The Ankle-Crossing Air Hostess

Unfortunately for Mademoiselle Sophie, she didn't, on this occasion, get to enjoy the relief and pleasures (relief and pleasure, in equal measure), of a nice, relaxing foot massage, as administered by the Comfort Station footboy. For, the Air Crew Bus arrived, and deprived her of said highly agreeable attentions and ministrations.

Without so much as a word to me - perfectly normal Air Hostess behaviour, in the Comfort Station - the 2 Air France Air Hostesses slipped their tan hosed feet back into their Flight Duty pumps. Then they stood, and they wheeled their Dolly Trolleys to the kerb, preparatory to boarding the Air Crew Bus. Then, like a gift from the Gods - or, Goddesses! - the incredible, the unbelievable, happened ...

Mademoiselle Marie: just before setting foot on the step of the Air Crew Bus, turned around, and she looked right at me. And, she smiled (as though she meant it!), as she actually said "Merci, footboy ..." before turning around again, and boarding the Air Crew Bus with her Air France colleague, Mademoiselle Sophie.

I couldn't believe it! I was speechless! And, to this day, I have regretted - profoundly regretted; for, heaven knows, such instances of French complimentary largess were extremely rare, in the Comfort Station - not being able to express my unbounded gratitude, to Mademoiselle Marie. After all, this was a breaking-new-ground, unprecedented occurrence. It was the very first time, in 28 days, that I had actually received any actual voiced expression of thanks ("Merci, footboy ...") from a French Air Hostess ... After all, it was, apparently, their God-given - or, Goddess-given - right, anyway.

Better still! Better still ... was that Mrs Jepson: who had been listening to (eavesdropping), and furtively watching (spying) everything that went on in the Comfort Station, while she was working on her Final Assessment of my footboy's Daily Record Sheet ... saw and heard everything!

And, whats more: I saw Mrs Jepson - at hearing Mademoiselle Marie's "Merci, footboy ..." - nod to herself thoughtfully; and then write something down ...

I saw Mrs Jepson, write something down ... Mrs Jepson: who had been quietly contemplating, tapping her ballpoint pen against her lower lip, as though pondering, wrote something down ... Mrs Jepson: who had been carefully deliberating: weighing up, perhaps, some of the finer, touch-and-go points, in a bid to arrive at the correct, Final Decision, wrote something down ... Mrs Josephine Jepson: in seeming to finally arrive at her critically considered conclusion, as to whether or not I had passed her Final Assessment Test: as to whether or not, I had achieved the minimum, 90% Satisfaction of Conduct Pass Rate ("Anything less, David, than 90%, and..."), wrote something down ...

I waited. I waited, for Mrs Jepson to finally speak. To announce her Final Decision. To reveal my fate ... I had never known, such tormenting, unbearable tension.

Mrs Jepson, I could plainly see, took a wicked pleasure in beholding my pathetically anxious face; my needing-to-know-but-scared-to-find-out expression ... Staring at me, for long, agonizing, tension-filled seconds, as though daring me to speak, as though daring me to actually ask, for the thumbs-up or thumbs-down verdict of my test - Mrs Jepson's Final Assessment Test - before she finally put me out of my misery ...

"Congratulations, David," said Mrs Jepson sourly. "You have passed my Final Assessment Test ... Only just, though: it was a very close thing. You have actually rated exactly 90%, David ... Anything less, David, than 90%, and ..." she said, sounding sorely disappointed with the outcome.

Passing me an A4 size sheet of thick, white paper, with bold, red letters printed on it, declaring: 'Final Assessment Test Pass Certificate', Mrs Jepson said, "Here, David. This is your Pass Certificate ... What ever you do, don't lose it! Well ...? What are you waiting for now? A medal? A 21-gun salute? Your name in lights ...? You're free to go, you fool ... Go on, then, David ... Get out of my sight! And, I don't want to ever see you in my Litter Office again ... Or else!" she warned me as she walked past me, and left the Comfort Station to return to her damned Litter Office.

Well! Mrs Josephine Jepson (Mrs "Not tonight, Josephine ..." - Not ever! - Jepson) didn't have to tell me again! I shot out of the Cabin Crews' Comfort Station so fast, I almost broke the sound-barrier. Not surprising, though - I was already over the moon! I was actually free! FREE!! Yes! YES!!

I carefully folded my precious Pass Certificate ("What ever you do, don't lose it!") twice, so that it fit snugly into the back pocket of my trousers, with no danger of it falling out.

I still needed to wait for the next Air Crew Bus though, as I needed a lift to the Long Stay car park. I had come to Gatwick Airport in my car today, because I had actually dared to hope that I might actually achieve the horrible Mrs Jepson's Final Assessment Test Pass Rate: a minimum, of 90% ("Anything less, David, than 90%, and ...")

In the happy event of my actually achieving said minimum Pass Rate target, I wanted to have a drive over to the 'Blue Water' Shopping Centre. I wanted to buy Kate something really, really nice. A present ("Something 'decent', David,") by way of celebration ... I know! In tribute to the Air France Air Hostess, Mademoiselle Marie, who, I felt convinced, had actually tipped the scales in my favour, and had won the day for me at the very last possible moment ("Merci, footboy ..."), I would also pick up a bottle - what the hell! - 2 bottles of Chateauneuf Du Pape; which, by a happy coincidence, was Kate's favourite wine. And we would toast my beautiful French rescuer, Mademoiselle Marie!

I was exhilarated! I hadn't felt this good, for ... 28 days! Ha ha ha! And, I would be back on track, now, with Kate. Oh, yes ... 'Normal Service', would be resumed ... Especially, as I had a new job lined-up - starting on Monday! Now, Kate would forgive me all of my sins. Every single one of them. Oh, yes ... She would! Mrs Jepson, had shunted me into the sidings, and left me there for 28 miserable-as-sin days. Now, though; in issuing my Pass Cerificate, she had pulled back on the points lever, and waved her green flag, letting me back on track. I was going to be back on track, with Kate! 'Normal Service', was going to be resumed! WHEH HEY!!

Then, just as I was thinking, in a celebratory, sing-songy way ... 'No more ankle-crossing Air Hostess' ... 'No more Miss Samantha' ... 'No more Pain In The Neck': Lo, and behold: she turned up. Out of the blue. In her civvies. And suddenly, things looked black.

Miss Samantha: her demeanour, usually so calm, so confident, so self-assured, so arrogant - so insufferable - seemed, to me, to be rather nervous, fidgety. Edgy. This was just not like her ... This was not the Miss Samantha, that I had come to know - and live in trepidation of. And, I just knew, that something smelled 'fishy'. I just knew, that something was definitely 'off', here ...

Especially, when she didn't say anything to me: didn't try to wound me, with one of her 'trademark' cruel, hurtful barbs. And when she seemed to be avoiding making eye-contact, with me: instead of glaring at me, in conveying her customary, malicious message ("This is what you get, for dropping litter!").

Until, that is, the arrival of the Air Crew Bus ...

With a hiss of the hydraulics, the entrance door of the Air Crew Bus folded open. "Please, Miss Samantha. After you," I said courteously and respectfully. To the last, keeping my "Nose clean." To the last, behaving "Well."

"No, no ... it's all right, David. On you get!" insisted Miss Samantha ... rather too brightly, to my ear. "Let's let bygones be bygones, David, shall we?" offered Miss Samantha generously. "I mean ... you made a mistake, David ... but now you have paid your price to society," she said absolvingly.

Now, I was worried - very worried. Miss Samantha had just scored a very worrying hat-trick. Never before, had she used my name - it was always 'footboy'. But, she had just called me 'David' - 3 times. And it was this, more than anything else: more, than her patently false, sudden friendliness; more, than her blatantly insincere expressions of forgiveness and absolution, that set the alarm bells ringing - clamouring - in my head, in warning of my imminent and dire peril.

And those clamorous alarm bells were still trying to warn me; to alert me to my peril ... When I courteously said " Thank you, Miss Samantha." Still trying to warn me, when I set foot on the step of the Air Crew Bus. And, those clanging, clamouring alarm bells were still trying to warn me - until it was too late.

For, I felt a strong, staying hand grip my right shoulder, and a harsh, stentorian male voice cried out, "Just a moment, sir ..."

The Litterman (for, that's who he was) held in his hand, an A4 size sheet of thick, white paper, with the words 'Final Assessment Test Pass Certificate' printed on it, in bold, red letters. "Would this ... happen to be yours, sir ...?" he asked accusingly.

Oh no! OH NO!! How could this have possibly happened? I wondered frantically ... My Pass Certificate ("What ever you do, don't lose it!"), had been in my back pocket. Nice and snug, and with no danger of it falling out ... No danger ... of it 'falling', out ...

"Out of my way, FOOTBOY!" said Miss Samantha nastily, rudely elbowing me out of her way, as she stepped aboard the Air Crew Bus.

When I looked up at Miss Samantha, and saw the expression on her face ... the penny finally dropped - and exploded like a laser-guided cluster-bomb.

Miss Samantha, had planned this! She must have! Yes! That was it ... She had insisted I get on the Air Crew Bus, before her, so that she could pluck my Pass Certificate out of my back pocket, and then drop my precious passport to freedom on the ground, for the Litterman to see ...

But, that was the bit I couldn't understand: what was the Litterman even doing here - in a part of the airport where there were no air passengers - in the first place? Patrolling this area was not a part of his official remit ... I didn't get it.

Miss Samantha was jubilant, gleeful, exultant. She was smiling at me: wickedly, tauntingly, goadingly ("This, is what you get, for dropping litter!").

My legs actually buckled; folded under me, as if my tendons had suddenly snapped like old, perished elastic, at absorbing the dreadful knowledge of the awful extent of Miss Samantha's perfidious perpetration against me. My legs actually gave way, from the appalling, stunning shock: the shock, of realising just what Miss Samantha - the ankle-crossing Air Hostess - had actually done to me. I would have collapsed helplessly to the ground, had it not been for the Litterman's firm and staying hand, holding me up.

Oh, the exquisite irony, of it! It brought me close to tears. "You!", I croaked at Miss Samantha wretchedly. "You, have done this ... Haven't you? You! YOU!!"

"I'm not sure that I like your tone, FOOTBOY! I must remember to make a note of it, on your Footboy's Daily Record Sheet," promised Miss Samantha gloatingly.

I couldn't take much more of this. It was all ... so cruelly unjust! So devastating. So soul-crushing. So ... so hideously wrong!

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!

And, not accepting my earnest, truthful excuses, the Litterman escorted me to the Litter Office, to be formally brought to book for my 'offence'. "This way, sir ..." instructed the Litterman brusquely.

Guiding me, by means of a firm, staying hand upon my right shoulder, the Litterman escorted me to the door of a decidedly drab-looking building. Once inside, he marched me down the familiar, decidedly dismal narrow corridor, and up to a door at the end, which was painted in a depressing, sort of 'Institution' grey. On the office door, was the - rather incongruous looking, in this dismal setting - highly-polished brass plaque, which read: 'Gatwick Airport Litter Office - Head: Mrs J Jepson'.

The Litterman: after breathing heavily upon the brass plaque, and then polishing it to a gleaming shine with a cuff of his uniform jacket, discreetly rapped the knuckle of a forefinger upon the office door. Upon receiving, in response, permission to enter by a decidedly no -nonsense sounding female voice, the Litterman opened the office door, and escorted me inside.

"Yes, Litterman ...? What have you got for me?" asked the woman who sat behind her desk, who was the Litterman's Superior.

After gracing his Superior with his customary reverential bow, the Litterman spoke. "He dropped this, Madam ..." said the Litterman, handing over the offending article - the incriminating 'evidence' - to his Superior.

When Mrs Jepson - Mrs Josephine ("Not tonight, Josephine ...") Not ever! Jepson - saw me, she cried, "You! YOU AGAIN!! What is the meaning of this ...? No sooner, have I issued your Pass Certificate ("What ever you do, don't lose it!"), than ... you are littering again ...?" she asked incredulously. "Don't you realise just how close you came, to failing my Final Assessment Test?" ("Anything less, David, than 90%, and ...")

"Oh, no, Mrs Jepson! NO! It wasn't like that! I promise! You see ... it was Miss Saman---"

But, by now Mrs Jepson was looking at the offending article; the incriminating 'evidence', that the Litterman had handed over to her. And, as she recognized it, I thought that her face gradually turned about 5 shades paler, as all of the colour drained away. "What's this, then ... David? What have you been littering with, this time ...? Why ... I don't believe it ... this... this is actually ... this is your Pass Certificate!"

"Are you quite all right, Madam ...? Madam ...? A glass of water, perhaps ...?" asked the Litterman solicitously, out of his obvious concern for his Superior.

By means of a dismissive wave of her hand, Mrs Jepson assured her faithful underling of her well-being. To me, Mrs Jepson said through gritted teeth, "So, David ... this is the measure, then, is it ... of the contempt that you hold for the Gatwick Airport Litter Office ... for MY office ...?"

"NNNOOO, Mrs Jepson!! You don't understand! It was Miss Saman---"

"SHUT IT!! I told you what would happen, didn't I, David, if you were brought before me again? And, to cap it all, you actually littered ... with your Pass Certificate! Well ... I told you, 28 days ago, didn't I, David, what to expect ... That I am empowered, to award you a much stiffer sentence; the severity of which, would be at my own, sole discretion ...? Well, David ... as a Repeat Offender - and, of such serious magnitude! - I am awarding you a 12 months, Foot Service Duty sentence, to be served in the Cabin Crews' Comfort Station ... And, your hours of---"

"NNNNOOOOOOOO!!" I wailed in panic-stricken horror, causing the Litterman to tighten the grip of his strong, staying hand on my right shoulder. "No, Mrs Jepson! Please! You've got it all wrong! ALL WRONG!! It was Miss Saman---"

"I SAID ... SHUT IT!! The Litterman has caught you red-handed - again - and that's all there is to it ... Oh, Samantha was right, wasn't she, when she confidently predicted that you would litter again?

"Now, where was I ... Your new Foot Service Duty sentence, David, will begin tomorrow - Monday. Your hours, will be exactly the same as previously ... 6 a.m. - 6 p.m. And, for 7 days a week, until the completion of your 12 months' sentence ... After each month of your new sentence, I will assess your Satisfaction of Conduct Rate, based upon the comments of the Air Hostesses, as officially recorded on your Footboy's Daily Record Sheet ... Then, at the completion of your 12 months' sentence, I will make my Final Assessment Test ... I will do this, by means of combining your monthly values, so as to calculate the average score of your overall conduct, for the whole 12 months ... You must achieve a minimum, 90%, Satisfaction of Conduct Pass Rate ... Anything less, David, than 90%, and ..."

"NNOOOO, MRS JEPSON!! PLEASE ... no ... no, you can't ... Mrs Jepson. Please ... Mrs Jepson. Mrs Jepson ... JOSEPHINE ... May I ... may I call you ... Josephine ... Mrs Jepson ...?"

"I ... I don't believe this ... You are actually trying to ingratiate yourself with me, now! ... Well, David ... IT. WON'T. WORK! I have duly judged you ... My ruling is final."

"Please ... Mrs Jepson. Please ... Not the Comfort Station AGAIN! Please ... please ... Mrs Jepson ... Let me clean the Air Crew Buses, instead ... Mrs Jepson ...? Night Duty, even! Anything, but the Comfort Station ... MRS JEPSON!!" I wailed despairingly.

But, all that my pitiful and pathetic begging and pleading achieved, was to make Mrs Josephine Jepson's day.

Miserably, I slunk lower and lower in my seat. And, I was sitting in a cloak of dejection and despair that was so dense, I thought I would have to cut myself out of it with a pair of tailor's scissors.

Mrs Jepson issued me with a large, white carrier-bag, with the singularly unglamorous legend: 'Gatwick Airport Litter Office' printed on it, in bold, red letters. And on the capacious carrier-bag, was depicted the Litter Office's official logo, of a silhouetted, stick-figured 5-member family, considerately and correctly disposing of their litter in the receptacle provided for the purpose.

Contained, within the capacious carrier-bag, were the following items: a Travel Warrant - valid for 12 months; a polythene bag, containing 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; a pair of heavy-duty knee-pads ... and, my own key, to the Footboy T-shirts and heavy-duty knee-pads cupboard.

Finally, Mrs Jepson said, by means of a short re-cap, "Right then, David. You know the routine ... Tomorrow, at 6 a.m., you will report to the Cabin Crews' Comfort Station to begin your new, 12 months', Foot Service Duty sentence ... And, don't be late, David ..."

Don't be late, said Mrs Jepson! Don't be late? I shouldn't even be coming back at all! I couldn't take much more of this! It was so unfair! So unjust! So cruel! So diabolical! So hideously ... wrong!

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!

Well! So much, then, for having a drive over to the 'Blue Water' Shopping Centre to buy a nice, 'celebratory' ("Something 'decent', David,") present for Kate. I couldn't afford it, now: since I wouldn't be starting my new job on Monday, after all.

No ... Instead: as per Mrs Josephine Jepson's orders, I would be reporting for Foot Service Duty, at the Cabin Crews' Comfort Station, at Gatwick Airport ... Just as I had been doing, for the last 28 days. I had never felt so wretched. My outlook had never looked so bleak.

When I got home, I glumly told my Mum and Dad, and my girlfriend, Kate, just exactly what I was going to be doing, for the next 12 months ... and why. I had been expecting some sympathy.

Instead, Mum and Dad told me I deserved everything I got, for dropping litter - again! Pooh-poohing and finger-waving away my earnest and truthful excuses, they righteously opined that since I obviously hadn't learned my lesson yet, this second, much stiffer sentence was entirely called-for, and was wholly appropriate. It was because of the likes of me, they pontificated, that they couldn't even walk down the street, these days, without being unduly inconvenienced by having to step around all manner of litter.

But, that wasn't the worst of it ... Oh, no. Not by a long chalk. Upon hearing my decidedly unwelcome news, my girlfriend, the 'long-suffering' Kate; in a rather melodramatic gesture, threw up her arms, in giving animated expression to her ever increasing exasperation and frustration with me. Kate blew up. Her very short fuse had finally burned down. And, being at the 'seat' of the dramatic explosion, I caught all of the shrapnel.