Where the FUCK is Rochester

It's in Kent, my dear. It's one of the Medway towns.

She said, sliding the map over to me.

How the hell had I ended up here? In Rochester?

Easily.

It had started several months earlier, I had seen his profile and despite he not meeting the majority of my criteria something about him appealed to me.
We mailed.
We texted.
He had a meeting in London...
Would I look to meet him afterwards?
Nervous apprehension, sweaty palms, outfits discarded and revisited. He had me already, in his words. So we met up steadying nerves and loosening tongues through pints of lager and hand rolled cigarettes. The attraction seemed mutual, and suddenly it was last orders.

I'm a bit tired and as I've said, more than a little tipsy, the kisses had gone to my head and the beer had made me giddy. And so I text Knickers to let her know I'm on my way home, as I always do as she tends to get worried about me when I'm on a new date.

She gets a bit worried and sometimes I don't blame her because I have this thing, you see, where I know I'm hammered. And I know how to get home. And so I stare straight ahead and pretend I'm sober. Probably doesn't fool anyone but me. There is nothing quite so obvious as the drunk who's trying to look sober. Especially if it's a woman.

So as the train pulls into my station, I gather my belongings as gracefully as I can, and follow the rest of the pack off the train.

Wondering why Bromley South looks a bit different tonight.

And to my horror, I realise it's because Bromley South is not Bromley South.

It's Rochester.

And I have no idea where Rochester IS. Let alone how the hell I'm going to get home as I've just watched the last train back to London pull out of the station.

So I call my local cab firm, ask for a cab from Rochester. The operator laughs, quotes me £80.
£80?

Eighty pounds STERLING? As it is payday's 2 days away and all I have is £15 in my wallet.
I call Tiki in panic. She laughs, mutters something to Kittsy, I can hear in the background

"Where the fuck is Rochester?"

I try the cab office, downstairs, in a semi drunken state make my way to the desk.
"Where the fuck is Rochester?" As politely as possible.


It's in Kent, my dear. It's one of the Medway towns. She said, sliding the map over to me.

So here I am. Stuck. In a Medway town in Kent. And the next train is 5 hours from now. And as I prepare to settle in for the night, luckily the woman in the cab office takes pity on me, makes me tea and invites me into the office. And then my phone rings.
It's Knickers.
Sleepily. "Where are you babe?"

Ummm...

"Rochester?!"

Suddenly awake.

"How'd you get there M?"

"Um, I don't think the train stopped."

"How are you getting home?"

"Train..."

"What time's the next train M?"

"Uhmmm, ermmm..."

"M babe? Where the FUCK is Rochester?"

I hate to think of the sub conversations that then went on from that simple phrase.
It's been bad enough retelling it and I've promised I'll never make fun of anyone who falls asleep and ends up in some far flung commuter station again.
And I had to promise Knickers I'd bear her first born child as she was the one who had to crawl out of bed, get in her car and drive the hour and a half to find Rochester station, collect me from the warmth of the cab station to take me home.