6 comments/ 36253 views/ 2 favorites The Ankle-Crossing Air Hostess By: davidmuleguy 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." The Ankle-Crossing Air Hostess Mrs Jepson, finally satisfied that she had briefed me thoroughly, stood up: a clear signal that she was dismissing me from her presence, in her Litter Office. She didn't bother to ask me if I had any questions ... Of which I had 2 - what the ...? and WHAT THE ...?? But, thinking it the wisest course, I kept them to myself. "You may go now," said Mrs Jepson. "Don't forget! 6 a.m. tomorrow, at the Cabin Crews' Comfort Station ... And, don't be late, David!" Don't be late, Mrs Jepson said! Don't be late? That was rich ... So rich, I found it impossible to stomach - impossible to swallow! 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! Of course, I abandoned any idea of retrieving my car from the Long Stay car park, and driving myself home. I would pick it up tomorrow evening, after my 'shift', in the Comfort Station. Anyway, I had no business getting behind the wheel of a car, in my present condition. I was in no fit state. Not only, must I still be well over the alcohol limit for driving but, how was I supposed to concentrate on what was happening on the road ... thinking about - worrying about - my imminent 28 days Foot Service Duty sentence, in the Cabin Crews' Comfort Station, at Gatwick Airport? Hell! This was like a bad dream - a horrible nightmare! A nightmare that would have me waking up in the middle of the night, in a cold, clammy sweat, the bed-clothes all tangled up from thrashing about. I knew though, that I wasn't going to 'wake up'. Oh, I knew that this ... this waking nightmare, was really happening to me, all right ... I 'would', have been convinced ... that someone was having a laugh. Convinced, that this was someone's idea of an excellent joke ... Steve's! It would be just like Steve and the lads, to set me up in such a diabolical prank as this. To go to such ridiculous lengths, as such a 'sophisticated' scam as this would take to organize. To actually get people from the airport to assist - to take part in! - their infantile little game ... On second thoughts, though, perhaps I would have been giving Steve a bit too much 'credit'. I 'might' have suspected, even ... that I was actually on 'Candid Camera'. Suspected, that I was the unsuspecting subject, of one of their carefully crafted wheezes. Suspected, that I was the unwitting stooge, the unwary victim, of one of their clever and elaborate practical jokes. Suspected, that I was being filmed, so that TV audiences Nationwide could laugh at me, while they sat on their sofas, eating their TV dinners from trays on their laps. Laugh, with their mouths full, at my shock, at my embarrassment, at my indignation. Laugh, at my earnest and truthful protestations of innocence, and at my pleas for mitigation - if not acquittal - falling upon deaf ears. Laugh, at my secretly filmed 'comical' facial expressions, as the plot of the hilarious scenario gradually unfolded. Yes ... I 'would' have been convinced, of such dastardly machinations afoot, had I not seen the Government's long run of 'Keep Britain Tidy' campaign advertisements on TV. And, had I not heard the often repeated warnings, that darkly hinted as to the 'innovative penalties' that were to be imposed, in future, upon litter louts. When I got home, I glumly told my Mum and Dad (who I still lived with), and my girlfriend, Kate, just exactly what I was going to be doing, for the next 28 days ... and why. I had been expecting some sympathy. Instead - just like the Head of the Gatwick Airport Litter Office, Mrs Josephine Jepson - they finger-waved away, pooh-poohed my earnest, truthful excuses. I was told I deserved everything I got, for dropping litter. It was the likes of me, they said accusingly, that was bringing shame and disrepute upon the country - litter, everywhere you looked, these days! And all because of ill-behaved, anti-social people like me. I had it coming, they unanimously opined, unwittingly paraphrasing the words of that hideous woman, Mrs Jepson. Mum and Dad's eyebrows were certainly raised, though ... as to the decidedly singular nature of my punishment - my 28 days Foot Service Duty sentence, in the Cabin Crews' Comfort Station, at Gatwick Airport. Not so, though, my girlfriend, Kate: she said she was glad, and she actually squealed in delight ... Just the very thought, gloated Kate, of what was going to happen to me at the Cabin Crews' Comfort Station - Kate obviously knew something that I didn't: she had friends, who were Air Hostesses based at Gatwick Airport - gave her such a warm and tingly, comforting glow, just from thinking about it ... Made her feel happy and content, and all "Squishy," inside. Kate was actually jubilant, gleeful even, at hearing about my unspeakable predicament. "You deserve it, David!" said Kate accusingly and vengefully. And, I didn't think she was talking about just my supposed litter dropping, either ... Alas, I was in Kate's 'Bad Books' - again! And, I knew there would be a lot of (serious!) grovelling to do, to get out of them. I knew - because there always was! But, Babes (as I called her) was worth any amount of aggro, to me ... The pertinent question was, though: was I, to her? That, was the proverbial $64,000 question. I knew that Kate had a very short 'fuse', and that, once lit, it burned quickly. And hotly. I knew - because I had ignited her 'blue touchpaper' on numerous prior occasions. Too many. So I knew just what to expect from Kate, when I was well out of order. Kate could actually be quite spiteful, vindictive, vengeful even ... until we finally 'made-up'. I knew that I was in very real danger of burning her fuse right down - again. I didn't want to set her 'fireworks' off: they were very spectacular - and I always caught a 'rocket'. I realised, too, that Kate had her limit: her final cut-off point - her 'Line in the Sand' - and I never wanted to cross that line. So I had better watch out ... I was, I knew, starting to get too close to Kate's 'Line in the Sand'. Kate was, I knew, only going to stand for so much: so much grief, so much exasperation, before she finally lost her patience, her temper ... Before she finally reached 'Critical-Mass' ... and 'Meltdown'. My girlfriend, Kate, at just turned 21, was 2 years younger than me. We had been going steady for 2 years now, and I absolutely adored her - worshipped the proverbial ground she walked on. To be honest, I was amazed that she put up with me - put up with our 'Roller-Coaster' relationship ... After all: Kate was responsible for all of the 'ups' ... while I was the cause of all of the 'downs'. My greatest - darkest fear, was that there would be a time when we went down - but only Kate would come back up again ... That Kate would leave me, at rock-bottom. Kate was my whole world. My universe. I knew, that she was the girl for me - I knew, that Kate was 'The One'. I wanted us to get engaged - but, not yet. I wanted to do it 'properly'. Oh, yes - I had it all planned-out, in my head ... First, I wanted Kate's engagement ring, to be 'awesome'. Then, when I could afford it, I wanted to go down 'on bended knee', in the time-honoured tradition. I wanted to 'pop the question', to her. I wanted us to 'tie the knot'. I wanted us to have a honeymoon made in heaven. I wanted us to 'live happily ever after'. With the proverbial '2.4 kids', and the whole caboodle ... But ... I'd been out of work for a while, I was nearly skint, and there was no sign of a job on the horizon. So ... not the best of times, to be 'popping the question'. Besides, judging from Kate's thunderous mood, at the moment, she would probably tell me to 'Get Lost!' Kate, I could see, obviously still had a major 'chinny' on, with me. She was still sulking, Big-Time, because I had gone "Jaunting off" to Spain for my best mate Steve's Stag Party - going abroad for Stag and Hen Parties: Benidorm; Magaluf; Palma Nova; San Antonio in Spain, Aiya Napa on Cyprus ... anywhere, really, where lager louts were as much a part of the scenery as palm trees, were all the rage, these days - instead of spending the money on her ... "On something 'decent', David, for my twenty-first birthday present - and not, squandering the last of your savings, on a ... stupid Stag Do in Spain!" Which I would have done, Kate said, if I "Really" loved her. Well, I did really love her, my darling Kate - of course I did! More than anything! But, I could hardly miss Steve's Stag Do in Benidorm, could I? ... Steve, and the rest of the lads would never have forgiven me! Monday came ... And, so accustomed had I become to the nice, leisurely lie-in that I had been enjoying every morning whilst between jobs - the Motor Parts Company that I had worked for had gone bust 4 months ago - that I found it a terrible trauma to get up at 4:30 a.m. when my alarm clock wailed as if it was the end of the world, or an invasion from Mars. I had to get up that early, in order to get the 5:15 a.m. Gatwick Express train, that would take me from where I lived, in Brighton, and get me to Gatwick Airport - a journey of about 25 miles - before 6 a.m. However, I quickly scrambled out of bed, at remembering Mrs Jepson's grating, adjuring voice: "And, don't be late, David!" Following the very specific instructions given to me by that awful Mrs Jepson: Head of the Gatwick Airport Litter Office, I duly reported directly to Cabin Crews' Comfort Station, which is located near Concorde House. Upon my arrival at the Cabin Crews' Comfort Station (at 05:50 - oh, what I would have given, for those extra 10 minutes, in bed!), through the glass entrance doors, I saw a sleepy-eyed (though, still, very attractive), shoulder-length dark-haired, early 20's, Air Hostess. She was attired, I saw, in the distinctive and readily recognizable, orange-liveried uniform of an 'Easy Jet' Air Hostess. The Easy Jet Air Hostess, I saw, happened to be the only occupant of the Comfort Station, at the moment. She was sitting on one of the padded benches; her Easy Jet issue Flight Duty pumps, lying on their sides near her tan hosed feet, where she had, apparently, casually kicked them off. Her right foot, was resting on her left knee: the sole of her tan hosed foot, facing towards me. She was flexing and scrunching her toes; repeatedly, rhythmically, as though deriving comfort and relief from doing so. As though lost in her own, reflective thoughts, the Easy Jet Air Hostess was staring off into the middle-distance, and sipping from a cup of coffee that she held, as though comfortingly, in both hands. After gently easing the Comfort Station entrance doors open, a fraction, "Penny, for them?" I said, by means of gently disturbing her introspection, and quietly making her aware of my sudden presence. Upon seeing me - undoubtedly, judging by her reaction, mistaking me for an Air Steward - the Easy Jet Air Hostess's decidedly downcast demeanour immediately brightened, considerably. With an openly engaging smile, in very warm tones, she exclaimed, "Wotcha!" in her bubbly, very friendly-sounding, broad, Essex accent. To me, it was a wonderfully endearing sound: the 'Essex Girls', I think, are a race apart. I remembered, though, Mrs Jepson's strict and very specific instructions ... And, as much as I wanted to - my own, natural friendliness coming swiftly to the fore - I did not respond in kind. Instead, I said respectfully, to the Easy Jet Air Hostess, "Good morning, Miss. My name is David, and I have been instructed to report here, to ... to begin serving my 28 days Foot Service Duty sentence, for dropping litter." 10 seconds later, it was hard to credit that I was actually still looking at the same girl - 'Pearl', according to her name-tag. Her initial warm and natural friendliness towards me, had disappeared faster than a radio in an unlocked car in Liverpool. Upon registering what I had actually said to her, her previously friendly and smiling, warmly engaging, softened features, became harsh-looking and stony - hardened - as though by super-fast setting concrete. The pupils of her eyes, glittering, with sharp points of dangerous light. With an unforgiving, hostile, aggressive glare now upon her face, the Easy Jet Air Hostess replied, in her broad, Essex Girl accent - her voice, though, now lacking any vestige of its former warmth. "Oh ... Have you, now? Been dropping litter ... have you, David? I see ... Well, you've certainly come to the right place, then! Oh, yes ... I can assure you, of that! Well ...? You had better come in, then, hadn't you? And, take your coat off ... So that we can all see who - see 'what' - you are ... And ... why you are here!" "Yes, Miss Pearl," I replied, respectfully and obediently. I was distraught. Choked. I felt incredibly upset - devastated. In bits. Absolutely gutted ... I was actually hurting, deep inside. Tormented, by the snagging, tugging barbs of such an awful, cruelly afflicting emotional pain ... To be held, in such low esteem; to be seen, as the lowest-of-the-low; to be regarded, as the dregs of the earth; to be looked upon, as nothing better than scum ... by this Easy Jet Air Hostess. By this decent, attractive young woman. By this good-natured, naturally very warm and friendly, Essex Girl. 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! Now, my Litter Office issue, white T-shirt: loudly proclaiming 'FOOTBOY', on the front, and furiously denouncing 'LITTER LOUT', on the back, in bold, red letters, perfectly explained my decidedly ignominious presence, in the Cabin Crews' Comfort Station. Upon retrieving a red clipboard from the Bulletin Board, the Easy Jet Air Hostess then formally signed me in, on the 'Footboy's Daily Record Sheet'. The 'Footboy's Daily Record Sheet', was the Official Document upon which the Air Hostesses wrote their appraising remarks, with regard to the satisfactory - or otherwise - conduct, of my Foot Service Duties. It was the Official Document, upon which the Air Hostesses would officially record their comments upon me, so as to facilitate Mrs Jepson's Final Assessment Test of the satisfaction of my overall conduct, at the completion of my 28 days sentence ... so that she could ascertain, whether or not I had achieved the minimum, 90% Pass Rate. ("Anything less, David, than 90%, and ...") After having formally signed me in, the Easy Jet Air Hostess advised me (with a sly-looking smile now playing upon her lips) that, it was actually in my own interests, and could be very much worth my while, she said, to keep my "Nose clean," with the Air Hostesses, and to behave "Well," for them. It was, she claimed, at the discretion of the Air Hostesses, themselves - who had the ultimate power over my fate, via the comments they wrote in the potentially damning Official Document, of the Footboy's Daily Record Sheet - to actually recommend a reduction in my sentence, for keeping my "Nose clean," and for serving them "Well."' "You know ... just like a reward for good behaviour, in prison ..." she added with a mischievous smirk. Funny ... but I didn't recall Mrs Jepson advising me as to any such advantages. I didn't remember her saying anything to me about a possible remission of sentence, for good behaviour (for keeping my "Nose clean," for behaving "Well.") And, I would have remembered! All I remembered, was Mrs Jepson telling me - and, in no uncertain terms - that I had to achieve an overall, Air Hostesses' 'Satisfaction of Conduct Rating', of at least 90%. ("Anything less, David, than 90%, and ...") Was the Easy Jet Air Hostess - Pearl - having me on? I wondered. She was having a laugh, wasn't she? Was the Easy Jet Air Hostess deliberately - cruelly! - giving me false hope? After all, she 'knew', now, didn't she, that I was a litter lout. No holds were barred. And, as far as she was concerned, I deserved everything I got, for dropping litter! Was that, her little game then? I wondered ... Playing with - manipulating - my mind? Cynically trying to motivate me, to greater efforts? So that I would serve the Air Hostesses ... 'Beyond The Call Of Duty'? Oh, it would be just like an Essex Girl! To try and pull off such a stunt as that. They just loved having a good laugh. And, I mean, a Good Laugh! Yes, Essex Girls were the fun-loving, salt of the earth. But, they had a wicked sense of humour ... What a wonderful, delicious, sinking-her-claws-in, kick-ass way to 'really' punish a litter lout! At the arrival of the Air Crew Bus, a moment later (the time was now 06:00), the - initially friendly, but now belligerent - Easy Jet Air Hostess, who had formally signed me in on the Footboy's Daily Record Sheet, pushed open the Comfort Station's entrance doors, and she wheeled her 'Dolley Trolley' to the kerb. Before she boarded the Air Crew Bus; in her broad, Essex Girl accent, she informed me, in decidedly disgruntled tones, "There was no footboy on duty in the Comfort Station, last night ... " she grumbled, before adding spitefully "... and it's in a right mess - so you'll have to sort it, then ... won't you!" she decreed. After lifting her Dolly Trolley up onto the conveniently low step of the Air Crew Bus, the Easy Jet Air Hostess turned to me again, for her 'parting shot'. "Tidy the place up, footboy!" she ordered bossily. "Yes, Miss Pearl," I replied to the Easy Jet Air Hostess, demoralized and dejectedly. But, respectfully and obediently, too - as I knew that I must. ("Anything less, David, than 90%, and ..."). In response, the Easy Jet Air Hostess gave me such a looking-down-her-nose, contemptuous, thunderous, litter-lout-hating look, as, with a hiss of the hydraulics, the automatic door of the Air Crew Bus began to fold shut behind her. The Air Crew Bus driver looked at me, pityingly, as he drove away in his battery-operated vehicle. The Easy Jet Air Hostess's Duty, had just finished - mine, was just starting ... As it happened, I didn't have the time, to "Tidy the place up, footboy!" I had barely begun obeying the Easy Jet Air Hostess's imperious, and sharply issued order, when 4 British Airways Air Hostesses; rather elegantly attired, I thought, in their dark-blue, decidedly cool-and-reserved looking uniforms, entered the Comfort Station - and they summoned me to Foot Service Duty, instead: "Leave that for now, footboy! ..." one of them (Samantha, according to her name-tag) rudely snapped at me, "... you've got 'more important' duties to perform..." "Yes, Miss Samantha," I replied, to the British Airways Air Hostess, respectfully and obediently. Miss Samantha: although she seemed, at first impression, rather ordinary and unremarkable; a rather short - barely Regulation Height - rather plain-looking, slightly chubby young woman with neck-length brown hair ... still, she seemed the sort, who could easily ... 'grow' on you. Miss Samantha, exuded a sort of ... 'presence'. And, although at first sight, she might seem quite ordinary-looking ... still, she sent out ... 'signals'. 'Signals' ... that suggested she was certainly no 'wallflower'. 'Signals' ... that told you that there was more to her, than met the eye. 'Signals' ... that told you to be constantly on your guard. 'Signals' ... that warned you not to cross her - ever. Miss Samantha, I instinctively felt, was a young woman to whom first impressions were very important ... And, whether Miss Samantha 'grew' on you benignly ... or malignantly, might depend upon whether or not she 'liked the look' of your face, upon her first seeing it. And, for some strange reason, I instinctively knew that Miss Samantha hadn't 'liked the look' of my face, upon her first seeing it - not one little bit. And, that she wouldn't be 'growing' on me, in a nice way. It was in her 'signals' ... 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 ...")