Those Evil Salsa Dancing Men

A flat week of confidentialisms failed to be compensated by an evening of light hearded salsa.  A relatively downhill ride towards my darling harbour was probably not the best thing to do on a bike that was, more or less, brakeless - the scuffing of sidewalls is not what one wants to hear when hurtling towards the back of a taxi but no impact means no f**kin' worries.  Male:female ratios not nearly as horrendous as some might have suspected but am sure that was the reason for my companion's presence although if one was not only to count the male population who are in possession of a neck that separates their heads from their shoulders then it was lady city.  Still, quantities of beer and hilarious stories concerning the trials and tribulations of the men who live in a certain house in Redfern made for quite the pleasant evening.  And being the gentleman that I am I think I did all I could to put a Brazilian and an Englishman in good stead for romance.  And maybe that's what the night was all about.

I think I prefer my salsa with corn chips.