The Ankle-Crossing Air Hostess

There had been something in Miss Samantha's look (in her 'signals' ...) that promised trouble - big trouble - when she had rudely snapped at me (as I was obediently following the orders of the Easy Jet Air Hostess - Pearl - and tidying-up the Comfort Station), "Leave that for now, footboy! ... you've got 'more important' duties to perform ..."

The names of the 4 British Airways Air Hostesses, were - according to their name-tags - Samantha; Laura; Lindsey, and Celia. The latter 3, I thought, rather more closely conformed to the traditional image of Air Hostesses: all 3, had fine, voluptuous, curves-in-all-the-right-places figures, and beauty and glamour in abundance ... Yet, it was quite clear, that Miss Samantha - who was certainly inferior to her 3 BA colleagues, in said 'superficial' attributes - was their 'ringleader', their 'leader of the pack'.

I watched the 4 British Airways Air Hostesses, as they walked - seemingly glided - like poetry-in-motion (even Miss Samantha), in their BA issue, dark-blue Flight Duty pumps ... I watched their shapely calves, their bottoms, and enjoyed the way they moved - the way they 'comported' themselves, as they made an elegant beeline for the 2 Refreshments Tables.

The 2 Refreshments Tables, were situated at the far end of the large, rectangular-shaped Comfort Station, and took up its entire width. They offered an astonishingly (to me!) generous, wide and varied array of snacks and light meals, hot and cold drinks.

The 2 Refreshments Tables would be regularly replenished throughout the day. White-coated Staff, from 'Collins Quality Catering' - who were a local catering firm of high repute, and who were the firm who were fortunate enough to be awarded the 'plum' Comfort Station Catering Contract - would turn up in their van, and emerge dramatically and purposefully, like crash-teams out of an ambulance at a motorway pile-up site, to perform their routine re-stocking.

When these regular deliveries arrived, the menu was suitably extended - according to time of day - with offerings of freshly-baked bread and rolls, hot pies, pasties, sausage rolls, soup, etc. All of it, very good quality fare: all of it; prepared; cooked; baked, etc, on-site, at the premises of Collins Quality Catering, located in nearby Horley.

And, on any such occasions, when food was actually in danger of running short, relief contingency (extra food supplies) were always at hand, and only a phone call away: via the Comfort Station - Collins Quality Catering 24-7 'Hotline'.

Not, of course, that I was allowed to sample any of the delicious-looking food and drink. Heaven forfend! ("After all ... you don't feed caviar to swine, do you ...?") I would hear Miss Samantha opine drolly, more than once, during the coming weeks of my Foot Service Duty sentence.

After inserting their Cabin Crew Card's, to open the hot or cold glass display cases to get access to the delicious-looking goodies inside, the 4 British Airways Air Hostesses fussily selected their choices. They chose, from the wide and tempting range of offerings provided for them - free of charge.

It being early in the day, there were croissants, scones, Danish pastries, doughnuts with various mouth-watering fillings ... Plus the always-available range ... generously filled, clingfilm-wrapped sandwiches and rolls; cakes and pastries; packets of crisps, biscuits; cheese and crackers; pieces of fresh fruit, etc ... I could almost hear the Refreshment Tables groaning, straining under the considerable weight of the food and drink they supported.

After inserting their Cabin Crew Card's into one or other of the 2 drinks machines, the 4 BA Air Hostesses availed themselves of either a cold drink, or a cup of hot, steaming, aromatic coffee ... not bad, I thought - for a coffee machine.

The food and drink was such, as could either be consumed in the Comfort Station, or conveniently taken out, should the Air Crew Bus arrive at an inopportune moment, which was often the case. When this happened - when Cabin Crew preferred to take their food and drink with them, rather than sit for another 20 minutes in the Comfort Station and wait for the next Air Crew Bus - they could do so, comfortably as well as conveniently. For, the Air Crew Buses were designed with both comfort and practicality in mind: one side of the Air Crew Bus was used for storing Cabin Crew members' dolly trolleys and other luggage, while the other side was fitted with seating and tables.

I would learn later, from another 'footboy', that another offender - Michael - was actually stationed at the Air Crew Bus Terminus, where Mrs Jepson had put him to work. Michael was working the same hours as myself. His 'job' was to quickly clear up the mess and to pick up the resultant debris that the Air Hostesses had left behind them. To quickly clean out the Air Crew Buses (there were 4 of them) after each and every round-trip they made ... while the Air Crew Bus drivers had their 10-minutes coffee-break and read the sports pages ... During the night, I also learned, another offender - Alex - worked the 6 p.m. - 6 a.m. Night Duty 'shift'. Although only 2 Air Crew Buses operated after midnight, until 6 a.m., Alex's 'job' was by no means cushy. For, Alex spent most of the night giving the other 2 Air Crew Buses a thorough clean-up - or 'valeting' - to use Mrs Jepson's term. The Air Crew Buses' night-cleaning was prioritized on a daily basis, and was decided by ascertaining which 2 out of the 4 needed it the most ... However, I digress ...

My mouth began to water, at the sight of the delicious-looking food, and at the wonderful smell of the coffee. I hadn't had any breakfast - a mistake I wouldn't be making again! - and, my gastric juices were now waking up in response, bubbling and gurgling and churning away in protest. I felt starved.

I watched the 4 British Airways Air Hostesses, warily ("Leave that for now, footboy ... you've got 'more important' duties to perform ..."), as they sat down on one of the 2 long, padded benches that faced each other, and that ran almost the entire length of the 2 long sides of the Comfort Station. And I watched them as, with a collective, blissful sigh of sheer relief, the 4 footsore BA Air Hostesses gratefully eased their dark hosed feet from their BA issue, dark-blue Flight Duty pumps, after their long and tiring Flight Duty.

Miss Samantha, the rather plain-looking (but, who had ... 'presence'), short, and slightly chubby BA Air Hostess with the neck-length brown hair, who had so rudely snapped at me, in ordering me to make myself available for 'more important' duties, was resting her rather plump-looking, dark hosed toes inside the backs of the heels of her Flight Duty pumps, causing them to point up vertically, and to sway forwards and back, as and when she pressed her toes down - which she did, continually.

Gratefully relaxing, Miss Samantha's 3 BA colleagues: Laura, Lindsey and Celia, were also absent-mindedly manipulating their pumps: their dark hosed feet, busily enjoying their new-found freedom, in one way or another ... Their toes; scrunching and splaying, toying and playing ... Their toes; wiggling and flexing within the constraining confines of the flimsy material of their dark pantie hose, and stretching it to much lighter, see-through shades, as they nibbled their food and drank their coffee.

Miss Samantha: after washing down the first, of 2 sugar-sprinkled, jam and cream-filled doughnuts, with a swallow of coffee, addressed me inquisitively (having not yet seen what was printed on the back of my white, Footboy's T-shirt!). "What did you do, footboy ... to earn yourself a sentence of Foot Service Duty?" she asked snootily.

(Later I would learn, from another footboy - a 'bona fide' litter lout, who went by the name of 'Snugs', who was, in a sense, my Comfort Station 'co-part', and who I would usually meet 'in passing' - that there were other types of offences that were also punishable by a sentence of Foot Service Duty, in the Cabin Crews' Comfort Station (and other locations), at Gatwick Airport. 2 weeks ago, Mrs Jepson had sentenced Snugs (as a first offender), to 30 days Foot Service Duty in the Comfort Station: 6 days a week - Snugs had Sunday nights off: hence the Easy Jet Air Hostess's decidedly disgruntled comment to me, that "There was no footboy on duty in the Comfort Station, last night ..." - doing the 6 p.m. - 6 a.m. 'shift'... Night Duty! In the Comfort Station! It didn't bear thinking about! At least there was a silver lining, though - apart from Sunday nights off!: the Comfort Station was very much quieter during the night ... Cabin Crew appearing then, were either arriving off one of the Package Holiday operators' Flights, or were arriving late, on delayed or diverted Flights. And so - just as with Alex, who also did Night Duty, cleaning-up ("Valeting") the Air Crew Buses at the Terminus - Snugs had enough 'free time' on his hands, in which to return the Comfort Station to "Spick and span" condition - when he could be bothered to turn up, that is! Sunday nights off! I said to myself peevishly) ... However, I am digressing again ...

I was pleased, that Miss Samantha was at least interested in my 'story', and I hoped she might have a sympathetic ear. But, I was to be drastically disillusioned ... "Oh! This is a terrible miscarriage of justice, Miss Samantha!" I began to explain to my questioner. Somewhat flustered, by her piercing gaze, I garbled on. "It was all ... an unfortunate misunderstanding! A horrible mistake, Miss ... You see, I dropped some sweet-wrappers on the ground, and ... the Litterman, he ... well, an easy mistake to make ... he thought ... and, Mrs Jepson ... she said ... she said she'd heard it all before! She said---"

"Oh! So you are a litter lout, then!" cried Miss Samantha - ostensibly outraged but, quite obvious to all present - including myself - gleefully seizing the 'opportunity' that had so propitiously presented itself to her. "Well, we know how to deal with litter louts! Don't we, girls ...?" she said, turning to her 3 BA colleagues who, in their (ostensible!) shared, righteous umbrage, nodded their pseudo grave agreement.

"Come here, footboy!" ordered Miss Samantha sharply. "So ... Drop litter, will you ...?" she demanded of me, in her obviously fake outrage. "On your knees! Now, footboy ... before me, and facing me ... Didn't you hear me? ... I said, on your knees, NOW, FOOTBOY!!"

"Yes, Miss Samantha," I replied, miserably and resentfully, but respectfully and obediently. As I knew that I must. ("Anything less, David, than 90%, and ...").

"That's right, footboy ... perfect! So ... you thought you could fool Mrs Jepson, did you ...? Believe me, better than the likes of you have tried - and failed! Just like you! You litter louts', are ... beyond the pale! The lowest of the low! ... If there is one thing I can't abide, it's a litter lout!" claimed Miss Samantha.

It was now, that I understood why Mrs Jepson - Head: of the Gatwick Airport Litter Office - had issued me with a pair of heavy-duty knee-pads ...

Starting with Miss Samantha: in turn, and with their hot, hard-working feet freshly out of their well-worn, dark-blue, BA issue Flight Duty pumps, the 4 British Airways Air Hostesses pressed the soles of their dark pantie hosed feet firmly into my obediently proffered face, as and when I knelt before each of them. In authoritative tones, in turn, the 4 BA Air Hostesses ordered me - all-but snarled, at me - to smell their feet. Commanded me - all-but barked, at me - to kiss their feet ...

Yes! To actually smell, their feet! To actually kiss, their feet! What the ...? I mean, WHAT THE ...??

Miss Samantha: "Right, then, footboy ..." she announced in authoritative, retributive tones, after she had firmly planted the sole of her rather small, right, dark pantie hosed foot onto my obediently proffered face, cupping her plump toes over my nostrils, " ... drop litter, will you ...? Well ... This is what you get, for dropping litter!"

Miss Laura: "Now, footboy ... keep still, while I massage my feet on your stupid, ugly, good-for-nothing face ... No ... your face is actually quite good, for this ... isn't it ...? Hmmm ...? I said ... KEEP STILL!!" ordered Miss Laura severely.

Miss Lindsey: "I want you to rub your chin on my arch, footboy. Up and down, firmly, nice and firmly ... harder ... harder than that ... I said ... HARDER!" instructed Miss Lindsey sternly.

Miss Celia: "Have you got a girlfriend, footboy?" she asked, after firmly planting the sole of her dark hosed left foot upon my obediently proffered face, and 'obliging' me to inhale the decidedly unpleasant odour emanating from her toes, that she had firmly clamped over my nostrils. Unable to speak; since Miss Celia's arch was pressed firmly against my lips, I nodded my answer - 'yes'. "And ... do you like to kiss your girlfriend, footboy?" I nodded my answer - 'yes'. "And ... do you think you are a good kisser, footboy ...?" When I didn't respond, Miss Celia went on. "All right, then, footboy ... I'll decide, for you. Shall I? I'll be the judge, as to whether you are a good kisser, or not ...

"Imagine, footboy ... imagine ... that the sole of my foot ... is your girlfriend's face ... Imagine, footboy ... imagine ... that my heel, is your girlfriend's lips ... and, that my toes, are your girlfriend's eyes ... Now, footboy ... kiss my heel, it is your girlfriend's lips ... look at my toes ... see how they wiggle, for you? ... they are your girlfriend's eyes, sparkling, for you. Now ... Kiss ... kiss my heel, footboy. Look at my toes, my wiggling toes, as you do so ... Now, footboy ... Show me - show the sole of my foot - your passion ... the same passion and desire, that you show to your girlfriend. Kiss. Kiss my heel ... look at my wiggling toes ... as if you are kissing her lips ... as if you are looking into her sparkling eyes ... What ...? Is that it, footboy ...? Is that ... the best that you can do ...? Is it ...? Is that ... how you kiss your girlfriend's lips? Is that ... how you look into your girlfriend's eyes? Is this ... how you show your passion, footboy ... how you show your desire? Well ...? Is it ...? I said ... IS IT ...??" demanded Miss Celia preposterously.

I couldn't believe this was happening! I couldn't believe, that British Airways Air Hostesses would be capable of subjecting anyone to such ... humiliating physical and mental oppression.

These 4 ... oppressive BA Air Hostesses, were certainly a far cry from the peerless, unparalleled repute of their Airline's painstakingly portrayed Public Personae. A far cry, from the stylized projected images in the 'Fly The Flag' British Airways advertisements that I'd been watching for years and years on TV. Now, I felt as if I had been ... brainwashed.

Well! This was a rude awakening. A very rude awakening, indeed! I knew now, the unpalatable, awful truth. I knew now, the shocking, unthinkable reality, of which the vast majority of the flying public remained so blissfully ignorant ... British Airways Air Hostesses, were not perfect, after all ... Far from it!

I knew now, that - unless Miss Samantha and her 3 BA colleagues: Laura, Lindsey and Celia, were the proverbial 'exceptions that proved the rule' - British Airways Air Hostesses, were not, after all, the faithful reproductions of their carefully cultivated Corporate image. They were not, after all, the paragons of nuanced nicety, as perceived by their admiring public. They were not, after all, worthy of being placed; by their fawning adorers - such as I - upon their lofty, gold-plated pedestals. I knew now, that the archetypal model of the British Airways Air Hostess, was too good to be true ... was a myth.

I felt sadly disillusioned. It was all just a deceitful front - a shameful sham - after all! And, I was certainly 'Flying the Flag' now, all right: a white flag ... Downtrodden, I was holding it aloft, in my unconditional surrender.

For, to my eternal shame, I unquestioningly obeyed the awful orders of the 4 British Airways Air Hostesses. But, I had to! Despite my overwhelming emotions of resentment, humiliation, and self-pity, I knew that I must. For, I knew that my ultimate fate was in their hands - via the comments they wrote, in the Footboy's Daily Record Sheet ... Which could, all too easily, become my 'Doomsday Book'! ("Anything less, David, than 90%, and ...")

An Air Crew Bus arrived at the Comfort Station ... The 4 British Airways Air Hostesses ignored it.

Rubbing the dark hosed soles of their feet firmly into my face, by way of a relaxing, pain-relieving massage - and, by way of punishing me! ("This is what you get, for dropping litter!") - I was passed from one BA Air Hostess, to the next. On my knees at their feet, I underwent this unspeakable ordeal, all the while listening to their murmured - purring - sounds of satisfaction and contentment. And, the other 3 BA Air Hostesses looked on approvingly, gratified at the excellent use to which I was being put to by each of their BA colleagues, in turn.

The 4 British Airways Air Hostesses' - Samantha, Laura, Lindsey and Celia - hot, hard-working, tired and achy dark hosed feet, I found, emanated a surprisingly varying range of scents and odours ...

Like a sort of artist's round, quadranted palette, there was a generously applied, all-over base-coat, of underlying pantie hose, and BA issue Flight Duty pump leather 'colouring'. But, in each separate quadrant of the round palette, the 4 BA Air Hostesses' 'colouring' was variously manifested: from a barely noticeable (Lindsey), to a mildly unpleasant (Laura), to a decidedly unpleasant (Celia), to a rich, pungent, profoundly offensive odour, that all-but made my eyes water (Samantha).

This was the moment, when I learned that feet, are not - as I had previously thought - 'just' feet ... Feet, I learned - upon my becoming 'obliged' to spend so much of my time at such close quarters with them - are not, all more or less the same. They have, I soon came to realise, their own, particular, differentiating and distinguishing recognizable 'characteristics', that are just as different and individual - unique - as the features, expressions, of peoples' faces. And, as I would soon be finding out: feet, would actually become just as easily recognizable and as familiar as faces, to me - depending upon the frequency, regularity ... and the nature, of my further acquaintance with them.

The 4 BA Air Hostesses' dark pantie hosed feet: the sight of them, the feel of them, the smell of them - everything about them - were somehow all the same, yet somehow all different: each, with their own, individual ... 'personalities'.

Now, Miss Samantha: the rather plain-looking, short and rather chubby British Airways Air Hostess with the neck-length brown hair (but, who had ... 'presence'), addressed me again, waspishly. "Now, footboy ... get onto your hands and knees, before us ... Parallel with the bench, so that we can rest our feet on your miserable, litter-louting back ... This is what you get, for dropping litter!"

"Yes, Miss Samantha," I replied, wretchedly and disconsolately, but respectfully and obediently.

Distraught, I got to my hands and knees, as ordered: parallel with the padded bench, so as to better facilitate the greater comfort and convenience of the 4 BA Air Hostesses - and, so as to better facilitate ... my punishment.

To be spoken to, by the British Airways Air Hostess, Miss Samantha, this way ... to be treated by her, and by her 3 BA colleagues: Laura, Lindsey, and Celia, this way ... So abominably. So diabolically. So hideously ...

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!

My sense of gross injustice, was hard to handle, hard to cope with. It was threatening to engulf me, overwhelm me. And, I realised that I was in danger of 'losing it'. Big time. ("You will accord the Air Hostesses the highest possible respect and obedience, at all times ...")