Just slips right down - an oyster, that is

Yesterday, Altaa and I went to see friends at the Whitstable Beer Festival, with its attendant oyster-eating competition. At Gillingham train station, while waiting for a train that eventually would be more than ten minutes late, we saw a couple across the rails on the other platform - dressed as Batman and Batgirl. Now either the batmobile and batbikes are at the mechanics or they were going to a superhero fancy dress party - and this was the early afternoon - and had decided to get changed before they left their house. I could understand that just about if they weren’t using public transport. They were going up to London or in that direction anyway and Gillingham is one thing, but walking as that through the crowds of the capital city - well, it would certainly get attention. Then again, it is London - they’d fit right in. While she carried off her Argos outfit and high-heel boots quite well with her slim frame, but he was more fatman than Batman. That’s not a utility belt round his waist but love handles. Get a hold of this, Joker! Adam West would be turning, slowly turning, slowly.
On the train, we met up with Alex Goff which certainly was better than reading the newspaper or gazing out the window. At Whitstable we tramped in the general direction of almost everyone else. It was lovely to meet up with Miriam, Lisa and Bex, though Altaa and I had to do a bit of juggling with fish and chips, fizzy drink cans , when we got to the festival, buying a bottle of ‘traditional’ cider, oysters on a bed of ice and preserves, such as whisky marmalade (can’t get more preserved than that). Watching the oyster-eating competition had its charms, giving that it wasn’t solely given over to downing oysters, but we got to know a bit about the contestants beforehand, but eating our oysters were better since I got all of them (Altaa nibbled a bit of one of hers and then decided against the whole enterprise). Result!
After that, we headed down to the beach and gradually, the crew departed, first Lisa, then Becky. Altaa, I and Mr Goff abandoned Miriam to own devices around quarter past eight, but she had reinforcement of a friend on the way. We had whiled away a few hours on the beach and then outside the Neptune pub. The taxi was eight minutes late which given that we cutting it fine for our once-an-hour train was disconcerting, but the driver was making sure, in no uncertain terms, he wouldn’t be held responsible for us missing it. We got to the station with thirty seconds to spare after he had driven like he thought Steve McQueen was having a mellow cruise in Bullitt. Good times.