The Ankle-Crossing Air Hostess

Mrs Jepson, finally satisfied that she had briefed me thoroughly, stood up: a clear signal that she was dismissing me from her presence, in her Litter Office. She didn't bother to ask me if I had any questions ... Of which I had 2 - what the ...? and WHAT THE ...?? But, thinking it the wisest course, I kept them to myself.

"You may go now," said Mrs Jepson. "Don't forget! 6 a.m. tomorrow, at the Cabin Crews' Comfort Station ... And, don't be late, David!"

Don't be late, Mrs Jepson said! Don't be late? That was rich ... So rich, I found it impossible to stomach - impossible to swallow!

And, all of this was happening, because of an offence that I hadn't even committed! And, wouldn't commit!

It was all too much ... Just too much!

Of course, I abandoned any idea of retrieving my car from the Long Stay car park, and driving myself home. I would pick it up tomorrow evening, after my 'shift', in the Comfort Station. Anyway, I had no business getting behind the wheel of a car, in my present condition. I was in no fit state. Not only, must I still be well over the alcohol limit for driving but, how was I supposed to concentrate on what was happening on the road ... thinking about - worrying about - my imminent 28 days Foot Service Duty sentence, in the Cabin Crews' Comfort Station, at Gatwick Airport?

Hell! This was like a bad dream - a horrible nightmare! A nightmare that would have me waking up in the middle of the night, in a cold, clammy sweat, the bed-clothes all tangled up from thrashing about. I knew though, that I wasn't going to 'wake up'. Oh, I knew that this ... this waking nightmare, was really happening to me, all right ...

I 'would', have been convinced ... that someone was having a laugh. Convinced, that this was someone's idea of an excellent joke ... Steve's! It would be just like Steve and the lads, to set me up in such a diabolical prank as this. To go to such ridiculous lengths, as such a 'sophisticated' scam as this would take to organize. To actually get people from the airport to assist - to take part in! - their infantile little game ... On second thoughts, though, perhaps I would have been giving Steve a bit too much 'credit'.

I 'might' have suspected, even ... that I was actually on 'Candid Camera'. Suspected, that I was the unsuspecting subject, of one of their carefully crafted wheezes. Suspected, that I was the unwitting stooge, the unwary victim, of one of their clever and elaborate practical jokes. Suspected, that I was being filmed, so that TV audiences Nationwide could laugh at me, while they sat on their sofas, eating their TV dinners from trays on their laps. Laugh, with their mouths full, at my shock, at my embarrassment, at my indignation. Laugh, at my earnest and truthful protestations of innocence, and at my pleas for mitigation - if not acquittal - falling upon deaf ears. Laugh, at my secretly filmed 'comical' facial expressions, as the plot of the hilarious scenario gradually unfolded.

Yes ... I 'would' have been convinced, of such dastardly machinations afoot, had I not seen the Government's long run of 'Keep Britain Tidy' campaign advertisements on TV. And, had I not heard the often repeated warnings, that darkly hinted as to the 'innovative penalties' that were to be imposed, in future, upon litter louts.

When I got home, I glumly told my Mum and Dad (who I still lived with), and my girlfriend, Kate, just exactly what I was going to be doing, for the next 28 days ... and why. I had been expecting some sympathy.

Instead - just like the Head of the Gatwick Airport Litter Office, Mrs Josephine Jepson - they finger-waved away, pooh-poohed my earnest, truthful excuses. I was told I deserved everything I got, for dropping litter. It was the likes of me, they said accusingly, that was bringing shame and disrepute upon the country - litter, everywhere you looked, these days! And all because of ill-behaved, anti-social people like me. I had it coming, they unanimously opined, unwittingly paraphrasing the words of that hideous woman, Mrs Jepson.

Mum and Dad's eyebrows were certainly raised, though ... as to the decidedly singular nature of my punishment - my 28 days Foot Service Duty sentence, in the Cabin Crews' Comfort Station, at Gatwick Airport.

Not so, though, my girlfriend, Kate: she said she was glad, and she actually squealed in delight ...

Just the very thought, gloated Kate, of what was going to happen to me at the Cabin Crews' Comfort Station - Kate obviously knew something that I didn't: she had friends, who were Air Hostesses based at Gatwick Airport - gave her such a warm and tingly, comforting glow, just from thinking about it ... Made her feel happy and content, and all "Squishy," inside. Kate was actually jubilant, gleeful even, at hearing about my unspeakable predicament. "You deserve it, David!" said Kate accusingly and vengefully.

And, I didn't think she was talking about just my supposed litter dropping, either ... Alas, I was in Kate's 'Bad Books' - again! And, I knew there would be a lot of (serious!) grovelling to do, to get out of them. I knew - because there always was! But, Babes (as I called her) was worth any amount of aggro, to me ... The pertinent question was, though: was I, to her? That, was the proverbial $64,000 question.

I knew that Kate had a very short 'fuse', and that, once lit, it burned quickly. And hotly. I knew - because I had ignited her 'blue touchpaper' on numerous prior occasions. Too many. So I knew just what to expect from Kate, when I was well out of order. Kate could actually be quite spiteful, vindictive, vengeful even ... until we finally 'made-up'. I knew that I was in very real danger of burning her fuse right down - again. I didn't want to set her 'fireworks' off: they were very spectacular - and I always caught a 'rocket'. I realised, too, that Kate had her limit: her final cut-off point - her 'Line in the Sand' - and I never wanted to cross that line. So I had better watch out ... I was, I knew, starting to get too close to Kate's 'Line in the Sand'. Kate was, I knew, only going to stand for so much: so much grief, so much exasperation, before she finally lost her patience, her temper ... Before she finally reached 'Critical-Mass' ... and 'Meltdown'.

My girlfriend, Kate, at just turned 21, was 2 years younger than me. We had been going steady for 2 years now, and I absolutely adored her - worshipped the proverbial ground she walked on. To be honest, I was amazed that she put up with me - put up with our 'Roller-Coaster' relationship ... After all: Kate was responsible for all of the 'ups' ... while I was the cause of all of the 'downs'. My greatest - darkest fear, was that there would be a time when we went down - but only Kate would come back up again ... That Kate would leave me, at rock-bottom.

Kate was my whole world. My universe. I knew, that she was the girl for me - I knew, that Kate was 'The One'.

I wanted us to get engaged - but, not yet. I wanted to do it 'properly'. Oh, yes - I had it all planned-out, in my head ... First, I wanted Kate's engagement ring, to be 'awesome'. Then, when I could afford it, I wanted to go down 'on bended knee', in the time-honoured tradition. I wanted to 'pop the question', to her. I wanted us to 'tie the knot'. I wanted us to have a honeymoon made in heaven. I wanted us to 'live happily ever after'. With the proverbial '2.4 kids', and the whole caboodle ...

But ... I'd been out of work for a while, I was nearly skint, and there was no sign of a job on the horizon. So ... not the best of times, to be 'popping the question'.

Besides, judging from Kate's thunderous mood, at the moment, she would probably tell me to 'Get Lost!'

Kate, I could see, obviously still had a major 'chinny' on, with me. She was still sulking, Big-Time, because I had gone "Jaunting off" to Spain for my best mate Steve's Stag Party - going abroad for Stag and Hen Parties: Benidorm; Magaluf; Palma Nova; San Antonio in Spain, Aiya Napa on Cyprus ... anywhere, really, where lager louts were as much a part of the scenery as palm trees, were all the rage, these days - instead of spending the money on her ... "On something 'decent', David, for my twenty-first birthday present - and not, squandering the last of your savings, on a ... stupid Stag Do in Spain!"

Which I would have done, Kate said, if I "Really" loved her. Well, I did really love her, my darling Kate - of course I did! More than anything! But, I could hardly miss Steve's Stag Do in Benidorm, could I? ... Steve, and the rest of the lads would never have forgiven me!

Monday came ... And, so accustomed had I become to the nice, leisurely lie-in that I had been enjoying every morning whilst between jobs - the Motor Parts Company that I had worked for had gone bust 4 months ago - that I found it a terrible trauma to get up at 4:30 a.m. when my alarm clock wailed as if it was the end of the world, or an invasion from Mars.

I had to get up that early, in order to get the 5:15 a.m. Gatwick Express train, that would take me from where I lived, in Brighton, and get me to Gatwick Airport - a journey of about 25 miles - before 6 a.m. However, I quickly scrambled out of bed, at remembering Mrs Jepson's grating, adjuring voice: "And, don't be late, David!"

Following the very specific instructions given to me by that awful Mrs Jepson: Head of the Gatwick Airport Litter Office, I duly reported directly to Cabin Crews' Comfort Station, which is located near Concorde House.

Upon my arrival at the Cabin Crews' Comfort Station (at 05:50 - oh, what I would have given, for those extra 10 minutes, in bed!), through the glass entrance doors, I saw a sleepy-eyed (though, still, very attractive), shoulder-length dark-haired, early 20's, Air Hostess. She was attired, I saw, in the distinctive and readily recognizable, orange-liveried uniform of an 'Easy Jet' Air Hostess.

The Easy Jet Air Hostess, I saw, happened to be the only occupant of the Comfort Station, at the moment. She was sitting on one of the padded benches; her Easy Jet issue Flight Duty pumps, lying on their sides near her tan hosed feet, where she had, apparently, casually kicked them off. Her right foot, was resting on her left knee: the sole of her tan hosed foot, facing towards me. She was flexing and scrunching her toes; repeatedly, rhythmically, as though deriving comfort and relief from doing so.

As though lost in her own, reflective thoughts, the Easy Jet Air Hostess was staring off into the middle-distance, and sipping from a cup of coffee that she held, as though comfortingly, in both hands. After gently easing the Comfort Station entrance doors open, a fraction, "Penny, for them?" I said, by means of gently disturbing her introspection, and quietly making her aware of my sudden presence.

Upon seeing me - undoubtedly, judging by her reaction, mistaking me for an Air Steward - the Easy Jet Air Hostess's decidedly downcast demeanour immediately brightened, considerably. With an openly engaging smile, in very warm tones, she exclaimed, "Wotcha!" in her bubbly, very friendly-sounding, broad, Essex accent. To me, it was a wonderfully endearing sound: the 'Essex Girls', I think, are a race apart.

I remembered, though, Mrs Jepson's strict and very specific instructions ... And, as much as I wanted to - my own, natural friendliness coming swiftly to the fore - I did not respond in kind. Instead, I said respectfully, to the Easy Jet Air Hostess, "Good morning, Miss. My name is David, and I have been instructed to report here, to ... to begin serving my 28 days Foot Service Duty sentence, for dropping litter."

10 seconds later, it was hard to credit that I was actually still looking at the same girl - 'Pearl', according to her name-tag. Her initial warm and natural friendliness towards me, had disappeared faster than a radio in an unlocked car in Liverpool.

Upon registering what I had actually said to her, her previously friendly and smiling, warmly engaging, softened features, became harsh-looking and stony - hardened - as though by super-fast setting concrete. The pupils of her eyes, glittering, with sharp points of dangerous light. With an unforgiving, hostile, aggressive glare now upon her face, the Easy Jet Air Hostess replied, in her broad, Essex Girl accent - her voice, though, now lacking any vestige of its former warmth. "Oh ... Have you, now? Been dropping litter ... have you, David? I see ... Well, you've certainly come to the right place, then! Oh, yes ... I can assure you, of that! Well ...? You had better come in, then, hadn't you? And, take your coat off ... So that we can all see who - see 'what' - you are ... And ... why you are here!"

"Yes, Miss Pearl," I replied, respectfully and obediently.

I was distraught. Choked. I felt incredibly upset - devastated. In bits. Absolutely gutted ...

I was actually hurting, deep inside. Tormented, by the snagging, tugging barbs of such an awful, cruelly afflicting emotional pain ... To be held, in such low esteem; to be seen, as the lowest-of-the-low; to be regarded, as the dregs of the earth; to be looked upon, as nothing better than scum ... by this Easy Jet Air Hostess. By this decent, attractive young woman. By this good-natured, naturally very warm and friendly, Essex Girl.

And, all of this was happening, because of an offence that I hadn't even committed! And, wouldn't commit!

It was all too much ... Just too much!

Now, my Litter Office issue, white T-shirt: loudly proclaiming 'FOOTBOY', on the front, and furiously denouncing 'LITTER LOUT', on the back, in bold, red letters, perfectly explained my decidedly ignominious presence, in the Cabin Crews' Comfort Station.

Upon retrieving a red clipboard from the Bulletin Board, the Easy Jet Air Hostess then formally signed me in, on the 'Footboy's Daily Record Sheet'.

The 'Footboy's Daily Record Sheet', was the Official Document upon which the Air Hostesses wrote their appraising remarks, with regard to the satisfactory - or otherwise - conduct, of my Foot Service Duties. It was the Official Document, upon which the Air Hostesses would officially record their comments upon me, so as to facilitate Mrs Jepson's Final Assessment Test of the satisfaction of my overall conduct, at the completion of my 28 days sentence ... so that she could ascertain, whether or not I had achieved the minimum, 90% Pass Rate. ("Anything less, David, than 90%, and ...")

After having formally signed me in, the Easy Jet Air Hostess advised me (with a sly-looking smile now playing upon her lips) that, it was actually in my own interests, and could be very much worth my while, she said, to keep my "Nose clean," with the Air Hostesses, and to behave "Well," for them. It was, she claimed, at the discretion of the Air Hostesses, themselves - who had the ultimate power over my fate, via the comments they wrote in the potentially damning Official Document, of the Footboy's Daily Record Sheet - to actually recommend a reduction in my sentence, for keeping my "Nose clean," and for serving them "Well."' "You know ... just like a reward for good behaviour, in prison ..." she added with a mischievous smirk.

Funny ... but I didn't recall Mrs Jepson advising me as to any such advantages. I didn't remember her saying anything to me about a possible remission of sentence, for good behaviour (for keeping my "Nose clean," for behaving "Well.") And, I would have remembered! All I remembered, was Mrs Jepson telling me - and, in no uncertain terms - that I had to achieve an overall, Air Hostesses' 'Satisfaction of Conduct Rating', of at least 90%. ("Anything less, David, than 90%, and ...")

Was the Easy Jet Air Hostess - Pearl - having me on? I wondered. She was having a laugh, wasn't she? Was the Easy Jet Air Hostess deliberately - cruelly! - giving me false hope? After all, she 'knew', now, didn't she, that I was a litter lout. No holds were barred. And, as far as she was concerned, I deserved everything I got, for dropping litter! Was that, her little game then? I wondered ... Playing with - manipulating - my mind? Cynically trying to motivate me, to greater efforts? So that I would serve the Air Hostesses ... 'Beyond The Call Of Duty'?

Oh, it would be just like an Essex Girl! To try and pull off such a stunt as that. They just loved having a good laugh. And, I mean, a Good Laugh! Yes, Essex Girls were the fun-loving, salt of the earth. But, they had a wicked sense of humour ... What a wonderful, delicious, sinking-her-claws-in, kick-ass way to 'really' punish a litter lout!

At the arrival of the Air Crew Bus, a moment later (the time was now 06:00), the - initially friendly, but now belligerent - Easy Jet Air Hostess, who had formally signed me in on the Footboy's Daily Record Sheet, pushed open the Comfort Station's entrance doors, and she wheeled her 'Dolley Trolley' to the kerb.

Before she boarded the Air Crew Bus; in her broad, Essex Girl accent, she informed me, in decidedly disgruntled tones, "There was no footboy on duty in the Comfort Station, last night ... " she grumbled, before adding spitefully "... and it's in a right mess - so you'll have to sort it, then ... won't you!" she decreed.

After lifting her Dolly Trolley up onto the conveniently low step of the Air Crew Bus, the Easy Jet Air Hostess turned to me again, for her 'parting shot'. "Tidy the place up, footboy!" she ordered bossily.

"Yes, Miss Pearl," I replied to the Easy Jet Air Hostess, demoralized and dejectedly. But, respectfully and obediently, too - as I knew that I must. ("Anything less, David, than 90%, and ...").

In response, the Easy Jet Air Hostess gave me such a looking-down-her-nose, contemptuous, thunderous, litter-lout-hating look, as, with a hiss of the hydraulics, the automatic door of the Air Crew Bus began to fold shut behind her. The Air Crew Bus driver looked at me, pityingly, as he drove away in his battery-operated vehicle.

The Easy Jet Air Hostess's Duty, had just finished - mine, was just starting ...

As it happened, I didn't have the time, to "Tidy the place up, footboy!"

I had barely begun obeying the Easy Jet Air Hostess's imperious, and sharply issued order, when 4 British Airways Air Hostesses; rather elegantly attired, I thought, in their dark-blue, decidedly cool-and-reserved looking uniforms, entered the Comfort Station - and they summoned me to Foot Service Duty, instead: "Leave that for now, footboy! ..." one of them (Samantha, according to her name-tag) rudely snapped at me, "... you've got 'more important' duties to perform..."

"Yes, Miss Samantha," I replied, to the British Airways Air Hostess, respectfully and obediently.

Miss Samantha: although she seemed, at first impression, rather ordinary and unremarkable; a rather short - barely Regulation Height - rather plain-looking, slightly chubby young woman with neck-length brown hair ... still, she seemed the sort, who could easily ... 'grow' on you.

Miss Samantha, exuded a sort of ... 'presence'. And, although at first sight, she might seem quite ordinary-looking ... still, she sent out ... 'signals'. 'Signals' ... that suggested she was certainly no 'wallflower'. 'Signals' ... that told you that there was more to her, than met the eye. 'Signals' ... that told you to be constantly on your guard. 'Signals' ... that warned you not to cross her - ever.

Miss Samantha, I instinctively felt, was a young woman to whom first impressions were very important ... And, whether Miss Samantha 'grew' on you benignly ... or malignantly, might depend upon whether or not she 'liked the look' of your face, upon her first seeing it.

And, for some strange reason, I instinctively knew that Miss Samantha hadn't 'liked the look' of my face, upon her first seeing it - not one little bit. And, that she wouldn't be 'growing' on me, in a nice way. It was in her 'signals' ...