The Footsore Flight Attendants

Ch. 1 of 3: Warren's world is rocked.

I was not in the best of moods in the first place.

I was short on sleep, had a nagging headache, and having to wait for nearly an hour now at the baggage carousel for my single piece of luggage wasn't helping - wasn't helping at all.

Come on ... come on! I silently implored as I stood and watched items of luggage from later flights arriving on the belt and wondered when in hell mine would show up.

My Flight from Alicante, in southern Spain, had landed at five a.m. and so I'd thought at least I would beat the rush-hour traffic. But in the state I was in, I'd quite forgotten about it being Sunday - the roads would be quiet for a while yet anyway so at least that was something.

All of my mates had collected their luggage a good half-hour ago, and after saying our farewells and arranging to meet up in the pub next Saturday they had all gone their own ways, leaving me to wait for my missing suitcase.

But as miserable and annoying as things were, they were just about to get a whole lot worse ...

*

People seemed to think nothing of it these days, taking advantage of such cheap airfares.

Flying off to short-haul destinations in continental Europe or Scandinavia with EasyJet or Ryan Air or some other budget airline for their stag parties and hen parties - or even just for a party.

And so it was, that 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, right back to our earliest school days.

After work on Thursday, a bunch of us had piled over to the Spanish resort. And then on Friday, we'd certainly done justice to the time-honoured tradition in the time-honoured fashion.

Me and the lads had all mercilessly ribbed Steve about the proverbial 'Ball and Chain' he would soon be wearing. His lovely wife-to-be, Rachel, holding the key to the metaphorical husband-constraining device - which to be honest wasn't the worst fate in the world.

We'd all enjoyed a great, Friday-night drinkathon, knocking back pints of lager as if there was no tomorrow.

Now though, the day after 'tomorrow' was here and I was still paying a price for my foolish Saturday-night hair-of-the-dog excesses.

*

With my belatedly arrived suitcase, I was just about to board the airport service bus to the Long Stay car park, when I felt a firm, staying hand grip my right shoulder.

What the ...? I wondered irritably. What now?

I turned around, to see a man of about forty wearing the dark green jacket and trousers uniform of his 'calling', that I instantly recognised. The badge on the front of his peaked cap read: Litterman.

"Just a moment, sir. Would these ... happen to be yours?"

In his hand, the Litterman was showing me five or six sweet wrappers of a sort I recognised: barley sugars.

I'd heard that they were good for settling the stomachs of travellers prone to airsickness and so I'd taken some along with me and tried them and yes, they seemed to work.

I doubted though that the stomach-settling sweets could do much about the sickly feeling that was settling in the pit of my gut now, as I realised that the wrappers I'd been meaning to bin must have inadvertently fallen from my pocket when I'd been rummaging about looking for my Long Stay car parking ticket.

"Um ..."

The Litterman waved the bus driver on his way.

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

*

Prime Minister Caroline Flynt's Authoritarian Female Party government's 'Keep Britain Tidy' initiative - ostensibly to crack down on the nuisance problem and anti-social behaviour of litter louts in towns and cities' public places, but in reality more so to find more males to man all of their so-called female-friendly programmes, projects and schemes - was from today being implemented at all UK airports too, the Litterman informed me.

My entreaties falling on deaf ears, the Litterman, not being persuaded or moved by my truthful excuses and earnest pleading, escorted me into the building where I would be formally brought to book for my offence.

Upon entering the drab building, with his firm, staying hand on my right shoulder the Litterman guided me down a narrow dismal corridor and past a number of doors to either side until we arrived at a white-painted office door at the end.

On the office door was a brass plaque which read: 'Gatwick Airport Authority Litter Department - Administrator: Mrs J Jepson'.

The Litterman knocked politely on the office door, and upon a no-nonsense sounding female voice calling to him to enter, he opened the door and gestured for me to go in first.

"I beg your pardon, Madam," said the Litterman respectfully to the woman dressed in a Litter Department-green short-sleeved blouse and above-the-knee skirt, who was sitting with her feet propped up on her desk with her ankles crossed as she drank her cup of coffee; the heel of her dark pantyhosed uppermost foot repeatedly popping free from her well-worn black leather office pump.

The not unattractive woman whose name was engraved on the plaque on her office door was in her late twenties, had a curvy figure and shapely legs.

Her casual, laid-back demeanour though was deceptive, for she emanated an unsettling and in fact menacing air of natural authority.

But what lent her air of natural authority an added potency was that she wore her blonde hair in the adopted but AFP-adapted militarist-like concave bob style, that was a part of the AFP employee uniform but was also worn by many affiliated personnel like herself as a visible outward sign of party loyalty and enthusiastic support.

But for that matter, in these still early months of Prime Minister Caroline Flynt's Authoritarian Female Party's governmental realm, the symbolic hairdo was becoming increasingly popular with ordinary civilian females, worn as a sort of demonstrative wearing-their-heart-on-their-sleeve allegiance to the AFP and a declaration of wholehearted backing and solidarity for their female-friendly ideological values and ideals.

After looking me up and down appraisingly, the Administrator of the airport's newly opened Litter Department addressed the Litterman authoritatively. "Yes, Arnold? Are we up and running, then? What do we have here?"

"He dropped these, Madam ... there are six of them, in total." the Litterman informed his superior, in tones befitting the gravity of the situation as he displayed the damning evidence in the palm of his hand.

"I see. Well, that didn't take long, did it?" said Mrs Jepson, looking at her wristwatch. "Your first collar. Well done, Arnold. Good job!"

"Thank you, Madam. But really I was only obeying my orders to the letter. And if I might be permitted to speak in mitigation for the gentleman ... quite clearly he did not drop litter to the pavement intentionally, but inadvertently. I could see that he was unaware of his having dropped the offending articles to the pavement."

"But as you know, Arnold, ignorance is no defence. And besides, and as you also know, the AFP are ever in need of more manpower for all of their female-friendly services. What on earth do you think we are here for?"

"Of course, Madam," said the Litterman, his face reddening at the mild rebuke. "I beg your pardon, Madam."

"Apology accepted. But perhaps this would be a very good time to remind you, Litterman, just so that we know with unambiguous, perfect clarity right from the get-go, where the two of us stand.

"This assignment is a very soft touch that you've landed on, Arnold, a very cushy number, for your One-year-Probation Government Support Worker conditional release from prison.

"But if I find your heart isn't in it, I shall have no qualms and no compunction about putting the wheels in motion for having you re-assigned to other female-friendly related duties - and duties, that I will make certain you will find decidedly less agreeable.

"A more AFP-supportive, more sympathetic - more deserving - male, Arnold, shall have your cushy little number ... He dropped them 'inadvertently' - indeed!

"Now let me make myself clear: You will continue obeying your orders to the letter, and you will not presume upon yourself the leave to speak in mitigation on behalf of litter-dropping 'gentlemen' - or I'll make you sorry that you ever crossed my path!

"Now here, make yourself useful: go and refill my coffee cup again from my cafetiere. Milk and two sugars, in case you've forgotten."

I felt embarrassed and somewhat sorry for the Litterman, receiving such a telling off and such a put-down - and such a disconcerting warning - right in front of me.

Mrs Jepson opened one of her desk drawers and took out a small, transparent polythene bag and wrote something on the label.

The chastised Litterman returned with his superior's refilled coffee cup and handed it to her. "Your coffee, Mrs Jepson, Madam. Milk and two sugars, just as you ordered," gushed the Litterman obsequiously. "And ... I won't forget."

Inclining her head towards the six offending articles he'd put down on her desk, she instructed her unfortunate underling, "Put them in here, please."

Handling the clear Cellophane air sickness sweet wrappers with exaggerated care, as though dealing with the most fragile and crucial exhibits of painstakingly recovered crime scene evidence, the Litterman did as instructed.

The Litterman's superior sealed the clear polyethene evidence bag, deposited it in another of her desk drawers and locked it.

Mrs Jepson then held out her hand to me expectantly. "Identification, please. Give me your passport."

Not wishing to make matters any worse than they already were, I handed the requested document over to Mrs Jepson without demur.

The airport's Litter Department Administrator recrossed her ankles, took another couple of sips from her freshly topped-up coffee cup and then put it down on her desk to free her hands.

Resuming repeatedly popping free the dark pantyhosed heel of her other, now uppermost foot from her black leather office pump, she opened my passport and gleaned my personal details.

"Litter louts - Mr Warren Williams, aged twenty-one, from Horsham in West Sussex - as you have just discovered to your cost, are no longer tolerated at Gatwick Airport. Those days are gone," Mrs Jepson told me.

My protestations of innocence - or, at least, of accidental and therefore 'mitigated' litter dropping, as the apparently fair-minded Litterman himself, had unfortunately self-detrimentally phrased it - fell upon deaf ears. Had no effect whatsoever, on the uncompromising, stern-faced, absentmindedly heel-popping Mrs Jepson.

"Save it!" said Mrs Jepson, cutting me off.

"Look on it, Warren, as paying now, all in one go, for all of your many previously unpunished littering offences."

I felt outraged.

I was always (well, nearly always ...) so meticulous in disposing of my litter: considerately and correctly disposing of it in the receptacles provided for the purpose.

But now, just because of one, innocent little slip ...

But Mrs Jepson was just getting started.

Upon learning that I was currently unemployed and claiming Unemployment Benefit since being made redundant from my job, just last week, Mrs Jepson told me that my out-of-work circumstances made her penalty decision all the easier for her since she had all the less to consider.

Under the AFP government's 'Keep Britain Tidy' initiative, Mrs Jepson, as Administrator of the Gatwick Airport Litter Department and empowered to penalise litter louts at her discretion, sentenced me to six weeks of Cabin Crew Comfort Station Attendance.

"Probably as an air passenger yourself, you have never even given it so much as a moment's consideration before, Warren, have you, that after a hard, demanding shift of traipsing up and down an aircraft cabin catering to their passengers' every needs and wants and demands and entitlements in their flight-duty pumps - pumps, very similar to mine ... the hardworking air hostesses' feet are tired and achy to distraction?"

"Er ..."

"Well, they are. As a former senior British Airways hostie myself of both extensive long-haul and short-haul experience, I can most certainly assure you.

"As I know myself, from again drawing from personal experience, after a long-haul flight, air hostesses can get quite distressingly footsore.

"But of course, because there's so little rest or respite, a work shift pattern of short-haul, quick turnaround fights can be just as and even more demanding and discomforting on their poor overworked feet.

"And so, Warren, every day for six weeks, from six a.m. to six p.m., attending in the Cabin Crew Comfort Station you - and you alone - will provide foot massages to any and all air hostesses who require them.

"Any and all, meaning foreign as well as British air hostesses, since the AFP are keen to extend this female-friendly airport facility as a welcoming courtesy."

Whatever I thought my penalty for littering might be, I never imagined this.

Being made to massage air hostesses' end-of-shift stinky pantyhosed feet!

"But, Mrs Jepson!" I protested, panic-stricken at being unable to think of a way of worming my way out of Mrs Jepson's penal single-provider Pedi-care predicament.

"I've never done that before! So I don't think I'd be any good, or be of any use-"

"You'll be plenty of use in the Comfort Station, Warren, don't worry about that.

"Because of the inevitable high demand on your services and the obvious time constraints, the air hostesses will be glad to instruct you in the art of performing a mini, minute-massage.

"You'll soon learn, as you become more experienced and your fingers more expert, that you can work a lot of wonders in just one minute.

"Often, it's really just a matter of compliantly applying firm but gentle circular kneading pressure with the pads of your fingers and thumbs to the particularly troubled areas of the soles of the feet as indicated to you.

"For instance, it may be the heels and the balls of the feet, the impact and weight-bearing areas of the feet, that some hosties may ask you to focus your attentions and ministrations.

"But having said that, and again as I know from long experience, post-flight foot massages are always extremely welcome, and some hosties will be happy enough to just simply let you do your own, mini-massage thing - a sort of amateurish yet reasonably effective relieving, reviving and relaxing reflexology routine that gradually you yourself will develop and hone.

"I have no doubt at all, Warren, that with the post-flight, footsore flight attendants you will be a most welcome and very popular Comfort Station fixture.

"The times we are living in now! Oh - I wish we'd had attractive footboys like you in my day!"

And all of this was happening because of an offence that I hadn't even knowingly committed - and wouldn't commit!

Mrs Jepson again addressed the Litterman authoritatively.

"And just so you know, right from the get-go, Arnold: If you hope to keep your cushy little Litterman assignment, as well as making and serving my coffee and doing all of the attendant washing-up, that's another little job I'll be expecting you to come and do for me in my office - frequent foot massages.

"Oh, and every day, before you go home you can clean and polish my pumps for me too - I'll leave them under my desk for you."

I didn't know if he was bowing in cowed, brought-to-heel obeisance before Mrs Jepson or just staring down at his shoes forlornly.

But I strongly suspected both.

Since I had never before seen a man's face burning so redly and so brightly with humiliation as the Litterman's.

Especially when the Litter Department Administrator Mrs Jepson then demonstrably lifted her feet from her desk and heel-popped and dangled from the tips of her dark pantyhosed toes, her footwear that I now believed were a pair of the former British Airways air hostess's well-worn and comfy three-inch heeled black leather flight-duty pumps.

Mrs Jepson promptly confirmed it, heel-popping one pump and dangling her other from her dark nyloned toes as she told her hapless underling the Litterman, "I've got five or six pairs of these, Arnold. From my own days as a BA hostie. They are just perfect for the office. As you can see, they are old and very well-worn, but so very supple and blissfully comfortable ..."

What were the odds, I wondered dubiously, of Arnold the Gatwick Airport Authority's Litterman successfully seeing out his One-Year-Probation Government Support Worker conditional release assignment's 'other' duties - as his subjugating superior Mrs Jepson's respectful, obedient and compliant coffee-making, pump-polishing, frequently-attending foot masseur ...

The Cabin Crew Comfort Station, Mrs Jepson informed me, was sited at the bus stop right outside Concorde House, where many of the Gatwick-based airline's crew rooms were sited and where the airside buses dropped off non-Gatwick based air crews.

The Comfort Station was a large, Portacabin-like carpeted and comfortably appointed shelter, with capacity for accommodating up to fifty just-landed, bus-catching air hostesses.

As the airport service buses were every fifteen minutes, there was little danger of overcrowding apart from when, due to delays, several flights came in clustered together.

Male air stewards were not allowed into the Comfort Station.

To enter it was a sackable offence - along with its attendant automatic sanction consequences: Immediate assignment as a community servant, to providing or helping to provide as part of a team, one of the AFP's female-friendly services.

Such as working in a Sock Room. Supervised by two female cane-wielding Community Service Officers (CSOs), detailed to monitor and inspect the hand-washing of his town's females' dirty socks.

Or, more likely, a six-month Placement of serving aboard passenger aircraft as a so-called Air Purification Technician. The demand for that particular female-friendly service was already very high and increasing rapidly, its novelty showing no signs of wearing off but quite the opposite.

Possibly, though, should an affronted air hostess choose to demand it, even a 'short sharp shock' stay in one of the AFP's new purpose-built prisons, could precede his community servant assignment, or Placement.

In that case, an intensive course of daily doctrinal teachings and relentless female-friendly ideological inculcation at the feet of his compassionless, cane-happy and overzealous female prison officer instructors, could be the fate for the foreseeable future of the egregiously trespassing male air steward.

Mrs Jepson said that I would see when I got there that the male air stewards had their own, conventional, windswept perspex-windowed bus shelter, just adjacent to their female colleagues' well-insulated luxury version 'waiting room'.

At the Cabin Crew Comfort Station, Mrs Jepson elucidated further, the air hostesses could sit in comfort as they awaited the arrival of the next airport services bus. And as they waited, avail themselves of the excellent and plentiful refreshments provided for them - free of charge, fully funded from the proceeds of the Male Passenger Airport Tax.

The airport services buses took the flight crews to where they wanted to go after having completed their flight duty - and, where Gatwick-based crews were concerned, debriefing: staff car park, rail station, bus station, airport hotel ... as the bus meandered along its route via its designated drop-off points.

To my surprise and dismay, Mrs Jepson ordered that the sentence she'd decreed would begin tomorrow - Monday.

I still couldn't believe it:

Massaging air hostesses' post-flight stinky nyloned feet for twelve hours a day, seven days a week - for six weeks!