The Ankle-Crossing Air Hostess

And ... as I continued to avidly read more and more of their captivating comments about me, in the Footboy's Daily Record Sheet, as written down by those particular Air Hostesses: the ones, who were so inclined as to put their opinions in writing, so as to have their views officially recorded; and, so as to have their 'say', as to my fate, I found that my new-found reasons for optimism, for hope, were actually reinforced ...

For every Miss Samantha; for every Miss Celia ... there seemed to be a Miss Pammy, a Miss Joanie.

I felt, though, that these 2 extremes, these polarized opinions might possibly cancel each other out, in the long run. I felt that my fate would ultimately be decided, by the other ... middle-of-the-road 'voters'.

I found the number of Airlines that used Gatwick Airport, to be quite staggering. I'd had no idea, of the great number of Airlines. No idea, of the colossal numbers of Air Hostesses ...

UK based Airlines alone, being well into double figures: Easy Jet; British Airways; First Choice; Thomas Cook; Monarch Airlines; British Midland, to name just a few ...

How many Air Hostesses, I wondered, are employed by those UK based Airlines? Was their number, in the hundreds ... or the thousands ...?

Foreign Airlines: American Airlines; Qantas; KLM; Air India; Alitalia; Iberia; Singapore Airlines; Lufthansa; Air France; South African Airlines ... the list, seemed endless.

How many Air Hostesses, I wondered, are employed by those foreign Airlines? Was their number, in the thousands ... or the tens' of thousands ...?

And, I also wondered ... how many of those Air Hostesses - during my 28 days Foot Service Duty sentence - would pass through the Cabin Crews' Comfort Station?

And ... how many of those, I wondered, would avail themselves of the attentions and ministrations of the Comfort Station footboy?

And, I also wondered ... how many of those, would also officially record their comments, on the Footboy's Daily Record Sheet?

As I scanned through all of the Air Hostesses' comments, I tried to evaluate my overall 'performance'. My Satisfaction of Conduct rating, for the day. And, as I did so, I began to feel a little more upbeat. I thought that; on the whole, the positive comments far outweighed the negative. I was 'scoring', maybe about as much as 70 - 30. In my favour ... Not bad, then - considering!

I cautioned myself, though, not to get too carried away. After all, this was just Day 1, of my 28 days Foot Service Duty sentence. I still had another 27 to go ...

In the coming days and weeks, I knew, there would be literally hundreds - maybe thousands - of Air Hostesses, from many different Airlines: both, UK based, and from abroad, arriving at Gatwick Airport ... Air Hostesses, at whose feet I would have to respectfully and obediently serve, as 'footboy' (and, tidy-up after), in the Comfort Station.

And, I also knew, that I would have to keep my "Nose clean, and serve the Air Hostesses "Well," if I was to have any hope at all, of achieving Mrs Jepson's "Final Assessment Test Pass Rate": a minimum, of 90%. ("Anything less, David, than 90%, and ...")

I looked at the 24-hour-clock, that was situated on the wall behind the Refreshments Tables. The time was 18:14. Time, to get the hell out of here - out, of the Cabin Crews' Comfort Station. ('My work, here, is done'.) Oh, yeah ...? What about the next 27 days, "Davy?" I said to myself ... Talking to myself, was getting to be a bit of a worrying habit.

This was the moment, when I first met my Comfort Station 'co-part' - Snugs - who was just arriving for his 6 p.m. - 6 a.m. Night Duty 'shift'. "Hiya, mate! Had a nice day ...? Ha ha ha! I'm Snugs," he greeted me joviallly, holding out his hand for me to shake. I couldn't help but think, that Snugs seemed rather ... cheerful - under the circumstances ... "I hope you've left the Comfort Station all nice and 'Spick and span,' for me ...? Ha ha ha!" he laughed jokingly, imitating Mrs Jepson.

"Ha! It's a hell of a lot tidier, than it was when I arrived this morning, I can tell you!" I responded in kind, enjoying the banter, and in taking an immediate liking to the guy - to my Comfort Station 'co-part'. "Sundays off ...?" I marvelled incredulously. "What next!" I exclaimed. "Bank-Holidays, and a shorter working-week? An Occupational Pension? ... And, you're 14 minutes late - mate! ... Anyway, Snugs ... " I said, nodding at the Comfort Station, "... I don't know what you've got to be so happy about ... just wait, until you start your---"

Snugs stepped right up to me, gripped my shoulder, and he whispered in my ear - as if he was a spy, concerned by the grave possibility of being eavesdropped upon by foreign agents with sophisticated listening equipment, or of having his lips read, through powerful zoom lens binoculars. "No ... no ... You've got me all wrong, mate ... I've got myself here ... on purpose!" he confided, nodding his head twenty-to-the-dozen, by way of adding emphasis and conveying credence to his decidedly outlandish claim.

Then, at beholding my bemused, befuddled expression, a wide smile broke across Snugs's face, as he further confided to me, by way of 'rational' explanation. "I like women's feet, mate! I actually like them! Especially, Air Hostesses' feet ... can't get enough ... They drive me crazy ... drive me nuts! I love ... their ... their stinky feet ... I love it, when they make me smell their ... when they make me sniff ... their ... First thing I'm going to do, mate, when I've served my sentence ... is to drop litter again - right under the Litterman's big red nose! Right under his hooter. I'll deffo get caught again ... I'll make sure of---"

Snugs's astonishing confidences in me were then abruptly curtailed, when we were suddenly confronted by the authoritative tones of a Lufthansa Air Hostess - though, by then, I thought I had got the incredible gist of what my Comfort Station 'co-part' had been telling me ...

3 Lufthansa Air Hostesses had arrived at the Comfort Station. Their names: according to their name-tags, were Helga, Mathilde, and Monika. All 3 of them had long, blonde hair, tied in pony-tails. And all 3 of them, were very attractive, Bavarian beauties, I thought - stereotypically, I suppose. One of them - Helga - spoke and, though her command of English was apparently excellent, nonetheless, her German accent was still quite discernible, underneath. Addressing me, she demanded, "Why, may I ask, are you two standing out here, gossiping like a couple of fish-wives ...? You will come inside, at once - your services are required ..." she told me, in no uncertain terms.

Thoroughly alarmed, at this unexpected development, I stammered, panic-stricken, "But, Miss Helga ... I beg your pardon, Miss Helga, but ... I was just going off Duty ... I was---"

"I don't care, which one of you two fools is on Foot Service Duty," interrupted the Lufthansa Air Hostess impatiently. "One of you, will accompany us inside ... Now!" ordered Miss Helga authoritatively.

"Duty calls, mate ... heh heh heh," Snugs whispered happily to me, in finding this turn of events highly agreeable to him. Snugs then went through the entrance doors of the Comfort Station, following in the footsteps of the 3 Lufthansa Air Hostesses: Helga, Mathilde, and Monika.

Phew! That was a close call, I said to myself with a huge sigh of relief. Then, taking no further chances, I made a sharp exit - just in case Miss Helga suddenly got it into her blonde head to call me back, for a spot of 'overtime' ...

My Cabin Crews' Comfort Station Foot Service Duty, was finally over, for today. Snugs's 6 p.m. - 6 a.m. Night Duty 'shift', was just starting ... At 6 a.m. tomorrow - Tuesday - I would be back, to 'relieve' my Comfort Station 'co-part'. And, to serve Day 2, of my 28 days, Foot Service Duty sentence.

Although I was allowed to hop aboard the Air Crew Bus, I desperately needed some fresh air ... And, knowing that I had plenty of time in hand in which to take a stroll over to the South Terminal in time to catch the 6:30 p.m. Gatwick Express train to Brighton, that's what I did.

As I made my way over to the South Terminal (where the train station platforms are located, beneath the Terminal Building), I looked up at the monorail. I watched the monorail (that transfers air passengers between Gatwick Airport's North and South Terminals), looking at the travellers in the 2 monorail cars. And, I wished that I was aboard the monorail, and on my way to catching a flight somewhere, too - anywhere, would do. Anywhere, was preferable to the Cabin Crews' Comfort Station! Back to Benidorm, even. After all, I had an even bigger 'hangover', now - a couple of aspirin and an early night had soon sorted my other one out.

As I waited on the station platform for the arrival of my train; due any moment now, I came to realise that I was absent-mindedly rubbing the back of my neck, in trying to relieve a lingering, troublesome dull ache. I could have sworn, that I could feel a brand-new indentation there, right at the centre. As understanding dawned, I felt myself beginning to erupt, with a sense of bitterly resentful outrage ... My persistently gnawing discomfort was, I realised, a direct consequence of the frequently crossing and re-crossing, fleshy, fat feet of the ankle-crossing Air Hostess - Miss Samantha. I knew now, that she actually had added injury to insult. All of my earlier resentment, indignation, outrage, once again came bubbling up to the surface, and I could actually feel my face getting warm.

How could she? What exquisite arrogance! What a nerve! What an imposition! What a wicked wind-up. ("This is what you get, for dropping litter!")

Well, at least I could see a silver-lining - of sorts: the ankle-crossing Air Hostess wouldn't be using the back of my neck as a footrest - for the time being, at least ... It would be a full week, before Miss Samantha and her 3 BA colleagues: Laura, Lindsey and Celia returned from their next Duty - Duty? Duty! jaunt! holiday, more like! - when they returned from Cancun, in Mexico ... When they returned ... from sunning themselves on the great beaches, and watching the bronzed hunks go by! Returned, from enjoying the trip-the-light-fantastic, neon-glowing nightlife! Returned, from getting inebriated - sozzled, falling-down drunk! Returned, from seducing the pilots!!

A lady rail passenger looked at me, showing concern ... She probably thought I was having a 'funny turn'! "Are you all right, dear ...?" she asked kindly. "It's just that ... you don't look very well ... Have you got a pain in the neck, dear ...?" the kind-hearted lady asked.

"Yes, love, I have," I replied. "And her name's Miss Samantha."

The next 27 days, of my Foot Service Duty sentence in the Cabin Crews' Comfort Station at Gatwick Airport, were a waking nightmare ... I didn't even see my 'fans': Pammy and Joanie, and their colleagues; Angie, Candy and Gillie, the Qantas Airlines Air Hostesses - the 'Princesses Of The Skies' - who had been so kind to me; via their comments, as officially recorded on my Footboy's Daily Record Sheet.

When Saturdays came around, I had to phone Steve and tell him that I was '"Not in the mood" for the pub.

The Air Hostesses, of course, were just as nice as pie towards their pesky air passengers - while on Flight Duty. But, once comfortably ensconced, in the comfortable and comforting confines of the Cabin Crews' Comfort Station, it was a different matter, entirely ...

The Cabin Crews' Comfort Station, was the Air Hostesses' 'Sanctuary'. It was the place where; after their long and tiring Flight Duty, they could feel free to 'let their hair down', and 'put their feet up' - and they did. If they'd had a 'Bad Flight' - their pesky passengers, being a major pain in the butt; always asking for things, and not giving them a minute's peace in which to sit and chat to their colleagues ... well, now, they could always 'take it out', on the Comfort Station footboy - and they did. At all events - whatever their frame of mind; whatever the mood an Air Hostess might find herself in - the Comfort Station footboy was 'there' for them ...

But, for the duration of those remaining 27 days of my Foot Service Duty sentence: no matter, how grievously put-upon, I was - not least, by Miss Samantha, and her 3 BA colleagues: Laura, Lindsey, and Celia - by the staggering number of Air Hostesses of seemingly dozens of different Nationalities who used the Cabin Crews' Comfort Station, I remained respectful and obedient, at all times.

No matter: that I was 'brought to heel' by many of the Air Hostesses - and unyieldingly kept there: ruled, controlled, oppressed, with arrogant, imperious authority - I remained compliant and malleable, at all tmes.

No matter: the taunting, goading, sometimes cruel provocations of the Air Hostesses, that I had to endure - and, they were legion - I remained respectful and obedient, at all times.

No matter: that, when some of the male Stewards; who, although forbidden to 'partake' in this splendid activity themselves, still, nonetheless, hugely enjoyed the 'spectator sport', and laughed in my face, when I called them 'Sir' ... I remained polite and respectful, at all times.

No matter: that, although a number of male Stewards succeeded brilliantly in maddening me beyond measure, as they exhibited great delight in watching my pathetic plight: laughing inanely, tittering and giggling ("Some of them would love it, I know ...") at the 'hilarious' antics of the Air Hostesses, so much so, that I wanted to get up from my hands and knees, and punch their lights out ... No matter: I remained stoic to my 'cause'. I kept my "Nose clean." I behaved "Well."

Finally, oh, finally, at long, long last, it was Day 28.

It was the final day, of my 28 days Foot Service Duty sentence, in the Cabin Crews' Comfort Station, at Gatwick Airport. The time, on the 24-hour clock situated on the wall above the Refreshments Tables, read 17:01. I had just entered the last, the final hour, of my 28 days sentence ...

And, Mrs Jepson - Head: of the Gatwick Airport Litter Office - had just entered the Comfort Station ... Her long, thin, stilt-like legs, seemingly transporting her for vast distances with each stride, she quickly covered the short distance to the far end of the Comfort Station. Upon reaching the Bulletin Board, Mrs Jepson then retrieved the red clipboard - the red clipboard, to which was attached my Footboy's Daily Record Sheet.

By now, the sheets of the Official Document had greatly accumulated, into a very thick and substantial-looking 'dossier'. "Right, then, David ... Let's see how you've done, then, shall we ...? I'll soon know, whether you have been behaving yourself, or not, for the last 28 days ... Whether your overall standard of behaviour has achieved the minimum, 90%, Satisfaction of Conduct Pass Rate ... Anything less, David, than 90%, and ..." said Mrs Jepson, as she sat down on one of the padded benches next to one of the coffee tables, her long, thin, stick-insect like legs sticking out in front of her, like a pair of double-jointed knitting-needles.

"I'll have a cup of coffee, while I work; while I make my Final Assessment Test of your conduct ... I take it black ... IF ... it's not too much trouble, David ...?" she said, holding out her Refreshments Card to me, so that I could get coffee from the machine, for her.

"Oh ... Oh! Of course, Mrs Jepson. Naturally! By all means! Please, you just sit there, all nice and comfortable, Mrs Jepson, while I get you a lovely cup of coffee! There's no need for you to move a muscle, Mrs Jepson. Not a single, solitary muscle! Not while I'm here!" I gushed obsequiously ...

"There you are, Mrs Jepson, your coffee ... Madam. And, if you would like another, Mrs Jepson ... you've only to say the word ..."

"Yes, David. I know that ... Don't you worry, David. I won't let myself go dry - not on your account," replied Mrs Jepson derisively.

Fortunately, I was saved from having to think of a suitably grovelling response to Mrs Jepson's cruel put-down comment, when 2 very attractive, early 20's, olive-complexioned Air France Air Hostesses proudly sauntered - like 2 Persian cats, as though perfectly aware, of their head-turning, double-take inducing, eye-catching beauty - into the Comfort Station. According to their name-tags, their names were Marie, and Sophie.

Immediately upon seeing me, and, of course, 'recognizing' me, one of them - a full-figured, sultry-looking dark-haired beauty, arrogantly beckoned to me with her forefinger. "You, footboy! You will massage our tired feet, for us ... At once!" she commanded assuredly, as she and her Air France colleague chose a place to sit down on one of the padded benches.

"Of course. It will be my pleasure ... Mademoiselle Marie," I grovelled shamelessly, in hopes of impressing Mrs Jepson - who I knew would be listening closely, to every single word. And, here was another great opportunity presenting itself, with which to impress Mrs Jepson ... "No, Mademoiselle Sophie! Please! Allow me ... You must allow me, your most humble servant, to remove your shoes, for you," I begged Mademoiselle Sophie - intervening, in the nick of time, just as she was about to pull her Flight Duty pump from her right foot, by reaching down for it with her hand, and pulling it from her foot by the heel.

Mademoiselle Marie, then presented me with the - admittedly, dainty sole - of her right, tan hosed foot; an arrogant, expectant look upon her attractive face, as she did so ... And, it was a certain sort of look ... of expression, I had come to realise, that seemed ... a common, or shared, trait of all French Air Hostesses. As if ... as if having a 'footboy' massage their feet for them: at the mere click of their fingers; at the mere beckoning of a forefinger, was a perfectly normal state of affairs ... And, maybe it is, in France! "You may begin, footboy ..." she condescended, with exquisite nonchalance.

"Thank you, Mademoiselle Marie," I replied and, taking her tan hosed, right foot in both of my hands, I practised one of the numerous foot massaging techniques (from my expanding repertoire!), that I had learned - been taught, instructed, mentored - by countless footsore Air Hostesses, over the past 28 days. I firmly - but, not too firmly! - pressed both of my thumbs into the ball of her foot, and rotated them, rhythmically. Around and around, pressing my thumbs, working them, just below the ball of her foot. And pressing, rotating, working my thumbs, just below her repeatedly scrunching toes, too ... her French pedicure (what else!) displayed to me, with each and every toe-folding scrunch.

Mademoiselle Marie leaned back on the padded bench and; with rather surprising firmness, I felt the tan hosed toes of her left foot gripping my right knee-cap - as she 'anchored' herself, for stability. Despite myself, I felt a highly pleasurable tingle, at her touch, as if I had just been connected to a low-voltage battery-charger, that trickle-charged right up my leg to my groin.

Mademoiselle Marie relaxed: wiggling and flexing and splaying her toes, luxuriously, as I supported the weight of her right leg and foot, in my hands. She was audibly sighing, as I gave the foot-massaging performance of my life. I did my utmost, to massage the aches and pains of her long and tiring Flight Duty day away. She sighed blissfully: moaning, almost, with relief and pleasure. Relief and pleasure, in equal measure ... And, I knew Mrs Jepson was watching, listening!

Mademoiselle Sophie - while she patiently awaited her own turn for a much-needed foot massage - rested the heel of her right, tan hosed foot on my left shoulder. And, while she absently perused the glossy pages of her 'Elle' Magazine, and took dainty little sips from her bottle of Perrier water ... seemingly absent-mindedly, she rhythmically stroked my left cheek with the ball of her foot, and with the pads of her gently caressing, tan hosed toes ... and, despite myself, I almost enjoyed it, too! After all; it was not an overly disagreeable sensation ... You have to admire the French: in every little thing they do, they have such style! Such panache! Such savoir-faire. Such ... Je ne se qua ...