The Footsore Flight Attendants Ch. 03

As was the case with many other air hostesses on this Sunday morning of diverted flights, the air hostess upon whom my attentions were now focusing wore a uniform of which airline I was unfamiliar. And her uniform's most notable feature - for being so unusual - was the semi-transparent white pantyhose.

Just like her three colleagues, who she was standing with and talking to, she was blonde.

Her silvery-blonde hair was very long. And so for at-work practicality, it was done in a silken-threaded rope, that reached all the way down her back, and was adorned with a twist of pale blue ribbon tying it off at the end in an attractive finishing touch.

With her back turned to me, I hadn't seen her ID, and so as yet I didn't know her name or for who she walked the aisles.

But what I did see, was that such was the grievous consternation of her post-flight discomfort, she was switching from foot to foot with a telltale frequency; the white-pantyhosed foot of her non-standing leg, resting sole-up in her black leather flight duty pump for a momentary respite before alternating her standing leg again.

Looking at and scrutinising each of her briefly displayed upturned white-pantyhosed soles, in turn, as relievedly she scrunched and flexed the toes of each foot, the reasons for her distress were readily discernible.

Reliably evidenced by the stark discolourations of her white pantyhose's thin gauzy nylon fabric: dark-grey and damp-looking at the impact areas of the heels, the balls of the feet, and under the toes; tinged a pale yellow at the arch - the resultant ravages of her long, arduous, on-her-feet shift were apparent.

Some of those feelings and emotions that I'd felt earlier, upon beholding the obvious desperate post-flight neediness of Serene of Singapore Airline's overworked, reddened bare soles, now swept through me anew.

Feelings and emotions of such pity and such tenderness, for the all too apparent, sufferings of the as yet unknown inconveniently diverted long blonde-haired footsore flight attendant.

Such pity!

Such tenderness!

Her poor feet!

Her poor, egregiously overworked, post-flight feet!

It pained me to see them.

But as usual, the question was: Were things just merely as innocent and free of innuendo and insinuation as they appeared, on the surface - or was the footsore flight attendant sending me a 'message'?

Was she wordlessly implying, that she might - just might, possibly - think about awarding me an extra mark or two on to my marks-out-of-ten rating, in exchange for self-undertaking to perform for her a moment or two's extra-obligatory personal foot service attentions?

Well, there was one way to find out.

I went to my knees directly behind her and, carefully and gently, I took hold of her presently upturned white-pantyhosed sole, raised it from her black leather flight duty pump, and-

"Aweg!" she said, loudly, irritably spurning my unrequested reverent attendance and unrequired 'willing' extra-mandatory attentions.

And, there was my answer:

She was not, then, a tacitly-implying, non-verbalising 'messenger'.

She had not, then, been sending me an unspoken 'invitation'.

Hers, were not, deliberate, intentional, manipulative actions of decided construct.

Hilde - I'd seen her name tag, upon her turning around to glare down at me in annoyance - had connected solidly with a back-heel kick.

She'd caught me a good one; I would have a right old shiner by tomorrow morning.

But it went with the territory - it had happened before, and it would happen again.

"Sorry, Miss!" I apologised. "My mistake!"

Hilde's colleague - the air hostess standing next to her and also with her back turned to me - said something to Hilde in German and from the way she said it, loosely translated, I interpreted her words to mean: 'Well ... if you don't want him ...'

Because now Friede - I'd seen her name tag when she'd turned to see what was annoying her colleague, Hilde - looked down on me. And, with deliberate slowness, Friede eased free her right foot from her black leather flight duty pump, and then rested her white-pantyhosed foot on the thickly-carpeted floor, sole-upward.

This time, there could be no misunderstanding the insinuated signal.

No misinterpreting, the suggestive sign.

No mistaking, the tacitly implied, unvoiced 'message'.

Friede was sending me an unverbalised 'invitation'.

There was no question about it: in my three weeks to date as the Cabin Crew Comfort Station's foot masseur, this was a footsore flight attendant's clearest implicit indication yet, of decided construct.

I had sniffed out an 'opportunity'.

At my being given the non-verbalised, tacitly implied extra-marks-for-extra-service go-ahead, I went to my knees directly behind Friede.

And, sealing the unspoken quid pro quo 'deal' and setting the extra-obligatory ball rolling, carefully and gently I took hold of and raised Friede's freshly unshod right foot to my lips, and non-statutorily but 'willingly', I kissed her work-begrimed and sweat-stained white-pantyhosed sole.

I kissed everywhere, repeatedly, until at last, in a gesture of obeisance and a demonstration of homage, my lips finally lingered reverentially on the bottom of her heel.

My reverence, duly demonstrated; my 'wholly voluntary' submissive obedience, established; my non-compulsory, self-undertaking intentions, verified - more in hope and less in expectation of being awarded an extra mark or two in exchange for a moment or two's extra-obligatory personal foot service attentions, I proceeded.

Friede - who's for-at-work-practicality silken-threaded rope of long flaxen hair was adorned and tied off at the end with a pale green ribbon - returned to her conversion with her three colleagues, and I proceeded with the implicitly sanctioned tongue-bathing of her overworked, tired and achy, post-flight feet.

The encrusted, dark grey and damp-looking, already semi-transparent thin white gauzy material, cleared ever more, with each tongue-scrubbing saliva saturated lick.

Cleared ever more, with each dirt-loosening, sweat-dissolving lick, revealing new details of the topography of the bottom of Friede's foot.

Revealing new details, until, eventually, the thin gauzy material of her pantyhose, tongue-washed and repeat-rinsed to full see-through clarity, Friede's pale-skinned sole was invisibly veiled.

Indicating that I had now served her purpose and that she was dismissing me, Friede pushed back my face with the ball of her extra-mandatorily attended and super-serviced foot.

After all, there was an unwritten rule to observe, among the air hostesses.

To share and share alike.

*

It was at about 10:45, on that Sunday morning of diverted flights, that the Comfort Station was at its busiest and liveliest.

At its most bustling and hectic, with tired and hungry, Gatwick based or diverted or long-haul hotel-stopover, air hostesses.

A lot of the newly arriving Comfort Station entrants were irascible, tetchy, upon discovering there was standing room only.

But that was one of the great things about the Comfort Station: with no passengers to consider, and me, of no account, the bad-tempered air hostesses were free to let off steam. Free, to show their true selves.

I'd seen from the Comfort Station's Arrivals monitor that flights were no longer being diverted here to Gatwick because of fog.

Still, it would be quite a while yet, before the overcrowding eased and some of the "here for the duration" air hostesses were able to sit down.

A while yet, before they were no longer inconvenienced and discomfited to distraction by having to remain standing; shifting from foot to foot, and easing free from their flight duty pumps their tired and achy post-flight feet and scrunching and flexing and wiggling their toes, waiting for bus-catching air hostesses to vacate their seats.

But, as for me: Dismissed by the German air hostess, Friede, I resumed Mrs Jepson's standing instructions.

I 'mingled'.

With my eyes peeled, and my ears attuned.

On the lookout for signs.

Signals.

Sniffing out 'opportunities'.

Knowing it wouldn't be long.

Wouldn't be long, before one of the footsore flight attendants sent me a 'message'.

With an 'invitation'.

***

At day's end of Day 42 of 42 and the completion of my six-week sentence, upon reporting as instructed to Mrs Jepson's office and bringing along with me for her perusal and inspection the red-plastic backed clipboard to which were attached all of the period's Footman's Daily Record Sheets, Mrs Jepson shocked me.

Shocked me, when she looked up from her calculator and informed me that I had achieved an air hostesses' overall average marks-out-of-ten Satisfaction of Conduct rating of 8.2.

Only then, was it, that I fully realised that I didn't want to pass her Final Assessment Test's minimum requirement of 80%. ("Anything less, Warren, than eighty percent, and ...").

Or rather, it was the moment I'd forced myself to confront, ponder, and accept, the undeniable truth of my 'condition'.

Confront, and accept - acknowledge - the far-reaching ramifications of a life-changing reality that I'd been suppressing for six weeks now.

To say that my FAT results of 8.2 - or 82% - came as a shock would be a gross understatement.

I suppose I'd thought I didn't have a snowball in hell's chance of achieving the Litter Department Administrator Mrs Jepson's highly set target.

Right from Day 1, I'd thought the writing was on the wall ... well, on the Comfort Station's cork bulletin board.

With such an inauspicious start, I had all but resigned myself to the likelihood of an abject failure.

I despaired, that the glowing and lauding Satisfaction of Conduct reports and the near perfect nines and extolling tens awarded by some air hostesses on the Footman's Daily Record Sheet would be diminished and devalued beyond recovery by the adverse censorious comments and ruinous ratings of more critical and less generous air hostesses.

But now, on the culminating Day 42 of my six-week sentence and Mrs Jepson's informing me that I had passed her Final Assessment Test, the thought floored me, of seeing no more - and of serving, no more - Pearl the EasyJet air hostess and many other footsore flight attendant favourites.

It was unbearable to contemplate.

Hell! I'd even miss hearing the constant complaining and reading on the Footman's Daily Record Sheet the soul-sinking castigating comments and malicious marks-out-of-ten Satisfaction of Conduct awards of British Airways air hostesses Lavinia and Bettina - who by the way had both been right in their predictions that I wouldn't confuse their coffee orders again.

Walking from Mrs Jepson's office towards the rail station for what would be my final train journey home from my litter lout's assignment at Gatwick Airport, I was disconsolate.

As I drew nearer and nearer to the rail station, the thought niggled and nagged at me more and more.

The thought, that, maybe as early as tomorrow morning, the Litter Department Administrator Mrs Jepson would sentence another litter-dropping male as foot masseur to tend the post-flight end-of-shift bus-catching footsore flight attendants in the Cabin Crew Comfort Station - to replace me.

My dejection was complete.

Who'd have thought it?

If anyone had told me, six weeks ago, that I would be sorry to pass Mrs Jepson's Final Assessment Test and so would no longer be reduced to performing extra-obligatory personal foot services for post-flight end-of-shift air hostesses, hoping they would keep their tacitly implied promises and award me an extra mark or two ...

But, maybe it wasn't too late.

I took a look around ...

When the moment was right I put my hand inside my jacket's inside pocket, took from it, my Final Assessment Test Pass Certificate awarded to me by Mrs Jepson, and ...

... And a moment later I felt a firm, staying hand on my shoulder.

"Excuse me, sir, but would this ... happen to be yours?" said Arnold the Litterman.

"Er ..." I said, making a show of patting at my jacket's empty inside pocket.

"Sir ...?"

"Er ..." I said, making a show of rummaging my hand inside.

"Sir ...?"

"Um ... I-"

"It bears the name, 'Mr Warren Williams', sir."

"Well, um ... I guess it is, then."

"Then I'm afraid, sir, that now you must come with me."

*

Upon leaving Mrs Jepson's office, I was walking on air as I headed for the rail station for what after all now would not be my final train journey home from my Comfort Station assignment.

My new sentence, awarded by Mrs Jepson: To go on serving in the Cabin Crew Comfort Station as before.

But for a six-month term.

And that wasn't all: Mrs Jepson had set the bar higher this time- seemingly impossibly high.

My new Final Assessment Test pass rate was to be 85%. "Anything less, Warren, than eighty-five percent, and ..."

Mrs Jepson had allocated to me another of the Gatwick Airport Authority Litter Department's white carrier-bags that bore their logogram of a family of four, properly disposing of their litter in a receptacle provided for the purpose.

The carrier-bag contained an extra supply of community-servant style white T-shirts, the same as my original issue - emblazoned not with a community servant's ID but instead, with bold red letters a denigrating 'FOOTMAN' on the front and a decrying 'LITTER LOUT' on the back.

Mrs Jepson had also issued to me a six-month travel warrant, valid from tomorrow for rail and bus.

The pair of heavy-duty knee pads she'd quarter mastered to me six weeks ago were still fit for purpose.

*

Arnold the Litterman seemed a decent enough guy, I thought, as I headed for the rail station again.

At my first being brought to book in Mrs Jepson's office for littering, it had been to his detriment that he'd spoken up for me, citing mitigating factors in my behalf.

I remembered my uneasiness at witnessing Arnold's degrading put-down, for his fair-mindedness. His humiliating belittlement, by his superior Mrs Jepson, for pointing out to her that while he was obeying his orders to the letter, he was certain I had dropped the offending articles (some air sickness sweet wrappers) inadvertently and unwittingly.

I remembered, too, Mrs Jepson's threats to remove him from his 1-Year Probation "cushy number" assignment, serving as her underling. To have him reassigned, to another Placement at one of the AFP's female-friendly facilities that he wouldn't "like so much".

I would have hated to think that Arnold, who after all was only doing his job, might think I bore any ill will toward him for turning me in and bringing me before Mrs Jepson - again.

And it nagged at me now, that I hadn't thanked Arnold for going in to bat for me against Mrs Jepson on that first occasion.

I owed him my gratitude.

I looked at my watch ...

Ah, what the hell.

It would mean missing my train, and I'd have to catch a later one.

But I turned on my heel and retraced my steps to Mrs Jepson's office, resolved to make all of this clear to Arnold the Litterman.

*

Mrs Jepson would have left her office for the day and gone home by now.

But I remembered from my original interview there that at her power-abusing behest, Arnold, Mrs Jepson's talked-down-to, picked-upon and mercilessly bullied 1-Year-Probation serving underling, would remain behind after he'd clocked off work to perform one final bidding of hers.

Arnold's ultimate, duty of the day: To clean and polish the pair of old and well-worn flight duty pumps that his former British Airways senior air hostess superior Mrs Jepson had worn to work today, and at close-of-play had kicked off and left under her desk for him.

As I headed down the long narrow corridor on the Ground Floor of the unprepossessing utilitarian building that housed the Gatwick Airport Authority Litter Department, the offices I passed on either side were quiet within and had an empty and locked up feel to them, their daytime hours' staff having vacated them all.

All, that is, except for the one at the end of the corridor: the office of the Litter Department Administrator, Mrs Jepson.

For having now reached the white-painted, brass-plaque adorned door of Mrs Jepson's office, I could hear sounds of activity emanating from within, apparently from the efforts of Arnold's post-work forced-labour shoe polishing assignment.

Arnold was hard it, then, I thought as for politeness' sake I tapped twice lightly on the office door before letting myself in.

And Arnold the Litterman was hard at it.

But, not as I'd imagined ...

Arnold, I could be confident, in assuming, had not heard my polite, double-tap on the office door before I'd let myself in.

Well, well, well.

Who would have thought it?

If someone had told me, six weeks ago, that Mrs Jepson's underling, the pitilessly put-upon, denigrated and dominated, subjugated and subdued, Arnold the Litterman, would ...

I stood stock still, beholding the tableau before me.

Oblivious of my presence, Arnold the Litterman was lying down under Mrs Jepson's desk, the fly of his trousers unzipped.

With one hand, holding down one of his superior's old and well-worn air hostess flight duty pumps over his face by its three-inch heel, he inhaled long and deeply, of its darkened interior's years-of-service impregnated scents.

While, with his other hand, inside the unzipped fly of his Litter Department green uniform trousers, Arnold was ...

Thanking Arnold the Litterman for going in to bat for me against Mrs Jepson to his detriment would keep for another day.

I left Arnold to it.

As quietly as I could, and with the sounds of Arnold's increasingly ragged breathing helping to cover the sounds of my departure, I exited Mrs Jepson's office, closing the door softly behind me.

*

Well, I thought, heading back down the long narrow corridor and passing again, the vacated locked-up and empty-feeling offices of departed nine-to-five staff on the Ground Floor of the drab building that housed Mrs Jepson's Gatwick Airport Authority Litter Department office ...

I would make my train after all.

The End.