Ginger Minge

"Listen Bryony, just to get this out of the way first, it'd be easier if we slept in the same room. I'll put that mattress down and you can have that, and I'm sure we could find a decorous way of getting ready for bed. It's just that otherwise one of us has got to sleep downstairs and K gets up quite early." "Yes, that's fine," she said, unconcerned. "Have you eaten?"

Bryony first contacted me about the same time as Trina and we've chatted by email since. Her, detailing her falling out with a quietly aggressive silent type, to whom women with well-paid jobs in marketing, like Bryony, are sometimes attracted.

She wondered whether I could put her up for a night on her way to Scotland for a holiday. "This is your opportunity to get rid of me if you want!" We roamed around Lancaster at 9.15pm, looking for somewhere to eat. "I'm not used to this," she said. "In Manchester..." and then caught an impoliteness. "You're in the sticks now, Bryony." The Pizza Margherita was still serving and she bought pizza for us, a bottle of wine, and then we had a pint in the White Cross on the way home.

Waking up in the middle of the night I wondered where I was, looking over to Bryony asleep a yard away, her red hair spread over the pillow. "'Yes, I would like to see you again', he thought. Preferably with your hair spread all over my pillow'," it says in an American C20th novel the name of which I can't recall now.

Trina snores, so I am very tired in the morning, having spent the night trying to incorporate her massive noises into dreams. I fall deeply asleep as soon as she gets out of bed. After a slumped, black two hours, I woke up to see her back in bed. I kissed her and we woke up properly, with sex, both of us laughing at near or actual orgasm. It's such a silly thing to do.

The next day she came to Lancaster. "Well, Trina, what would you like to do? We could go to mine, or we could have a drink." We walked silently on for a few seconds. "Yeah, well, that's it really." We went for butter pie, peas and gravy, the finest contemporary exemplar of popular Lancaster cooking. In the Sun, one of the young, black-miniskirted, female staff smiled at me pawing Trina, perhaps with pleasure at knowing that I am diverted by a greater attraction than is offered by her practiced coquettish manner and her nervousness about the precise position of her skirt hem. Female staff in pubs have to manage sexiness and propriety, serving drinks, and trying to please.