me in such a position of irresistible temptation Irena, what about your boyfriend back home in Moldova?

She looked puzzled and asked: “What boyfriend?” I replied: The good-looking chap dressed as a sailor in that photograph over there. Irene giggled: “That not my boyfriend, that me before my operation.”

Gulp! I reiterate, this interview was purely an academic exercise… thank God.