Sue Greenwood, our secretary, returned from her three week SALSAFEST in Cuba today. She's salsa'd to the max and swivelling around the office like a sleb on Strictly Come Dancing. The table is littered with photos, especially Juan, her salsa teacher from Rochdale, who seems to appear in every one holding a drink and the breasts of whichever unfortunate female happens to be next to him. Juan is from Rochdale, and his real name is Ken. He was a gas fitter before he had a Paulian conversion to Salsa on the Manchester Road after seeing The Buena Vista Social Club at The Ritz. His hips haven't stopped since. His accent is Cubastrian, half Havana, half Lancashire. Sue has been infected with the Juan gene and can't walk into a room without wiggling a hip or three, and if I hear another salsa mega mix tape as I attempt to meet a deadline, I'll club her to death with her own marracas. She bought me a bottle of Club Havana, which she wants me to open, but I refuse, telling her it's only 9.30 in the morning, but she says it doesn't matter what time it is, it's always party time in Cuba, which is fine I say, but as we're in Withering at the beginning of December and the paper needs to get out, having a party is the last thing we should be doing. 'Instead of having an Advent Calender, and opening a window every day, can't we have a nip of Rum, to jolly us along?' She asks. 'No.' I reply but think its a damned good idea nonetheless. Will put it to our commander in chief, Miranda, and I know what her answer will be.
Off to The White Lion to do an Anglo Saxon Foxtrot.
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