Landlady: Twerking around the Christmas tree

Even though I’ve done it for the last few years, it’s still a shock to return from Havana and realise it’s bloody Christmas. Returning from a place where people relish the simple pleasures of life to the greedy, technology-obsessed, capitalist UK is never a pleasant transition and I always spend the first week back home being unreasonably angry. Luckily, I did all my Christmas shopping in New York in October, so didn’t need to be angry in Churchill Square, which is a blessing, I suppose….

Now that Fidel is dead, capitalism, which has slowly been seeping into the threadbare fabric of Havana is sure to increase. I for one was relieved when he died, as we were in a nightclub in Havana on our sixth night out in a row. I’d spent the previous five nights twerking with The Cuban Boyfriend in a rather inelegant manner, not to mention being Havana Club’s top consumer, so was a pale, weedy facsimile of my usual self. When the news came that he’d died, the nightclub closed and we all had to go home, which had me metaphorically punching the air with joy.

The eight days of mourning forced us to buy moonshine

Moreover, the following eight days of mourning prohibited music and alcohol, forcing us to buy moonshine and dance in my friend N’s flat in Central Havana, a much cheaper and less publicly embarrassing option. The Big Daughter, ever ready with her rapier-like wit sent me a message saying that the Cuban government had banned music and alcohol because they’d heard I’d been twerking in Varadero and wanted it to never ever happen again.

She added that she’d never been more relieved not to be in the same country as me while the twerking was happening. This is very much a case of kettle screaming at teapot, as The Big Daughter has been known to twerk (albeit in a much more attractive manner) on more occasions than I care to remember. At least I do it in a country where no one knows me….