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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”. Stacy suddenly looked at me. “Uh, oh. My clothes are outside. And the blankets”. “Your clothes? What about mine?” I asked, laughing. “Oh, yeah. Sorry,” she smiled. “Well?” “Well what?” I asked. “Aren’t you going to get our clothes?” “Hell no!” I laughed. “You’ll have to do it”. “Me? Why me?” She asked, a shocked look on her face. “Because I’m a guy and if I get out of a car naked they could call the police and have me arrested. If they see you they’re more likely just to laugh it off”. Stacy looked at me. “Laugh it off? Why would they laugh?” She asked, looking at me accusingly. “Okay, laugh was the wrong word, but you know what I mean”. Stacy knew I was right but she was still reluctant. I looked at her. She looked from me to the clothes and the two women who were now looking over at us, no longer embarrassed but giggling at the situation. “Shit!” Stacy whispered. She opened the door and crept out of the car, her tight little body exposed to the fresh summer air and.
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