The Footsore Flight Attendants Ch. 03

Ch. 3 of 3: Warren bows to the Singapore Girls.

I would come to find that Sunday mornings were one of the busiest times for me in the Cabin Crew Comfort Station.

Of course, the early-morning periods at Gatwick Airport were always lively.

But Sunday mornings were hectic.

With many holidaymakers returning overnight from their far-flung destinations, there was an even greater number of long-haul flight arrivals.

Which meant an exponentially higher number, of post-flight bus-catching footsore flight attendants in the Comfort Station.

Even more, air hostesses with overworked, tired and achy feet, whose anticipation of availing themselves of the services of their Comfort Station's foot masseur, would soon be realised.

*

But of the six Sundays of my six-week sentence, it would be the standout incident of the third Sunday - Day 21 - that, had I not been either too obdurate or too unwilling to acknowledge its earlier manifest signs, would have told me all I needed to know about my dormant 'condition'.

Day 21 of 42: The Sunday morning when, due to bad visibility because of heavy fog at Heathrow Airport, about twenty-five Heathrow-bound flights were diverted to Gatwick Airport.

Among them, was a Singapore Airlines flight.

And aboard it, was Serene.

*

Word had spread fast among the Gatwick-based flight attendants, that in an ongoing effort to offset damaging reversals to his 80%-minimum Satisfaction of Conduct pass rate requirement, their recently installed foot masseur was amenable - pliable, malleable and easily prevailed upon - to performing extra-obligatory foot services in hopes of being merited a higher marks-out-of-ten rating.

('Extra-obligatory': A phrase meaning non-compulsory, coined on Day 1 by the British Airways air hostess, Joanna).

Joanna: Who's, implied, unvocalised overtures I had that day accurately interpreted.

And of which, I had self-undertaken to respond.

And, for 'wholly voluntarily' performing for her extra-obligatory personal foot services, Joanna had rewarded me as tacitly promised.

Implicitly, the BA air hostess Joanna had given me to understand that she had set the extra-marks-for-going-the-extra-mile ball rolling.

That, responding voluntarily to other such implied, insinuated, unvoiced proposals and self-undertaking to reverently kiss, precursive to tenderly tending, non-compulsorily, the fresh from the pumps soles of her and her air hostess colleagues' overworked, tired and achy post-flight feet, might - just might - be worth my while.

Given me to understand, that it was for me to sniff out my 'opportunities':

Whether appearing purposely contrived - done for my 'benefit' - and therefore done deliberately and intentionally and so with a manipulative, decided construct; or done apparently absent-mindedly, seemingly shoe-playing unconsciously merely for relief and therefore done to no discernible design ...

Whenever seeing: An air hostess, easing an achy foot from her flight duty pump; seeing her foot partially unshod from dangling a pump while seated; or indeed meaningfully proffered - I should regard any and all of these signs and signals not as unverbalised statutory instructional promptings but as implied messages and unspoken invitations. Which, as the case may be, my self-undertaken reverent attentions might then either be accepted gladly and eagerly or met with annoyance and spurned irritably.

The implication being, that wholly voluntarily and non-statutorily precursive-kissing the soles of their implicitly proffered tired and achy post-flight feet to evince the height of my reverent regard and to demonstrate the depth of my willing submissive servitude at their needful overworked feet, might - just might - be worth a mark or two.

And possibly - just possibly - be worth a good word from them, too.

When, before leaving the Comfort Station and boarding the airport services bus, the thus reverently attended and extra-mandatorily treated footsore flight attendants awarded their marks-out-of-ten ratings and recorded their Satisfaction of Conduct comments on the Footman's Daily Record Sheet.

*

The airport services bus came by every fifteen minutes, and so the Cabin Crew Comfort Station was vacated with frequent regularity.

What also kept the Comfort Station from becoming overcrowded, was that most post-flight air hostesses either had onward travel connections to make or through sheer overtiredness they just simply wished to retrieve their cars from the staff car park and get home to their beds asap, and so they would board the first bus to come along.

But when there was an unusually heavy demand for the Comfort Station foot masseur's services - perhaps due to a cluster of flight arrivals landing slightly off schedule and resulting in larger than usual contingents of post-flight, in-no-hurry air hostesses lingering over their AFP-provisioned fare - time was at a premium.

And so because among air hostesses there was an unwritten rule that on these high demand occasions their Comfort Station foot masseur not be monopolised or dominated either by individuals or small groups in times of greater need, it was expected of me that, of my own accord, I 'mingle'.

Expected of me, to use my judgement and act on my initiative to provide emergency post-flight succour first, to those footsore flight attendants who, as evidenced by their foot favouring weight bearing stances, foot-weary actions and myriad other tell-tale signs, I judged most needful of my relieving, relaxing and reviving ministrations.

During these especially busy, high demand periods, air hostesses would go to the refreshments tables themselves for their food and beverages.

So anathema to the footsore sisterhood was the idea of squandering my (their!) time, serving them as a waiter - instead of serving them with my relief-giving principal function and satisfying more urgent and much greater needs than the ingestion and imbibing of food and drink.

Which was why it was only when the current batch of post-flight end-of-shift air hostesses had boarded the bus with their dolly trollies and before yet others arrived, that, before my routine quick tidy-up between buses, I could sneak a peek and keep tabs on the incoming flights on the Comfort Station's Arrivals monitor.

Which, long before now, had become a source of unwavering interest.

*

Looking at the Arrivals monitor, I noticed that the flight arrivals that were supposed to be Heathrow-bound, but because of the thick fog further north over London were being diverted here to Gatwick, were coming in thick and fast.

The foot masseurs, then this Sunday morning at Heathrow Airport's two Comfort Stations would be having an easier than usual time of it, I mused.

Though I very much doubted they would be allowed to sit there twiddling their thumbs, when there was still plenty other female airport staff who could be allowed into the two Comfort Stations for them to serve, given the circumstances.

Tea-breaking baggage check-in; airline information desk receptionists; security; currency exchange, shop and boutique staff - who, I could well imagine, would be only too pleased to take advantage of such an opportune chance of availing themselves of the services of the temporarily idle foot masseurs.

In all of the UK, it was only Heathrow Airport and Manchester Airport that warranted the provision of two Cabin Crew Comfort Stations.

Despite persistent vociferous petitioning by the Gatwick-based flight attendants - and albeit that Gatwick was the UK's second-busiest after Heathrow in passenger number terms - with just its two, North and South terminals, the provision of a second Comfort Station at Gatwick, at least for the moment, was deemed-

"Boy!"

A bucket of ice-cold water thrown over my head could not have roused me from my reverie more efficiently - I almost jumped out of my skin at the summons.

For instantly I'd understood it could be nothing other, such was the note of accustomed confident authority in the voice of this latest Comfort Station entrant.

Her voice was slightly high-pitched, sing-song yet not lacking in a stentorian quality, and the way she wrapped her tongue around the word 'boy', somehow she made the single syllable word trisyllabic.

"Your services are required - immediately!" she further adjured in her sing-songy, yet obedience-inspiring voice.

I stood gazing in admiration and adoration at the stunningly beautiful air hostess who'd addressed me.

Heaven knows I'd seen some real heart-stopping beauties walk in through those Comfort Station entrance doors during the last three weeks, but ...

In her mid-twenties she was olive-complexioned, slimly built, and her black, waist-length hair was regulation-tied in a French twist.

I imagined her lustrous black hair untied, falling loosely over her dusky shoulders.

"My colleagues and I require foot massage service - now!"

She was attractively uniformed, in a sarong, which had an underlying pattern or design but was predominantly red-coloured.

And, shod in a pair of woven, backless and open-toed shoes, I could see that, peeking out under the hem of her ankle-length garment her feet were bare, and her toes were painted the same shade of eye-catching bright red as her fingernails.

"Boy - did you hear me?"

Now that she'd fully entered the Comfort Station, her Singapore Airlines-logoed 'dolly trolley' in tow, I saw from her name tag ID that she was a Chief Stewardess and her name was Serene.

Serene was indeed beautiful, and what struck me and greatly impressed me about her also was her carriage: her dignified manner and elegant bearing - her natural nobility.

But then, similar personal complimentary accreditations and regal-like descriptions could also be attributed to her three colleagues, who were now filing into the Comfort Station.

Serene didn't appear to be serene, though.

She looked irritated and fatigued, tetchy - ready to fly off the handle at the slightest thing.

As did her three similarly garmented and shod colleagues, who by now had filed into the Comfort Station with their dolly trollies.

Similarly garmented - excepting that, while their uniform sarongs had the same generic design, one of Serene's colleagues wore a predominantly green coloured sarong. From her name tag ID, I gleaned that she was a Leading Flight Attendant and that her name was Yi Ling.

While the other two, air hostesses wore predominantly blue coloured sarongs. Their name tag IDs identified them both as Flight Attendants, and their names were Mira and Diyanah.

Similarly shod - excepting that, while they wore the same woven, backless and open-toed footwear as Serene their Chief Stewardess, Yi Ling, Mira and Diyanah were not barefoot but wore almost see-through light tan pantyhose.

The gauzy mesh material was light enough to see that, peeking out from beneath the hem of their long garments, their toes, too, were painted in the same bright red colour, and that-

In a lightning-quick strike, Chief Stewardess Serene's left olive-skinned palm and long slim fingers exploded on my right cheek with a resounding slap.

"Have I been talking to myself? You will obey at once - boy!"

"Such disobedience!" exclaimed the predominantly green coloured sarong-uniformed Singapore Airlines air hostess, Leading Flight Attendant Yi Ling.

To say that this physical expression of chastisement came as a shock would be the grossest of understatements.

On this, Day 21 of 42 and the midpoint of my six-week sentence, though many times I had been talked down to, shouted at and denigrated by air hostesses both domestic and foreign for both good reasons and for none, this was the first time that one of them had laid a finger on me.

I was stunned, shocked - reeling.

And ... overwhelmed, by mind-shattering new emotions.

My right cheek, stinging like the blazes, I said, "I ... I'm sorry, Miss Serene - very sorry! I ... I was ... I-"

And then I was rubbing away at my left cheek, hurting like mad from a second quick-as-a-flash slap.

At receiving this second slap, from the olive-skinned palm and bright-red painted long slim fingers of Serene's right hand, these newly experienced sensations bloomed - blossomed - as now I was rocked to my core.

"Once given, I do not expect to have to repeat an order to a footboy!" snapped Serene.

"Of- of course, Miss Serene. That- that goes without saying! Please, why don't you and your colleagues make yourselves comfortable until the next bus comes?"

"Very kind, I'm sure - footboy!" returned Serene sardonically. "And besides, we're not likely to be boarding a bus anytime soon."

"Yes, why don't we - make ourselves comfortable - Serene?" agreed Leading Flight Attendant Yi Ling. "Let our gracious host the footboy fetch us all some breakfast. Some of the fresh fruit on those two tables look delicious - especially those big crystal glass bowls of fruit salad. And until we must give him up, to share and share alike with other needy flight attendants, the footboy can serve us at our table as we eat."

"We've got plenty of time, after all," said one of the two Singapore Airlines air hostesses in the predominantly blue coloured sarongs, Flight Attendant Mira. "And as and when the footboy becomes available each time a bus leaves, he can return to serve us, time and again."

"Yes," concurred Mira's colleague of the same rank, Flight Attendant Diyanah. "We're here for the duration: It's going to be hours before we get the all-clear; hours, before we are given clearance to reposition to Heathrow, check into our Four Seasons hotel and then finally get some rest. So after being on my feet for almost all of our fourteen-hour flight at the beck and call of demanding, rude and pesky passengers, during this interlude due to our unfortunate and inconvenient diversion to Gatwick, the footboy will be of considerable consolation to me."

Chief Stewardess Serene turned to address me authoritatively again.

"Footboy: Work quickly. Apportion bowls of fresh fruit salad for myself and my colleagues, and bring us mineral water too; room temperature, for me, not chilled - and I mean work quickly!"

"Absolutely! Four fresh fruit salads and four bottles of mineral water - I'm on it, Miss Serene!"

I felt tears springing from my eyes.

But not from self-pity, because Serene was browbeating me and had slapped my face twice very hard; the former hurting my feelings, the latter hurting my cheeks - but from gratitude, because she was giving me this opportunity to redeem myself somewhat.

Though I'd railed against acknowledging it - and so then must, as a corollary process the inevitable far-reaching implications and face the unavoidable life-changing ramifications - as my days in the Cabin Crew Comfort Station had turned into weeks, I knew that I was becoming more and more 'amenable'.

Increasingly malleable.

Progressively pliable.

Susceptible.

More easily preyed-upon.

More ... user-friendly.

I was responding not just obediently and compliantly, but with an ever greater eagerness, to instructions, both verbal/compulsory and implied/non-compulsory.

I wanted to do more, than was merely expected of me under the terms of my six-week sentence - and therefore, obligatory.

Despite knowing that each self-effacing extra-statutory personal foot service 'favour' that I self-undertook to perform for the air hostesses would be at the expense - at the forfeit - of another layer of what remained of my daily-diminishing dignity, I so wanted to please.

Voluntarily.

Off my own bat.

I wanted to give of myself.

To be, of, and to fulfil, whatsoever services, functions and uses as might be required or requested of me (whether instructed verbally/regulatorily or intimated implicitly/non-regulatorily), by the footsore flight attendants.

I began to care less, and less, that my sense of self-esteem was diminishing daily.

And now, as curtly commissioned by Chief Stewardess Serene, I worked quickly, ladling generous portions of fresh fruit salad into four disposable clear plastic cereal/fruit bowls.

Leading Flight Attendant Yi Ling was right: the fruit salad did look very delicious. And mouth-watering, as I could attest.

But I knew better than to help myself to anything from the two refectory-type tables. With the Comfort Station's CCTV camera recording my every move, I never knew when Mrs Jepson might be watching ...

I didn't hang about; cajoled by Serene to put a spurt on I put the four bowls of fruit salad and four bottles of mineral water on a wooden tray and carried it over to the table where the four Singapore Airlines air hostesses had taken their seats.

Chief Stewardess Serene and Leading Flight Attendant Yi Ling had availed themselves of a couple of the Comfort Station's height-adjustable chrome and padded red leather barstool-like seats. Flight Attendants Mira and Diyanah sat opposite their two seniors, on one of the padded red leather banquette-style bench seats that lined either side of the rectangular-shaped Comfort Station's length.

It was a simple enough food and beverage order to fill, but I was feeling ridiculously pleased with myself for remembering that Chief Stewardess Serene wanted her bottle of mineral water at room temperature and not chilled - I was getting better at remembering things.

I remembered, back on Day 1, when I'd confused the British Airways air hostesses Lavinia and Bettina's respectively non-sugared and four-sugared Americano coffees, resulting in them both awarding me marks of 0/10.

I'd tried to atone, making self-abasing attempts to make at least some small amends, but my increasingly self-demeaning damage-limitation efforts were all made in vain.

And I wouldn't like to repeat, the unforgiving and vindictive Lavinia and Bettina's Satisfaction of Conduct comments on the Footman's Daily Record Sheet ...

"There you go, Miss Serene!" I said brightly, placing the small wooden tray of bowls, cups and bottles on the table. "Four bowls of delicious fresh fruit salad, and four bottles of mineral water; yours, Miss Serene, room temperature, not chilled-"

Chief Stewardess Serene snapped, "Where are our spoons?"

"Spoons? Um ... I, er ..."

This time, alighting from her barstool-like seat it was the predominantly green coloured sarong-uniformed Leading Flight Attendant Yi Ling, who first administered a chastising right-handed face-slap to my left cheek, instantly followed up by the left-handed delivery of an equally stinging face-slap to my right cheek.

"Idiot!" berated Yi Ling. "Are we to eat with our fingers?" she demanded, her voice all sing-songy but still cutting me to the quick as she pointed her finger accusingly at the four bowls of fruit salad sans spoons on the tray.

My bottom lip, trembling, I had no words.

"See, Mira?" said Flight Attendant Diyanah, with feeling, to her colleague of equal rank. "This is why Comfort Stations should be equipped with canes - to punish ill-disciplined footboys! Forgetting to bring us spoons? For that, I would administer the Standard Six to his bared buttocks."

"Yes, Diyanah, I know - and so would I," agreed Mira fervently. "It is the only way they will learn!"

I watched Leading Flight Attendant Yi Ling gracefully resume her seat. And at seeing her manner and bearing so utterly unruffled and composed after chastising me, all of those newly experienced blooming - blossoming - emotions and sensations of a few moments ago returned with cataclysmic force.

If anything, Yi Ling had meted out, arbitrarily; dished out, summarily; administered, on the spot - an even harder, more punishing, more expert and efficacious double face-slap than had Serene.

Disbelievingly I touched my fingertips to my stinging cheeks ... felt the heat.

Awed, I trembled, in the grip of an indescribable thrill.