The Footsore Flight Attendants

In Gatwick Airport's Cabin Crew Comfort Station I stood there, stunned.

My world, rocked, by what Pearl the EasyJet air hostess had written in the Footman's Daily Record Sheet.

Having assisted Pearl onto the 06:00 airport services bus, lifting her heavy Duty-Free laden wheeled 'dolly trolly' aboard and stowing it for her as instructed, for the moment until more post-flight end-of-shift air hostesses showed up I was all alone in the Comfort Station.

Other than a state of shock, I wouldn't know what else to call it as I stood at the Comfort Station's cork bulletin board, the red-plastic backed clipboard shaking in my hands as I re-read and absorbed the footsore flight attendant Pearl's comments.

Her thoughtful remarks.

Her insightful observations.

Her considered opinions.

And her conclusions - about me.

But I felt a foolish grin spreading across my face as I read again, the marks out of ten that Pearl had awarded me: 10/10.

Something akin to a warm glow flooded through me at the sense of proud achievement.

On this, Day 1 of 42 of my six-week, seven days a week, twelve hours a day sentence for dropping litter, Pearl the EasyJet air hostess had been the first post-flight end-of-shift footsore flight attendant to avail herself of my AFP-enforced Comfort Station foot masseur's attentions and ministrations.

The first air hostess, to contribute her hand-written comments on the Footman's Daily Record Sheet. And the first, to award her marks-out-of-ten Satisfaction of Conduct rating.

An excellent start, then.

The EasyJet air hostess Pearl had given me the best possible start.

The best possible platform, and the best possible encouragement, to spur me on to achieving Gatwick Airport Authority Litter Department Administrator Mrs Jepson's highly set overall average minimum 8/10 target and passing her Final Assessment Test.

("Anything less, Warren, then eighty percent, and ...")

*

Pearl had instructed me to tidy the Cabin Crew Comfort Station.

Respectfully, I'd replied, "Yes, Miss Pearl."

And there was no question about it if I was truthful with myself: I did feel a sort of eagerness, a kind of compulsion - an imperative - to carry out her authoritatively expressed order.

There was something I liked, about her assertiveness.

I hoped to be of use to her again soon.

I don't know why.

I just did.

*

But before I began Pearl the EasyJet air hostess's bidding and made a start on the much-needed tidy-up of the Cabin Crew Comfort Station, I took a moment to go and look at the two refreshments tables.

They were situated end to end at the far end of the Comfort Station and took up almost all of the spacious room's width. Two vending machines, offering hot and cold drinks, and two microwave ovens and a six-slice toaster, were sited on their own, small tables at either end of the two long tables.

I could almost hear the two refectory-type tables groaning under the weight of the wide variety of mouthwatering breakfast-time fare on display - a generous offering of tasty-looking snacks, light meals, health foods like muesli and berries, and much more. Stacked on these tables too was everything required to tuck into it all: disposable white paper plates; clear plastic bowls, cups and glasses; sealed packets of white plastic cutlery, and catering-size packages of serviettes and wet-wipes. For post-flight air hostesses in a rush, there were also plenty of small takeaway eat-on-the-bus items - cereal bars, packets of biscuits and crisps, a variety of chocolate bars and small bottles of fruit juices and mineral water.

Not feeling hungry, I'd had nothing to eat before leaving home for Horsham rail station to catch the Gatwick Express train that would get me here shortly before 06:00.

It was a mistake I wouldn't make again.

Because making my empty stomach grumble now, was the sight and smells of the baskets and trays of recently delivered fresh bread, croissants, bagels and doughnuts; small pots of yoghurt and large bowls of fresh fruit; glass-display-cased selections of cheeses, meats and pates; and microwavable breakfasts.

All of it AFP-provisioned as an all-airline hospitality to post-flight end-of-shift bus-catching female members of cabin crew - from proceeds of the Male Air Passenger Tax.

*

I'd made a decent start with my tidying-up chore - collecting and putting in the small wheelie bin the detritus left behind on the Comfort Station's half-dozen tables by earlier post-flight air hostesses - when at 06:03 on the Comfort Station clock, in breezed four British Airways air hostesses.

"Leave that for now - footboy," came the imperious voice of the first entrant. "You've got more important things to do."

Wiping down a table I'd just cleared, I turned to see that the nametag of the haughty-toned BA air hostess who'd addressed me read: Lavinia.

"He most definitely has!" endorsed the second entrant in emphatic tones and meaningful innuendo. From her nametag, I learned she was Bettina.

By now all four of the dark-blue uniformed BA air hostesses had filed through the entrance doors with their 'dolly trollies' in tow.

And all four of them were staring, at the word emblazoned in capitalised red letters on the front of my community-servant style uniform white T-shirt: FOOTMAN.

In their early- to mid-twenties, all four of them were very attractive in their own, different ways, but they all emanated the same unendearing superior attitude. Although two of them were yet to speak, from their manner and bearing I sensed that all four of them were peas from the same pod.

I also sensed that it was going to be a long twelve minutes until the next airport services bus arrived at 06:15 and bore them all on their way.

"Footboy: Before you start, bring us two cartons of chilled orange juice and two cups, and two Americano coffees from the vending machines - both black; no sugar in mine, four sugars in the other. And hurry up!" Lavinia ordered.

"Yes, footboy! As much as we'd like to linger and make more use of you after our long and tiring flight, we've all got train connections to make and so we can only avail ourselves of your novel services for a few short minutes. So get a move on - time is of the essence!" admonished Bettina.

Wasn't it enough that I had FOOTMAN emblazoned right across my chest, I thought, that they had to make a thing of calling me 'footboy' as well?

"Yes, Miss Lavinia. Yes, Miss Bettina," I said respectfully.

I'd pushed the button of one of the two vending machines for the first of the two Americanos, and I was getting two cartons of chilled orange juice from the other vending machine, when from the padded red leather banquette-style bench where they'd gone to sit, I heard the BA air hostess Lavinia say to her three BA colleagues, "All shift, I've been waiting for this moment!"

And I knew that the BA air hostess Lavinia wasn't talking about the coffee ... it seemed that the news had travelled fast, about today's installation of their new Comfort Station foot masseur.

Bettina replied, her tone petulant, "I know that footboys are now being issued nationwide to airport Cabin Crew Comfort Stations. But what I fail to comprehend, is why footboys haven't been installed in Comfort Stations long before now - I mean, as a priority scheme. It seems to me, the AFP have been uncommonly slow, in launching and implementing this particular female-friendly facility."

Up on the wall beside the 24-hour clock was the Arrivals monitor, and I saw that a BA flight from New York had landed at 05:35 ... so, the four of them had just operated a trans-Atlantic flight from the Big Apple.

Studying the Arrivals screen further, I saw that several other long-haul flights had landed a short while ago too and that five more flights were estimated to arrive before 07:00 ...

Soon, I realised, the Cabin Crew Comfort Station was going to be full to the gills with transient multinational gatherings of post-flight end-of-shift footsore flight attendants.

Many of them, though, perhaps with their return long-haul flights tomorrow or the day after and who would be staying over at the airport's hotels and were in no particular hurry to check in and go to bed, might linger in the Comfort Station over their breakfasts.

Already arrived or landing soon was an Air India flight, from Goa; Emirate Airlines, from Dubai; South African Airways, from Johannesburg; Air Pakistan, from Karachi; a Quantas, from Sidney, and a Thailand-

"Footboy! What on earth is keeping you? I told you to hurry up! What are you doing? Where's our orange juice and coffee?" the BA air hostess Lavinia called crossly.

"Really - it won't do, footboy!" concurred Bettina.

Quickly I loaded the hot and cold beverages and two disposable clear plastic cups onto a small wooden tray and carried them over to where Lavinia and Bettina and their two colleagues were seated.

"And about time!" berated Bettina, glaring at me in annoyance.

Pointing at the two Americanos, Lavinia said, "Which of these two black coffees is mine; the one without sugar?"

"Um ... that one, Miss Lavinia."

Lavinia's colleague Bettina took the other Americano, and the other two BA air hostesses, who from their nametags I now saw were Gemma and Joanna, helped themselves to the two orange juices.

I waited ...

"Ah - this is full of sugar!" cried Lavinia, her face contorted in revulsion. "You idiot! Can't you even get that right?"

Yup, I knew I'd get it wrong - the fifty-fifty chances never seemed to go my way.

After getting distracted and becoming absorbed with viewing the recently landed and incoming flights on the Arrivals monitor, I'd completely forgotten which of the two automatically dispensed coffees in the two identical disposable white plastic cups had four sugars and the other one none.

"I'm very sorry, Miss Lavinia! Miss Bettina has your unsugared coffee, still untouched. I'll go and get Miss Bettina another one, shall I? It'll only take me a-"

"No - there's no time now!" interjected Lavinia. "I want you to massage my feet!"

"And so do I!" said Bettina plaintively, looking at the Comfort Station clock and seeing that time was a-ticking. "The bus is due in ten minutes!"

"Well, get on with it then - footboy! Do what you are here for!" ordered Lavinia. "You've wasted far too much time already with your incompetence and laggardness!"

"Of course, Miss Lavinia. Right away. I am at your service. And I apologise again, for-"

"Stop wasting time with your prattle! On your knees at my feet - footboy! Now!"

"Make him smell them, Lavinia!" urged Bettina, who had just narrowly escaped drinking coffee with no sugars instead of four. "That'll teach him!"

"Yes! In fact, we all should!" rejoined Gemma, scowling crossly, her right dark-pantyhosed leg crossed over her left and her uniform, dark blue leather flight-duty pump dangling from the toes of her to-and-froing foot as she watched me position myself on my padded knees facing her stern-faced BA colleague Lavinia.

"Yes, let's do that," agreed Joanna. "After all, he's left us with insufficient time - insufficient time, at any rate, in which to provide each of us with any sort of worthwhile foot massage after our long flight duty. All the way across the Atlantic I've been looking forward to this - and look what happens.

"The main concern for me now, in fact, is that I can think of something seriously damaging if not catastrophic to write in his Footman's Daily Record Sheet ...

"Unless, through his obedient and compliant behaviour and the quality and satisfaction of his foot service to me during the next few minutes, he can somehow worm his way into my good books and sway me to change my mind about that. Somehow redeem himself, and alleviate to some degree my disappointments and disapprobation with his unacceptable shortcomings and abject failings. Somehow persuade me, to rethink and reassess my extremely negative first-impression opinions of him.

"I mean, I'm not unreasonable."

"Footboy - move closer to me! Don't make me have to stretch!" snapped Lavinia irascibly.

"Yes, Miss Lavinia," I said respectfully.

On my knees, I inched closer to Lavinia until with a show of the palm of her hand she let me know that I was positioned agreeably.

"Let him have them, Lavinia!" encouraged the retributive Bettina. "Come on - but don't hog him - we all want our turn!"

I knew what was coming next.

Nonetheless, what happened came as a disbelieving blur of unreality and a mind-shattering shock to my senses as Lavinia eased her feet from her dark blue leather flight-duty pumps, raised her dark-pantyhosed legs, and with an exclamation of utmost gratification she planted the soles of her post-flight end-of-shift Atlantic-crossing feet on my perfectly-positioned face.

"Yes!" exulted the coffee-deprived Bettina, at witnessing the first stage of her and her three BA colleagues' unanimously decided upon olfactory-oriented reprimand. "Yes! Yes!"

The gauzy material of her dark pantyhose was warm and damp yet still rustled in my ears as Lavinia exerted herself in rubbing the soles of both of her tired and achy post-flight feet on my face in endeavouring to relieve, revive and reinvigorate them.

The initial force of her urgent, energetic pressure having taken me somewhat by surprise, I was at once engaged in a desperate and relentless struggle, obliged to counteract even more urgently and energetically by leaning determinedly into Lavinia's using, misusing and abusing dark-pantyhosed soles to avoid being pushed right back off my knees.

"Hey - this is even better than a proper foot massage!" announced Lavinia with surprised delight, the soles of her self-relieving feet marauding my face mercilessly as I battled doggedly to remain in-situ.

And then while one dark-pantyhosed foot continued rubbing one side of my face and chin vigorously, the toes of her other foot became still, firmly cupping my nose. "You'll get my coffee right, and you'll be quick about it too, in future - after this!" predicted Lavinia. "Now sniff!"

I could only accept with good grace, promptly and without demur, what I considered was after all in the circumstances a fair and commensurate comeuppance.

The four BA air hostesses waited ...

"Hmm ... he doesn't seem too bothered, to me," commented the still precariously pump-dangling Gemma.

"No, he doesn't, does he?" agreed Bettina, sounding disappointed but intrigued at the same time.

"In fact ..." observed Joanna, "... I think he's actually enjoying sniffing Lavinia's stinky feet."

"Oh, and who are you, Joanna, calling my feet stinky?" said Lavinia in mock-umbrage. "Wait until he gets a whiff of yours, in a minute. I mean, Jo, your feet hardly smell of roses and lavender, do they?"

Gemma interjected, interrupting her colleagues' time-consuming badinage, "Since time's so short, Lavinia, why don't Bettina and I share him with you?"

"Share him, Gemma?"

"Yes. Bettina and I can sit right next to you on either side for a couple of minutes, and we'll rest our feet on his shoulders; you'll have noticed, they're at a very comfortable height for footrests. And then Joanna can have him all to herself, for a few minutes, while the three of us write our comments in his Footman's Daily Record Sheet and award him our marks out of ten."

"Good idea, Gem," approved Lavinia. "Come on, then, you two. Put your feet up. And along with me, make the time-wasting cretin sniff them!"

Before doing so, Gemma leant toward me from her sitting position. Her very attractive face now just inches from mine, and her superior persona coming fully to the fore, Gemma demanded of me, "What are you?"

"Miss Gemma, I'm a time-wasting cretin who is no good at serving coffee, and I deserve to be made to smell air hostess' feet after their long flight-duty as a telling-off."

"Ah - your answer has earned you two marks: one mark for your honesty, and one mark for your evident remorse at so deservingly incurring the disapprobation of my colleagues and me."

Thank you, Miss Gemma," I said respectfully.

The resting, completely relaxed weight of Gemma and Bettina's legs when they crossed their ankles on 'their' shoulders was considerable and uncomfortable. But their legs' combined down-bearing weight also had the more positive effect of firmly anchoring and stabilising me in my on-my-knees position, so at least now I was relieved of the stressful necessity of leaning my face forward into the dark-pantyhosed soles of Lavinia's forcibly and forcefully self-massaging feet.

Joanna looked on, studying me with interest.

Joanna had declared herself more than happy with the going-solo arrangement.

Joanna had said it would be well worth the wait if it would mean having me all to herself for the final few minutes. When after having taken their simultaneous turns with me, her three colleagues went over to the Comfort Station's cork bulletin board and the Footman's Daily Record Sheet.

"See ... I told you he wasn't bothered, didn't I?" observed Gemma, after sealing up my nostrils with the warm and damp dark-pantyhosed toes of her uppermost cross-ankled foot and obliging me to inhale the aromas of her under- and in-between-the-toes scents.

"I actually think you are right, Gem," agreed Bettina, a note of incredulity in her voice.

Never taking her feet from my face for a moment, Lavinia, sealing my mouth with the firmly pressing toes of one foot, joined Gemma and Bettina in wafting a dark-pantyhosed foot in my face in a waving frenzy of wiggling and scrunching and flexing toes.

The commingling foot odours were like nothing I could have imagined.

The combined scents of the BA air hostesses Lavinia, Gemma and Bettina's dark-pantyhosed warm and sweaty post-flight end-of-shift Atlantic-crossing feet were almost eye-watering in their compounded pungency.

Heavy, heady, and intoxicating.

"Now we're getting something," commented Bettina, in satisfaction.

"Yes," agreed Lavinia. "Look - his eyes are nearly popping out!"

"But I think Joanna's right," observed Gemma. "He is enjoying it. Can you believe it? He actually likes the smell of our stinky feet."

"The bus is due in four minutes," said Bettina. "And Joanna hasn't had her turn with him yet."

"Come on," said Gemma. "Let's write our comments and award his marks out of ten on the Footman's Daily Record Sheet."

"He's all yours, Jo," said Lavinia, smiling.

Now it was the going solo having-me-all-to-herself Joanna, who promptly assumed her BA colleague Lavinia's vacated seated position directly facing their on-his-knees-in-a-perfect-position Comfort Station foot masseur and servant.

"Footboy: My default position with your Satisfaction of Conduct rating, both now on this first occasion and in future, is to award you marks of zero out of ten."

For some, unknown reason, as had been the case too with the EasyJet air hostess Pearl, I found that I sort of liked the no-nonsense authoritative tone the BA air hostess Joanna adopted when addressing me.

"That said, as I said earlier, I am not unreasonable ... And so I offer you the latitude to improve on your default score," continued Joanna in the same on-her-high-horse tones.

"Just how much you can improve on it, is largely dependent upon you. Upon your powers of persuasion. Upon your ability to influence.

"The respect you accord me, and your obedience and compliance in following to the letter any and all regulatory and obligatory instructions and orders I give you as befits your position, I take for granted.

"And so the marks out of ten, that ultimately I will arrive at and award you, will rest largely upon the values of merit I place upon each of any additional actions of influence, as are undertaken and performed for me extra-obligatorily - entirely at your behest and of your own volition."