The Ankle-Crossing Air Hostess

My bitter resentment, at being wrongly accused - and sentenced - as a litter lout ... My seething anger, at having to serve a 6 a.m. - 6 p.m., 7 days a week, 28 days Foot Service Duty sentence, in the Cabin Crews' Comfort Station ... My distress, at being ordered to my knees, and cruelly forced to sniff the feet of the 4 British Airways Air Hostesses ... My soul-crushing humiliation, at being imperiously commanded to my hands and knees, like a dog, to kiss - to actually press my lips, into the soles of their warm, malodorous, dark hosed foot flesh ... ("Kiss my heel ... it is your girlfriend's lips ... look at my toes, my wiggling toes, as you do so ... they are your girlfriend's eyes, sparkling, for you ... show me your passion ... show me your desire ...").

These keenly-felt emotions, were so crushing, so soul-destroying acute, that, wallowing in self-pity, it was hard to resist the increasing urge to blub like a baby - right in front of the tormenting, goading Britsh Airways Air Hostess, Miss Samantha, and her 3 BA colleagues: Laura, Lindsey and Celia. Oh, that would really put the cap on it! I could just imagine, how they would laugh ...

When I was positioned quite to their satisfaction, the BA Air Hostesses lifted their legs, and they rested their hot, hard-working, tired and achy dark hosed feet upon my comfortable and convenient, obediently proffered back ...

Except, that is ... for the rather short and slightly chubby BA Air Hostess with the neck-length brown hair. The British Airways Air Hostess, who seemed, at first glance, to be rather ordinary and plain-looking (but, who had ... 'presence' ... and who sent out 'signals' ... and who could 'grow' on you - either benignly, or malignantly ... depending upon whether or not she 'liked the look' of your face), Miss Samantha. For, Miss Samantha - who was facing my head, sighed blissfully and contentedly, as she crossed her ankles ... on the back of my neck.

What the ...? I mean, WHAT THE ...??

Yes! The rather plain-looking, short, and slightly chubby British Airways Air Hostess with the neck-length brown hair - Miss Samantha - actually crossed her ankles, on the back of my neck ... On the back of my neck! How could she? How COULD she! What a nerve! What a ... colossal NERVE! I couldn't believe it! I just could not ... believe it!!

Miss Samantha, had actually crossed her ankles ... on the back of my neck! And, not gently, either! All-but slamming the bottom of her round heel down, on the back of my obediently proffered - exposed and vulnerable - neck ("This is what you get, for dropping litter!"), jarringly, and causing a rippling, vibrating wave of dizzying, nauseating sensations to pulse and throb inside my head, that took a while to subside.

On that very first occasion, I didn't know whether Miss Samantha had actually slammed her heel down on the back of my neck, accidentally, through sheer carelessness ... or deliberately, through sheer malice. I could not be 100% certain - the first time, and so I was prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt. But, in the coming weeks, on the occasions when Miss Samantha would suddenly appear in the Comfort Station, like a feared - dreaded - apparition, I would become 100% certain, all right. Oh, yes ... As the saying goes: once, is an accident; twice, is a coincidence; but, 3 times, is ... ("This is what you get, for dropping litter!")

But ... of all of the appalling, hideous treatment that I had been subjected to by the 4 British Airways Air Hostesses, so far ... this, to me - Miss Samantha, actually crossing her ankles, on the back of my neck - took the proverbial 'biscuit'.

It seemed, to me, the most sly, the most malicious, the most taunting, the most goading, the most malevolently-conceived - the most 'calculated' - of insults.

It was the most taken-for-granted, the most highly intolerable, the most keenly infuriating, the most direly provoking, and the most exquisitely arrogant, of impositions - of wicked wind-ups - that ... I almost said 'something'. I almost said 'something' ... to Miss Samantha - the ankle-crossing Air Hostess.

How I didn't say 'something' ... to Miss Samantha, I don't know. How I kept my seething outrage, in check, I don't know. How I held my tongue - stopped it from wagging disastrously ... from saying 'something', I don't know. How I held back, from giving vent to my sizzling, burning resentment, I don't know. How I kept my fever-hot emotions from spilling, bubbling over, how I kept from actually giving voice, to an irrevocable, catastrophic outpouring of blatant disrespect - from saying 'something' ... to Miss Samantha - the ankle-crossing Air Hostess -I don't know.

But, I was glad that I did. Very glad ... After all, I was supposed to be keeping my "Nose clean," wasn't I? I was supposed to be behaving "Well."

Soon, my neck started to ache ... At first, it was just a dull, mildly troublesome, irritating - but tolerable ache. But that quickly changed - for the worse ... With the cumulative - punishing - stress, of supporting the weight of Miss Samantha's relaxing chubby legs, and her rather fleshy, fat feet upon the back of my neck, it wasn't long, before the ankle-crossing Air Hostess was actually making me suffer ... Adding injury to insult, in all likelihood ("This is what you get, for dropping litter!")

Not that Miss Samantha - or any of her 3 BA colleagues, seemed to notice. Still less, cared ... To them, I was just an object: hardly more than a fixture. Just a part of the furniture, that existed purely for their comfort and convenience. And, after all, I was here for a very good reason, wasn't I? To serve a 28 days, Foot Service Duty sentence, for being a litter lout.

It was in this ... this profoundly subjugating fashion, that the 4 British Airways Air Hostesses: friends, as well as colleagues, chatted to each other familiarly as they enjoyed their refreshments - and, as they enjoyed 'putting their feet up' - as they awaited the arrival of the next Air Crew Bus.

And, as I listened to their conversation (to try and take my mind off the increasing, cumulative - punishing - weight and stress, of the ankle-crossing Air Hostess's frequently crossing and re-crossing feet, relaxing on the back of my neck, and of another 3 pairs of relaxing legs and feet, resting upon my back), I learned that they had all just operated on the same British Airways Flight - from Gatwick to Gibraltar, and back.

The 4 BA Air Hostesses continued to chat amongst themselves in excited tones, all-but ignoring me, as if I was nothing but a pouffe. As I listened, I also learned from their non-stop, animated chitter-chatter, that their next Flight Duty, in 3 days time, was to be a Long Haul affair. And, they were all very much looking forward to it, too ... I wasn't surprised!

They were all rostered to operate, on one of the twice-weekly BA Flights from Gatwick to Cancun, in Mexico. Their Duty, would involve a 4-day stop-over at the highly popular holiday resort. From what I heard them say, they would be there all over the weekend. And, as I listened-in - like the proverbial 'fly on the wall', the 4 BA Air Hostesses variously laughed, chuckled, tittered, and giggled, as they chatted about their up-coming 'treat' (these Duties, that involved multi-night stop-over's in popular and exotic locations, I learned, were highly prized by a lot of Cabin Crew.)

The 4 BA Air Hostesses were looking forward to, I heard: sunning themselves on the great beaches, and watching all the bronzed hunks go by ... Enjoying the trip-the-light-fantastic, neon-glowing nightlife ... Getting outrageously inebriated - sozzled, falling-down drunk ... And seducing the pilots!

I fumed, inwardly, at what I was hearing ... Well, Bully for them! It was all right for some! I'm very happy for you all, I'm sure! Don't forget to send me a postcard, will you!

It was so infuriating! ... The 4 British Airways Air Hostesses: Samantha, Laura, Lindsey and Celia, were going off gallivanting in Cancun, Mexico. All expenses paid, and, with a ridiculously, profligately generous Over Seas Duty Allowance from BA - but, what the hell? The suckers (air passengers) were putting their hands in their pockets and covering the tab, weren't they, one way or another: through the so-called 'Excess Baggage Charge'; through the so-called 'Green Tax', and, of course ... through 'Supplements'.

And, while the 4 BA Air Hostesses were having a high old time in Mexico, I would be here, in the Cabin Crews' Comfort Station ... doing Foot Service Duty!

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!

After what seemed like an absolute, interminable age (though I knew the Air Crew Buses were scheduled to arrive at the Comfort Station every 20 minutes), the next Air Crew Bus arrived and, after putting their BA issue, dark-blue Flight Duty pumps back on again, the 4 BA Air Hostesses finally released me from my Foot Service Duties to them.

Now, Miss Samantha, who had been plaguing me painfully: driving me half-crazy, with an all-but writhing agitation from frequently crossing and re-crossing her ankles on the back of my neck, got up from the padded bench, and she walked up to the Air Crew Bus. Addressing the driver, Miss Samantha asked pleasantly, "Would you wait a moment for us, driver ... while we record our comments on this footboy ...?" In response to Miss Samantha's polite request, the Air Crew Bus driver immediately indicated his eager willingness to comply - touching the peak of his cap with the knuckle of a forefinger, in an unmistakable gesture of obeisance.

Miss Samantha then purposefully strode over to the Bulletin Board, and retrieved the red clipboard. Miss Samantha, it seemed, would be the one to 'christen' my Footboy's Daily Record Sheet.

The signs were not good, I feared, as I tried to glean and interpret clues and hints from Miss Samantha's 'body language' ... As she had approached the Bulletin Board, her every single, on-a-mission like step had seemed to convey her malevolent intent. When she had picked up the red clipboard, she was sly-faced, as though forming and articulating harmful thoughts. And, as I anxiously observed the decidedly harsh style in which she wrote - pressing her pen down aggressively hard; describing angry slashes, loops and full-stops - the manner of her composition, only serving to further covince me of the animosity of her attitude towards me (she didn't 'like the look' of my face, upon her first seeing it), Miss Samantha - the ankle-crossing Air Hostess - 'christened' my Footboy's Daily Record Sheet, and wrote down her officially recorded comment.

I watched, warily, as Miss Samantha's 3 British Airways colleagues: Laura, Lindsey and Celia, followed her example. In turn, they took the red clipboard in hand and, they too, wrote down their officially recorded comments, on my Footboy's Daily Record Sheet.

And, I was itching - albeit, very anxiously - to see what the 4 British Airways Air Hostesses had written. For, Miss Samantha in particular, had glared at me vindictively (sent 'signals' ...) ("This is what you get, for dropping litter!").

"Now ... you can tidy-up in here, footboy ... You have my permission ..." said the ankle-crossing Air Hostess tauntingly - goadingly. She then prepared to board the waiting Air Crew Bus with her 3 BA colleagues. "Thank you for waiting for us, driver," she said to that gentleman. In response, the driver repeated his earlier, decidedly servile gesture to Miss Samantha.

Alas, instead of simply letting the 4 antagonizing British Airways Air Hostesses leave ... and keeping my "Nose clean," and behaving "Well," I muttered peevishly, just loud enough for them to hear me, "Oh! Thank you so much ... 'MISS' Samantha!"

As one, Miss Samantha and her 3 BA colleagues: Laura, Lindsey and Celia, turned to look at me, and I saw a distinct look of malicious satisfaction, of triumph, in their eyes. I had been surprised, when there had been no immediate, outraged backlash. Surprised, that there was no instant, vitriolic tongue-lashing. Surprised, when none of them even said anything to me. But, then again, they didn't have to, I realised: their eloquent pens would do their talking for them ... when they next wrote their officially recorded comments, on my Footboy's Daily Record Sheet ... The Official Document, that could, all too easily, become my 'Doomsday Book'. ("Anything less, David, than 90%, and ...")

The Air Crew Bus driver gawped at me, in open-mouthed incredulity. Though I had told myself, urged myself to keep my fool mouth firmly shut ... I just couldn't. Not only that, but I then proceeded to make matters worse - a lot worse.

I watched the 4 British Airways Air Hostesses, as they stepped up to the kerb to board the Air Crew Bus, pulling their Dolly Trolleys along behind them. With patently false gallantry, I said, to the ankle-crossing Air Hostess, "Oh! Please allow me, 'MISS' Samantha!" And I handed the Dolly Trolleys up to the 4 BA Air Hostesses, one by one. "My pleasure, 'MISS'," I said sarcastically, again and again, as I handed each Dolly Trolley up to their recipients. The Air Crew Bus driver looked at me, as if I had gone out of my mind.

It had been an act, I realised, of the most foolhardy self-indulgence: this sort of self-indulgence came at a price - and it was a price I couldn't afford.

I had reached the end of my tether. My taut-as-piano-wire emotional strings, had finally snapped with a great twang! - hence, my decidedly ill-advised, knee-jerk reactions. Calculatingly provoked, taunted and goaded, I had finally succumbed to their cruel pressures.

Foremost, I had capitulated, and yielded - bowed - to the irresistible force that had, for some reason ('... whether or not, she 'liked the look' of your face, upon her first seeing it' ...) resolved to relentlessly pit herself against me. I had let my acute feelings get the better of me. I had invited Miss Samantha - aided and abetted by her 3 BA colleagues: her accomplices in attrition - to step on my increasingly tenuously gripping fingers as I had clung desperately to the edge of the abyss.

By my looks, words and actions, I had grossly disrespected ("You will accord the Air Hostesses the highest possible respect and obedience, at all times ...") the 4 British Airways Air Hostesses: Samantha, Laura, Lindsey and Celia. And it was a mistake, for which the ankle-crossing Air Hostess would make me pay - and pay dearly.

I knew, that I shouldn't have been disrespectful; that there would surely be a 'reckoning', from Miss Samantha. I shouldn't have crossed her. I realised that: not only, was I up the creek without the proverbial paddle ... but I had actually crossed the Rubicon. The ankle-crossing Air Hostess - as I would duly find out - was the wrong person to cross.

And, after all: I was supposed to be keeping my "Nose clean," wasn't I? I was supposed to be behaving "Well."

Regretting my foolish, self-indulgent words and actions, and unable - it was far, far too late, to take them back - I watched, with a sinking, gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach, as the battery-powered Air Crew Bus pulled quietly away from the Cabin Crews' Comfort Station.

The Air Crew Bus driver glanced at me as he drove away. He was, I saw, muttering to himself and shaking his disbelieving head. Miss Samantha and her 3 BA colleagues looked at me through a window. They regarded me calmly, almost impassively, yet their eyes spoke eloquently: promising me a suitable 'come-uppance'.

Trying to take my troubled mind, from re-living my foolhardy and self-indulgent looks, actions and words - and my wild imagination, from speculating anxiously upon their possible, disastrous ramifications - I busily set about obeying the haughty, taunting, goading, wilfully pompous order, as issued to me by Miss Samantha. ("Now ... you can tidy-up in here, footboy ... You have my permission ...").

I worked quickly: I didn't have much time ... First, clearing up the worst of the appalling mess, that was scattered all over the Comfort Station - the appalling mess, that the Air Hostesses, themselves, had left behind them. First, I picked up the larger pieces of debris from the tables, benches and carpet. For the smaller bits, pieces and crumbs that were scattered all over the carpeted floor, like scraps of food thrown down to the pigeons by camera-toting tourists in St Mark's Square, I would have to go around with the dust-pan and brush and the vacuum cleaner, later - if and when I got the chance ... ("Leave that for now, footboy! ... you've got 'more important' duties to perform ...")

I worked quickly: time was of the essence ... I picked up the Air Hostesses' deliberately - tauntingly and goadingly - dropped litter. ("Now ... you can tidy-up in here, footboy ... You have my permission ...")

I worked quickly: time was running out ... There was litter, all over the place! Empty, part-finished - full, and unopened, even - cellophane, plastic, and foil bags and packets, of crisps, crackers and biscuits ... Hot and cold drinks containers: bottles, cups, cartons and cans ... Sandwich, pastries and cake wrappings ... Fruit peel, cores, pips, etc ... that the 4 BA Air Hostesses had dropped so blatantly, so tauntingly - so goadingly - all about me. Not to mention, the litter that was already there; left by other members of Cabin Crew ("There was no footboy on duty in the Comfort Station, last night ..."). There was more litter, than you could shake the proverbial stick at.

I worked quickly: the clock was ticking ... I had my explicit orders, from Mrs Jepson ... ("You will keep the Comfort Station clean and tidy - spick and span - at all times.")

Oh! The exquisite irony, of it! It brought me close to tears ... And, it was the ankle-crossing Air Hostess, herself ... Little Miss Goody - "If there's one thing I can't abide, it's a litter lout!" - Two Shoes, Miss Samantha, who had been the worst culprit!

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!

Barely 2 minutes had elapsed - but, hurrying and scurrying, crabbing and crawling, I at least had the Comfort Station tidied-up a bit - when 2 Qantas Airlines Air Hostesses breezed in through the entrance doors, like 2 rip-roaring, uproarious whirlwinds.

The 2 Qantas Airlines Air Hostesses, were full of a vital, seemingly uncontainable energy: a picture of robust, excellent health. They were both highly tanned, and they both had long, blonde hair. They had both tied their hair in pony tails (convenient, and required for their Flight Duty, I supposed). Their long, shapely legs were bare - the Qantas Airlines Air Hostesses, I assummed, were not obliged by regulation to wear panty hose, and they could go bare-legged, if they wished ... After all, they had the legs for it!

The 2 Qantas Airlines Air Hostesses didn't notice me, at first - I was bending under one of the coffee tables, picking up some awkward-to-get-at discarded sandwich-wrappers and coffee cups - and they made straight for the coffee machine, chatting away in their distinctive, Australian accents. "Holy Smokes, Joanie!" exclaimed one of them. "I'm cream-crackered! I can't wait to crack open a few tinnies ... After we've had some kip at the Airport Hotel, that is, ha ha ha!"

"Too right, Pammy! Good call! The good old amber nectar ... Mmmm, I can almost taste it now! There's nothing like a couple of cold ones, is there, after a long Flight," replied her colleague feelingly. "Then, when we've had some grub, waddayareckon we all hit the pubs in Crawley, tonight ... eh, Pammy ...? I want to renew my acquaintance with that dishy barman in the Hope and Anchor ... you know, who I knocked off the last time we were here ...? Good old creepy Crawley! Ha ha ha ha!"