It was Friday night. Friday nights were known as Reggae Friday in Martina’s lane. From as early as five o’clock Turbulent Disco invaded the neighbourhood with loud bellowing music, which usually rose to a screaming pitch by midnight. The music rode the air, blocking out all other sounds. It welcomed you as soon as you got off the bus, walked with you to your place of abode, accompanied you as you did your chores, followed you to the bathroom, ate with you and intruded in your private conversation. It was a constant unwanted company that refused to go away however much you tried to ignore it. In the late afternoon into evening and a part of the night, love songs, rock steady and light reggae from the sixties dominated. After eleven one’s hearing and sense of decency were assaulted not just by loud, lewd dance-hall lyrics but by a deejay who interrupted almost every line of the song in order to scream obscenities, affirmation of what was being sung and played – indecent verbal games which poked fun at anatomy and relationships.