After a lot of ego boosting spirits, together they staggered to the station, each buying a big bunch of flowers from a stall in the station, (the railway equivalent of ‘petrol station after-thought flowers’,) both thinking it, an ice breaker, a diplomatic start of their week of hopeful lust. Taking their places in the train and sharing a last nip from their hip flask`s, they exchanged wives names, house keys and oh the house addresses, just in case, each saying that the wives should be meeting the trains at their normal respective stations. Eventually they arrived at Ashford, where Gerald ‘joined’ (to you and I that is staggered over the footbridge to) the branch train to Hastings (known locally as the Marsh maggot!) Ernest however was soon on his way across the other face of the platform, to a Canterbury bound train, soon to leave, both men eagerly wondering what they had let themselves in for! The porter bawling the familiar humorous cry of “why kill em and cart em to Canterbury”. It was "THE" happening place to be in in our city. The lower level was mainly a bar with a house band every weekend. Being a young woman from a small town, I got caught up in the nightlife, and since I was a music major in college, I enjoyed the bands.Towards the end of the summer, a band out of Minneapolis started at the bar and since our city was predominantly white, this black band was something new and intriguing. On weekends, the other waitresses and I would go out for breakfast after the bar closed, and eventually we asked this band to go out for breakfast with us. The band was named Bridges and Ryder. Like I said, a black band mingling with all white waitresses made for some interesting looks at breakfast at two in the morning .They were in town playing their last gig for the year, and when the bar closed we sat around the bar having a drink with them, flirting with them and them with us. The lead singer was a very good looking black man; tall, thin, and very sexy with a.
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