The Ankle-Crossing Air Hostess

I was not in the best of moods, in the first place. I had a hangover from hell and, having to wait for over 2 hours at the baggage carousel for my single piece of luggage wasn't helping. Wasn't helping at all.

My head was pounding so badly, I was almost beside myself, all-but stamping my foot with annoyance and frustration. Come on ... come on! I kept on saying, to myself, as I stood and watched the never-ending procession of other peoples' luggage arriving on the carousel - and wondering when in hell mine would show up.

My Flight from Alicante, in southern Spain, had landed at 5 a.m. and so I thought I would beat the morning's rush-hour traffic. Now, though, it was well after 7 a.m. It would dawn on me later that, in my thick-headed state, I'd quite forgotten about it being Sunday ... the roads would be quiet for a while yet, anyway.

But, as miserable as things were, they were just about to get a whole lot worse ... I might have been fretting needlessly, about getting caught up in the morning's rush-hour traffic but, after finally retrieving my single piece of luggage from the carousel, I was about to suffer another delay, anyway.

I had just arrived back at Gatwick Airport, having returned from Steve's Stag Party in Benidorm. Steve was my best mate. We went way back; friends, for as long as I could remember. All our best pals had piled over there to the Spanish resort, and we'd certainly accorded the time-honoured tradition the 'justice' befitting the occasion. We'd all had a very boozy, whale of a time, a night to remember. We'd all mercilessly ribbed Steve about the 'Ball and Chain' he would soon be wearing; his lovely wife-to-be, Rachel, holding the only key to the metaphorical husband-enslaving apparatus - and keeping it nice and safe ... Oh yes, we'd all enjoyed a great, Saturday night Drinkathon. Knocking the pints back as if there was no tomorrow.

Now, though, tomorrow was here, and I was paying a high price for my foolish excesses: I was exhausted, felt sick to my stomach, and my head was banging like Cozy Powell's base drum. I've never been able to take my drink well and, at the moment, I thought there was an awful lot to be said for going teetotal.

I had just said my farewells to Steve and the rest of the lads after making arrangements to meet up at the Pub next Saturday night (so much for going teetotal!) and, I was just about to board the Airport Bus to the Long Stay car park, when I felt a firm, staying hand grip my right shoulder, and a rather harsh and stentorian male voice cried, "Just a moment, sir ... Would these ... happen to be yours, sir ...?"

What the ...? I wondered irritably.

Because the uniform of the man who had accosted me so closely resembled, at first glance, that of the Salvation Army, I had thought, at first, that the gentleman must be a member of that highly venerable organization, out asking for public donations ... I was wrong.

Apparently, following a Government 'Keep Britain Tidy' initiative that was being implemented at all UK Airports, Gatwick Airport Authority were having a tough crackdown on the nuisance, anti-social behaviour of litter louts. And, fumbling for bus fare change at the last moment (that, in my fuzzy-headed state, I had forgotten I didn't even need), I had, unwittingly, dropped some of the air-sickness sweet-wrappers from my pocket, which I had intended to deposit in a litter bin when I got the chance. Or, failing that, dispose of them at home.

But, not accepting my earnest, truthful excuses, the Litterman (for that was who he was) escorted me to the Litter Office, to be formally brought to book for my 'offence'. "This way, sir ..." the Litterman instructed brusquely.

Oh! This was just great, wasn't it! What a drag. What an absolute pain. This was the last thing I needed. I just hoped, that this blatantly obvious misunderstanding could be cleared up quickly, and with the minimum of fuss and inconvenience. All I wanted, was to get home ASAP, get into my bed, and try to sleep off my hideous hangover.

After entering a rather unprepossessing building, the Litterman guided me by means of his firm, staying hand on my right shoulder, down a narrow dismal corridor with grey-painted walls to an office door at the end, which was painted a sort of 'Institution' grey. Affixed to the office door, was an inscribed brass plaque - somewhat incongruously bright and highly-polished looking, in this decidedly depressing building - which read: 'Gatwick Airport Litter Office - Head: Mrs J Jepson'.

The Litterman then did something that, to me, seemed rather ... peculiar. Looking at the inscribed brass plaque that was affixed to the office door; gazing at it, with such expressions of awe and reverence on his face, as suggested that who or what was on the other side of that door was a treasure without equal, the Litterman breathed heavily upon the highly polished surface of the inscribed brass plaque, causing it to dim and mist up. Then the Litterman: with an air of solemn, ceremonial gravity; with the cuff of his uniform jacket, he 'lovingly' buffed and burnished the inscribed brass plaque, restoring its gleaming shine. And, the manner in which the Litterman did this, had a strong suggestion of habit ... of 'ritual'.

His 'devotions' duly observed, the Litterman then discreetly rapped the knuckle of a forefinger on the office door and, upon receiving, in response, permission to enter from a decidedly no-nonsense sounding female voice, he opened the office door and escorted me inside. "Good morning, Madam," said the Litterman respectfully and, with a slight, reverential bow to the woman who sat behind her desk, who was his Superior.

After looking me up and down sourly, the woman who was seated behind her desk addressed the Litterman. "Yes, Litterman ...? What have you got for me?"

The Litterman: while nodding at me, as if he thought his Superior would otherwise have no idea as to who he was referring, brandished, in the palm of his large hand; as though implying irrefutable proof of a misdemeanour, a number of air-sickness sweet-wrappers. "He dropped these, Madam ... There are six of them, in total, Madam ..." the Litterman informed his Superior, in tones befitting the gravity of the situation.

"Well done, Arnold. Good job, my man! It's nice to know that you are on the ball, as usual. Keep up the good work," said the Litterman's Superior, by means of giving her underling an approving verbal pat on the back.

"Thank you, Madam. But it's all in a day's work ... and, as you know, Madam ... I love my work," replied the Litterman modestly. Her 'acolyte', I saw, blushed with pleasure: at the warm approbation of his Superior, but mostly, it seemed to me, at her use of his first name and ... at her calling him "My man."

Opening a drawer of her desk, the Litterman's Superior took out and opened, a small, clear polythene bag and, inclining her head towards the offending articles in the palm of the Litterman's hand, she instructed him, "Put them in here, please, Litterman." Which he did ... handling the air-sickness sweet-wrappers ("There are six of them, in total, Madam ...") with exaggerated care, as though dealing with some terribly fragile and priceless artifacts. Then the Litterman's Superior carefully sealed the small, clear polythene bag - that now rather alarmingly resembled a forensic evidence exhibit - and, after opening the drawer of her desk again, she deposited the incriminating 'evidence' into it, and then locked her desk drawer.

What the ...? I wondered. I was flabbergasted. I watched and listened to these singularly bizarre exchanges between the Litterman and his Superior, with disbelieving eyes and ears.

The Manageress - or, to accord her the formal designation of her official title: 'Head' - of the Gatwick Airport Litter Office, was a truly dreadful woman called Mrs Jepson: Mrs Josephine Jepson, according to her name-tag. And, I wouldn't wish Mrs Jepson on my worst enemy ... I couldn't even remotely imagine, ever calling her Josephine ... ("Not tonight, Josephine ...") Not ever!

Meeting Mrs Josephine Jepson, has been one of the sorriest events of my life. There have been much sorrier events in my life, yes ... but only, thanks to Mrs Jepson. For, it would be that lady, herself, who would bring me into direct contact with the countless instigators of the much sorrier events to which I allude.

Mrs Jepson: a tall, thin-as-a-lath woman in her mid 30's, with very short, blonde hair - like a soldier's buzz-cut - immediately embarked on a raised-voiced, holier-than-thou tirade against me. With the Litterman's staying hand still firmly gripping my right shoulder, Mrs Jepson gave me a scathing dressing-down, at having been caught red-handed by the Litterman in the wholly unacceptable, anti-social act of dropping litter. "Litter louts, will no longer be tolerated at Gatwick Airport," she informed me categorically. "Those days, are gone!" she assured me.

My truthful protestations of total innocence - or, at least, of 'accidental' (and, therefore, 'mitigated') litter dropping - fell upon deaf ears. They had no effect whatsoever, on the stony-faced Mrs Jepson: my earnest explanations washed over her, like water off the proverbial duck's back. "Save it!" said Mrs Jepson contemptuously, in rudely cutting me off. "I've heard it all before ... from your kind! Do you think I haven't? Now ... you'll get what's coming to you - what you deserve. And, it just might help you to learn ... to USE A LITTER BIN, in future!"

I felt outraged. I was always so meticulous in the manner of disposing of my litter: always considerately and correctly disposing of it in the receptacles provided for the purpose. And now, just because of one, innocent little slip ... This was out of order - well out of order ... Wasn't it? Being spoken to, in such an appalling manner as this? But, Mrs Josephine Jepson was just getting started ...

Upon learning that I was currently unemployed, and claiming Unemployment Benefit, Mrs Jepson delivered her swingeing, crushing, devastating body-blow of a penalty. Mrs Jepson: as Head of the Gatwick Airport Litter Office, was empowered and, she had no hesitation, under the Government's new 'Keep Britain Tidy' Litter Legislation Guidelines, in sentencing me (as a first offender) to 28 days 'Foot Service Duty'.

I was speechless. I couldn't believe my ears. I must have heard wrong ... mustn't I? I could only gawp stupidly, at Mrs Jepson. I tried to speak, to say something, but my mouth just opened and closed, and with not much by way of sense coming out, like a goldfish in a bowl.

Foot Service Duty ...? FOOT SERVICE DUTY ...?? What the ...? I mean, WHAT THE ...??

Mrs Jepson duly ordered that I was to serve my 28 days Foot Service Duty sentence, here, at Gatwick Airport, at the Cabin Crews' 'Comfort Station'.

The Cabin Crews' 'Comfort Station'? What the ...? I mean, WHAT THE ...??

I was dumbfounded. At first, I had thought this situation was just plain ridiculous, ludicrous - farcial. Like a silly play that I might watch on a wet Wednesday afternoon on BBC2.

I had thought that; whatever it was, that was going on here, there would be no real harm done at the end of the day. After all, any fool could see, surely, that nothing more untoward than an innocent accident had occurred. Surely, I had thought, I could expect nothing more drastic than a severe ticking-off, and a stern warning to take more care with my litter in future.

Now, though, it was getting quite beyond being merely bizarre - becoming surreal. As Mrs Jepson continued to speak, the true gravity of my incredible predicament gradually began to sink in - and drag me down.

And, as I listened to Mrs Jepson's decidedly no-nonsense sounding voice, my merely terrible hangover seemed to evolve, into a living, maliciously tormenting entity. As if a highly virulent strain of bacteria was hideously thriving, monstrously multiplying by the milli-second inside my head ... Propagating: relentlessly, inexorably, quickly filling in my brain's 'wiggle room', with the resultant anguishing pressure.

I sank down on my seat, lower and lower, all-but folding in upon myself in my growing misery and despair. And, a fog of depression settled over me, that was so thick, I almost needed a pair of infra-red goggles to see through it.

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!

The Cabin Crews' Comfort Station, Mrs Jepson informed me, was a large ('Portacabin'-like), carpeted and comfortable, climate-controlled shelter.

Mrs Jepson told me that: as most Cabin Crew members got lifts from friends or relatives upon returning from their Flight Duty, the Comfort Station was rarely occupied up to its full capacity. Typically, she said, there were usually less than 20 occupants at any one time. Typically ...

Typically, that is, unless a number of Flights happened to come in very close together ... Which would happen, occasionally, explained Mrs Jepson, when such problems as delays and diversions caused a backlog that consequently resulted in a congestion of arriving aircraft. On these occasions, she said, the Comfort Station could - at a bit of a squeeze, and some would have to stand - accommodate up to 50 members of Cabin Crew.

At the Cabin Crews' Comfort Station, the Air Hostesses and male Stewards - from the various Airlines that used Gatwick Airport - could avail themselves of the very good quality refreshments that were so abundantly provided for them ... Free of charge. Funded, courtesy of the ample proceeds of the so-called 'Airport Passenger Tax'.

At the Comfort Station, Cabin Crew could sit in ... well, comfort, while they waited for the Air Crew Bus.

The Air Crew Buses, were scheduled to arrive at the Cabin Crews' Comfort Station: on the hour, and at 20-minute intervals. Except between midnight and 6 a.m., when they arrived on the hour, and at half-past.

The Air Crew Bus would take members of Cabin Crew to where they wanted to go, after having completed their Flight Duty: staff car park; rail station; bus station; airport hotel, etc ... as it meandered along its route to the Air Crew Bus Terminus, via its various drop-off points.

To my horror and dismay, Mrs Jepson duly ordered that my sentence would actually begin tomorrow - Monday. My hours of Foot Service Duty, to be 6 a.m. - 6 p.m. And, for 7 days a week, until the completion of my 28 days sentence.

What the ...? I couldn't believe it. 12 hours a day! 7 days a week! For 28 days! I mean ... WHAT THE ...??

To say that my punishment seemed harsh, would be to utter an understatement of colossal magnitude. I was so gobsmacked, so stunned, someone could have knocked me down with the proverbial feather ... and, I wouldn't have been able to get up again.

After all: I was being punished for dropping litter at Gatwick Airport - not for setting fire to the Houses of Parliament.

Mrs Jepson, as Head of the Gatwick Airport Litter Office, formally issued me with a large, white carrier-bag, that had the singularly unglamorous legend 'Gatwick Airport Litter Office' printed on it, in bold, red letters. And, with the Litter Office's official logo on it, of a silhouetted, stick-figured 5-member family, considerately and correctly disposing of their litter in the receptacle provided for the purpose.

I looked across the desk at the detestable Mrs Jepson. She was regarding me steadily, and with an air of cool satisfaction as she watched the changing expressions on my face ... As if she was watching and listening to each and every one of her 'pennies' dropping.

Mrs Jepson, who, with her dramatically tall and exceedingly thin figure, seemed to me, like an exaggerated epitome of the proverbial 'stick-insect' figure. It actually made me wonder ... if the official logo: the silhouetted, stick-figured 5-member family, as depicted on the Gatwick Airport Litter Office carrier-bag, was actually modelled upon Mrs Jepson's own family. And, I was surprised, when I found myself having to suppress a half-hysterical titter, at the absurd notion. For I wouldn't have thought myself even remotely capable of seeing the funny side of anything today ... Not after being so embarrassingly accosted by the Litterman, in full view of gawping and astonished fellow air passengers. And certainly not, after making the acquaintance of Mrs Josephine Jepson.

Contained within the capacious carrier-bag, were the following items: a Travel Warrant - valid for 28 days; a polythene bag of 7 white T-shirts (1 for every day of the week), with the word 'FOOTBOY' printed on the front, and the words 'LITTER LOUT' printed on the back, in bold, red letters. And a pair of heavy-duty knee-pads ...

What the ...? 'Footboy'? 'FOOTBOY'?? What the ...? I mean, WHAT THE ...??

I finally managed to rouse myself from my stupor. I couldn't stand for this! No way! This was preposterous ... Wasn't it? I was going to give this appalling woman a piece of my mind. "I beg your pardon, Mrs Jepson, but ... I must protest, in the strongest possible---"

"Just shut up, and listen, David - this is important ... So don't go saying, later, that I didn't warn you!" rudely interrupted Mrs Jepson, derisively shrugging my ineffectual complaints aside.

Mrs Jepson instructed me, in vinegary tones, as to the nature of my forthcoming 'Duties'. As to how I was expected to behave, in the Cabin Crews' Comfort Station, for the duration of my 28 days Foot Service Duty sentence.

"At the end of your 28 days sentence, I will perform my Final Assessment Test ... I will scrutinize all of the comments made by the Air Hostesses, as officially recorded on your Footboy's Daily Record Sheet ... At least, David, you won't have to worry about the male Stewards: sadly, they are under standing intructions to leave footboys alone - subject to penalty of instant dismissal ... Not my ruling, Daivid, I assure you. Believe me, I would love nothing more, than for the male Stewards to be allowed to have at you, as well ... Some of them would love it, I know ..."

What the ...? The "Footboy's Daily Record Sheet"? ... Her "Final Assessment Test"? ... "Won't have to worry about the male Stewards"? ... Have at me? ... "Some of them would love it" ...?

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

"To pass my Final Assessment Test, David, you must achieve a very high, overall Air Hostesses' 'Satisfaction' Rating ... A minimum, of 90%. Anything less, David, than 90%, and ..." Mrs Jepson let her words trail off, ominously, leaving me to ponder her words - both spoken, and implicit - allowing them to sink in ...

"You will be responsible, Daivid, for keeping the Cabin Crews' Comfort Station clean and tidy - spick and span - at all times ... You must always - ALWAYS - address the Air Hostesses, as 'Miss' ... When it does become necessary - as inevitably it will, on occasion - for you to address a male Steward, you will politely address him, as 'Sir'... Won't you, David ...?"

"Yes, Mrs Jepson," I promised miserably, but compliantly.

"But, above all ..." continued the dreadful woman, "... you must - MUST - accord the Air Hostesses the highest possible respect and obedience - at all times. This is crucial ... Of absolutely paramount importance, David, if you are to complete your 28 days Foot Service Duty sentence, 'satisfactorily' ... if you are to achieve the minimum, 90%, Air Hostesses' 'Satisfaction of Conduct Rate'. Anything less, David, than 90%, and ..." Again, Mrs Jepson left her unspoken, implied threat hanging over my even more painfully throbbing head.

Now, a ghastly smile spread across Mrs Jepson's face, as she came to her favourite part of the interview: the 'good bit'. "Should you fail, in completing your sentence satisfactorily, it will my pleasure, David, I assure you, to award you a further, stiffer sentence, as a Repeat Offender. The severity of which, would be completely at my own, sole discretion. And, I would duly award you what I consider to be the appropriate penalty, after considering the facts ... just like today. I would add this subsequent sentence onto your original, 28 days sentence, and it would run concurrently."