The Footsore Flight Attendants - Part 3

The Footsore Flight Attendants. Ch. 3 of 3.

Ch. 3 of 3: Warren bows to the Singapore Girls.


I would come to find that Sunday mornings were one of the busiest times for me in the Cabin Crew Comfort Station.

Of course, the early-morning periods at Gatwick Airport were always lively.

But Sunday mornings were hectic.

With many holidaymakers returning overnight from their far-flung destinations, there was an even greater number of long-haul flight arrivals.

Which meant an exponentially higher number, of post-flight bus-catching footsore flight attendants in the Comfort Station.

Even more, air hostesses with overworked, tired and achy feet, whose anticipation of availing themselves of the services of their Comfort Station's foot masseur, would soon be realised.

*


But of the six Sundays of my six-week sentence, it would be the standout incident of the third Sunday - Day 21 - that, had I not been either too obdurate or too unwilling to acknowledge its earlier manifest signs, would have told me all I needed to know about my dormant 'condition'.

Day 21 of 42: The Sunday morning when, due to bad visibility because of heavy fog at Heathrow Airport, about twenty-five Heathrow-bound flights were diverted to Gatwick Airport.

Among them, was a Singapore Airlines flight.

And aboard it, was Serene.

*


Word had spread fast among the Gatwick-based flight attendants, that in an ongoing effort to offset damaging reversals to his 80%-minimum Satisfaction of Conduct pass rate requirement, their recently installed foot masseur was amenable - pliable, malleable and easily prevailed upon - to performing extra-obligatory foot services in hopes of being merited a higher marks-out-of-ten rating.

('Extra-obligatory': A phrase meaning non-compulsory, coined on Day 1 by the British Airways air hostess, Joanna).

Joanna: Who's, implied, unvocalised overtures I had that day accurately interpreted.

And of which, I had self-undertaken to respond.

And, for 'wholly voluntarily' performing for her extra-obligatory personal foot services, Joanna had rewarded me as tacitly promised.

Implicitly, the BA air hostess Joanna had given me to understand that she had set the extra-marks-for-going-the-extr a-mile ball rolling.

That, responding voluntarily to other such implied, insinuated, unvoiced proposals and self-undertaking to reverently kiss, precursive to tenderly tending, non-compulsorily, the fresh from the pumps soles of her and her air hostess colleagues' overworked, tired and achy post-flight feet, might - just might - be worth my while.

Given me to understand, that it was for me to sniff out my 'opportunities':

Whether appearing purposely contrived - done for my 'benefit' - and therefore done deliberately and intentionally and so with a manipulative, decided construct; or done apparently absent-mindedly, seemingly shoe-playing unconsciously merely for relief and therefore done to no discernible design ...

Whenever seeing: An air hostess, easing an achy foot from her flight duty pump; seeing her foot partially unshod from dangling a pump while seated; or indeed meaningfully proffered - I should regard any and all of these signs and signals not as unverbalised statutory instructional promptings but as implied messages and unspoken invitations. Which, as the case may be, my self-undertaken reverent attentions might then either be accepted gladly and eagerly or met with annoyance and spurned irritably.

The implication being, that wholly voluntarily and non-statutorily precursive-kissing the soles of their implicitly proffered tired and achy post-flight feet to evince the height of my reverent regard and to demonstrate the depth of my willing submissive servitude at their needful overworked feet, might - just might - be worth a mark or two.

And possibly - just possibly - be worth a good word from them, too.

When, before leaving the Comfort Station and boarding the airport services bus, the thus reverently attended and extra-mandatorily treated footsore flight attendants awarded their marks-out-of-ten ratings and recorded their Satisfaction of Conduct comments on the Footman's Daily Record Sheet.

*


The airport services bus came by every fifteen minutes, and so the Cabin Crew Comfort Station was vacated with frequent regularity.

What also kept the Comfort Station from becoming overcrowded, was that most post-flight air hostesses either had onward travel connections to make or through sheer overtiredness they just simply wished to retrieve their cars from the staff car park and get home to their beds asap, and so they would board the first bus to come along.

But when there was an unusually heavy demand for the Comfort Station foot masseur's services - perhaps due to a cluster of flight arrivals landing slightly off schedule and resulting in larger than usual contingents of post-flight, in-no-hurry air hostesses lingering over their AFP-provisioned fare - time was at a premium.

And so because among air hostesses there was an unwritten rule that on these high demand occasions their Comfort Station foot masseur not be monopolised or dominated either by individuals or small groups in times of greater need, it was expected of me that, of my own accord, I 'mingle'.

Expected of me, to use my judgement and act on my initiative to provide emergency post-flight succour first, to those footsore flight attendants who, as evidenced by their foot favouring weight bearing stances, foot-weary actions and myriad other tell-tale signs, I judged most needful of my relieving, relaxing and reviving ministrations.

During these especially busy, high demand periods, air hostesses would go to the refreshments tables themselves for their food and beverages.

So anathema to the footsore sisterhood was the idea of squandering my (their!) time, serving them as a waiter - instead of serving them with my relief-giving principal function and satisfying more urgent and much greater needs than the ingestion and imbibing of food and drink.

Which was why it was only when the current batch of post-flight end-of-shift air hostesses had boarded the bus with their dolly trollies and before yet others arrived, that, before my routine quick tidy-up between buses, I could sneak a peek and keep tabs on the incoming flights on the Comfort Station's Arrivals monitor.

Which, long before now, had become a source of unwavering interest.

*


Looking at the Arrivals monitor, I noticed that the flight arrivals that were supposed to be Heathrow-bound, but because of the thick fog further north over London were being diverted here to Gatwick, were coming in thick and fast.

The foot masseurs, then this Sunday morning at Heathrow Airport's two Comfort Stations would be having an easier than usual time of it, I mused.

Though I very much doubted they would be allowed to sit there twiddling their thumbs, when there was still plenty other female airport staff who could be allowed into the two Comfort Stations for them to serve, given the circumstances.

Tea-breaking baggage check-in; airline information desk receptionists; security; currency exchange, shop and boutique staff - who, I could well imagine, would be only too pleased to take advantage of such an opportune chance of availing themselves of the services of the temporarily idle foot masseurs.

In all of the UK, it was only Heathrow Airport and Manchester Airport that warranted the provision of two Cabin Crew Comfort Stations.

Despite persistent vociferous petitioning by the Gatwick-based flight attendants - and albeit that Gatwick was the UK's second-busiest after Heathrow in passenger number terms - with just its two, North and South terminals, the provision of a second Comfort Station at Gatwick, at least for the moment, was deemed-

"Boy!"

A bucket of ice-cold water thrown over my head could not have roused me from my reverie more efficiently - I almost jumped out of my skin at the summons.

For instantly I'd understood it could be nothing other, such was the note of accustomed confident authority in the voice of this latest Comfort Station entrant.

Her voice was slightly high-pitched, sing-song yet not lacking in a stentorian quality, and the way she wrapped her tongue around the word 'boy', somehow she made the single syllable word trisyllabic.

"Your services are required - immediately!" she further adjured in her sing-songy, yet obedience-inspiring voice.

I stood gazing in admiration and adoration at the stunningly beautiful air hostess who'd addressed me.

Heaven knows I'd seen some real heart-stopping beauties walk in through those Comfort Station entrance doors during the last three weeks, but ...

In her mid-twenties she was olive-complexioned, slimly built, and her black, waist-length hair was regulation-tied in a French twist.

I imagined her lustrous black hair untied, falling loosely over her dusky shoulders.

"My colleagues and I require foot massage service - now!"

She was attractively uniformed, in a sarong, which had an underlying pattern or design but was predominantly red-coloured.

And, shod in a pair of woven, backless and open-toed shoes, I could see that, peeking out under the hem of her ankle-length garment her feet were bare, and her toes were painted the same shade of eye-catching bright red as her fingernails.

"Boy - did you hear me?"

Now that she'd fully entered the Comfort Station, her Singapore Airlines-logoed 'dolly trolley' in tow, I saw from her name tag ID that she was a Chief Stewardess and her name was Serene.

Serene was indeed beautiful, and what struck me and greatly impressed me about her also was her carriage: her dignified manner and elegant bearing - her natural nobility.

But then, similar personal complimentary accreditations and regal-like descriptions could also be attributed to her three colleagues, who were now filing into the Comfort Station.

Serene didn't appear to be serene, though.

She looked irritated and fatigued, tetchy - ready to fly off the handle at the slightest thing.

As did her three similarly garmented and shod colleagues, who by now had filed into the Comfort Station with their dolly trollies.

Similarly garmented - excepting that, while their uniform sarongs had the same generic design, one of Serene's colleagues wore a predominantly green coloured sarong. From her name tag ID, I gleaned that she was a Leading Flight Attendant and that her name was Yi Ling.

While the other two, air hostesses wore predominantly blue coloured sarongs. Their name tag IDs identified them both as Flight Attendants, and their names were Mira and Diyanah.

Similarly shod - excepting that, while they wore the same woven, backless and open-toed footwear as Serene their Chief Stewardess, Yi Ling, Mira and Diyanah were not barefoot but wore almost see-through light tan pantyhose.

The gauzy mesh material was light enough to see that, peeking out from beneath the hem of their long garments, their toes, too, were painted in the same bright red colour, and that-

In a lightning-quick strike, Chief Stewardess Serene's left olive-skinned palm and long slim fingers exploded on my right cheek with a resounding slap.

"Have I been talking to myself? You will obey at once - boy!"

"Such disobedience!" exclaimed the predominantly green coloured sarong-uniformed Singapore Airlines air hostess, Leading Flight Attendant Yi Ling.

To say that this physical expression of chastisement came as a shock would be the grossest of understatements.

On this, Day 21 of 42 and the midpoint of my six-week sentence, though many times I had been talked down to, shouted at and denigrated by air hostesses both domestic and foreign for both good reasons and for none, this was the first time that one of them had laid a finger on me.

I was stunned, shocked - reeling.

And ... overwhelmed, by mind-shattering new emotions.

My right cheek, stinging like the blazes, I said, "I ... I'm sorry, Miss Serene - very sorry! I ... I was ... I-"

And then I was rubbing away at my left cheek, hurting like mad from a second quick-as-a-flash slap.

At receiving this second slap, from the olive-skinned palm and bright-red painted long slim fingers of Serene's right hand, these newly experienced sensations bloomed - blossomed - as now I was rocked to my core.

"Once given, I do not expect to have to repeat an order to a footboy!" snapped Serene.

"Of- of course, Miss Serene. That- that goes without saying! Please, why don't you and your colleagues make yourselves comfortable until the next bus comes?"

"Very kind, I'm sure - footboy!" returned Serene sardonically. "And besides, we're not likely to be boarding a bus anytime soon."

"Yes, why don't we - make ourselves comfortable - Serene?" agreed Leading Flight Attendant Yi Ling. "Let our gracious host the footboy fetch us all some breakfast. Some of the fresh fruit on those two tables look delicious - especially those big crystal glass bowls of fruit salad. And until we must give him up, to share and share alike with other needy flight attendants, the footboy can serve us at our table as we eat."

"We've got plenty of time, after all," said one of the two Singapore Airlines air hostesses in the predominantly blue coloured sarongs, Flight Attendant Mira. "And as and when the footboy becomes available each time a bus leaves, he can return to serve us, time and again."

"Yes," concurred Mira's colleague of the same rank, Flight Attendant Diyanah. "We're here for the duration: It's going to be hours before we get the all-clear; hours, before we are given clearance to reposition to Heathrow, check into our Four Seasons hotel and then finally get some rest. So after being on my feet for almost all of our fourteen-hour flight at the beck and call of demanding, rude and pesky passengers, during this interlude due to our unfortunate and inconvenient diversion to Gatwick, the footboy will be of considerable consolation to me."

Chief Stewardess Serene turned to address me authoritatively again.

"Footboy: Work quickly. Apportion bowls of fresh fruit salad for myself and my colleagues, and bring us mineral water too; room temperature, for me, not chilled - and I mean work quickly!"

"Absolutely! Four fresh fruit salads and four bottles of mineral water - I'm on it, Miss Serene!"

I felt tears springing from my eyes.

But not from self-pity, because Serene was browbeating me and had slapped my face twice very hard; the former hurting my feelings, the latter hurting my cheeks - but from gratitude, because she was giving me this opportunity to redeem myself somewhat.

Though I'd railed against acknowledging it - and so then must, as a corollary process the inevitable far-reaching implications and face the unavoidable life-changing ramifications - as my days in the Cabin Crew Comfort Station had turned into weeks, I knew that I was becoming more and more 'amenable'.

Increasingly malleable.

Progressively pliable.

Susceptible.

More easily preyed-upon.

More ... user-friendly.

I was responding not just obediently and compliantly, but with an ever greater eagerness, to instructions, both verbal/compulsory and implied/non-compulsory.

I wanted to do more, than was merely expected of me under the terms of my six-week sentence - and therefore, obligatory.

Despite knowing that each self-effacing extra-statutory personal foot service 'favour' that I self-undertook to perform for the air hostesses would be at the expense - at the forfeit - of another layer of what remained of my daily-diminishing dignity, I so wanted to please.

Voluntarily.

Off my own bat.

I wanted to give of myself.

To be, of, and to fulfil, whatsoever services, functions and uses as might be required or requested of me (whether instructed verbally/regulatorily or intimated implicitly/non-regulatorily), by the footsore flight attendants.

I began to care less, and less, that my sense of self-esteem was diminishing daily.

And now, as curtly commissioned by Chief Stewardess Serene, I worked quickly, ladling generous portions of fresh fruit salad into four disposable clear plastic cereal/fruit bowls.

Leading Flight Attendant Yi Ling was right: the fruit salad did look very delicious. And mouth-watering, as I could attest.

But I knew better than to help myself to anything from the two refectory-type tables. With the Comfort Station's CCTV camera recording my every move, I never knew when Mrs Jepson might be watching ...

I didn't hang about; cajoled by Serene to put a spurt on I put the four bowls of fruit salad and four bottles of mineral water on a wooden tray and carried it over to the table where the four Singapore Airlines air hostesses had taken their seats.

Chief Stewardess Serene and Leading Flight Attendant Yi Ling had availed themselves of a couple of the Comfort Station's height-adjustable chrome and padded red leather barstool-like seats. Flight Attendants Mira and Diyanah sat opposite their two seniors, on one of the padded red leather banquette-style bench seats that lined either side of the rectangular-shaped Comfort Station's length.

It was a simple enough food and beverage order to fill, but I was feeling ridiculously pleased with myself for remembering that Chief Stewardess Serene wanted her bottle of mineral water at room temperature and not chilled - I was getting better at remembering things.

I remembered, back on Day 1, when I'd confused the British Airways air hostesses Lavinia and Bettina's respectively non-sugared and four-sugared Americano coffees, resulting in them both awarding me marks of 0/10.

I'd tried to atone, making self-abasing attempts to make at least some small amends, but my increasingly self-demeaning damage-limitation efforts were all made in vain.

And I wouldn't like to repeat, the unforgiving and vindictive Lavinia and Bettina's Satisfaction of Conduct comments on the Footman's Daily Record Sheet ...

"There you go, Miss Serene!" I said brightly, placing the small wooden tray of bowls, cups and bottles on the table. "Four bowls of delicious fresh fruit salad, and four bottles of mineral water; yours, Miss Serene, room temperature, not chilled-"

Chief Stewardess Serene snapped, "Where are our spoons?"

"Spoons? Um ... I, er ..."

This time, alighting from her barstool-like seat it was the predominantly green coloured sarong-uniformed Leading Flight Attendant Yi Ling, who first administered a chastising right-handed face-slap to my left cheek, instantly followed up by the left-handed delivery of an equally stinging face-slap to my right cheek.

"Idiot!" berated Yi Ling. "Are we to eat with our fingers?" she demanded, her voice all sing-songy but still cutting me to the quick as she pointed her finger accusingly at the four bowls of fruit salad sans spoons on the tray.

My bottom lip, trembling, I had no words.

"See, Mira?" said Flight Attendant Diyanah, with feeling, to her colleague of equal rank. "This is why Comfort Stations should be equipped with canes - to punish ill-disciplined footboys! Forgetting to bring us spoons? For that, I would administer the Standard Six to his bared buttocks."

"Yes, Diyanah, I know - and so would I," agreed Mira fervently. "It is the only way they will learn!"

I watched Leading Flight Attendant Yi Ling gracefully resume her seat. And at seeing her manner and bearing so utterly unruffled and composed after chastising me, all of those newly experienced blooming - blossoming - emotions and sensations of a few moments ago returned with cataclysmic force.

If anything, Yi Ling had meted out, arbitrarily; dished out, summarily; administered, on the spot - an even harder, more punishing, more expert and efficacious double face-slap than had Serene.

Disbelievingly I touched my fingertips to my stinging cheeks ... felt the heat.

Awed, I trembled, in the grip of an indescribable thrill.

First, I'd felt utterly crushed, remorseful and inconsolable at so carelessly letting Leading Flight Attendant Yi Ling and her three colleagues down and occasioning their disapprobation and displeasure.

But, at being sternly scolded and by her very own hand brought to book for the cretinous ineptitude of my spoons-forgetting oversight, incredibly I was uplifted and transported, consoled and contented beyond measure in the manner and means of my sharp remonstrance and harsh chastisement.

So affected was I, that, to me, Leading Flight Attendant Yi Ling, perched high upon her barstool-like seat and attired so splendiferously in her predominantly green coloured sarong, had all of the regal and authoritative presence and appearance of a queen upon her throne.

In the manner of a suppliant, penitent serf, I went to my knees before Yi Ling and bowed humbly.

In her woven, backless and open-toed slider-style flight duty shoes, Yi Ling's feet were resting upon the rounded rim of her height-adjustable barstool-like seat's circular chrome footrest.

Looking down, I beheld the exquisite perfection of Yi Ling's red-painted toes, encased in their virtually transparent, pantyhose.

Eager to at least make some small amends; keen to atone - desperate to please - I self-undertook to kiss, individually, the bright-red painted toes of each of Yi Ling's light tan pantyhosed feet.

My penitent, supplicant, forgiveness-seeking gesture duly performed, I then looked up to Yi Ling, my eyes glistening in rapture.

And, my impassioned, heartfelt words imbued with all of the sincerity of my apology, regret and remorse, I said, in the succinct economy-of-words manner expected of the Comfort Station foot masseur, "Miss Yi Ling ... I'm sorry!"

"How pathetic!" cried Flight Attendant Diyanah, who sat opposite Yi Ling and was watching me from around her side of their red Formica-topped table.

Leading Flight Attendant Yi Ling gazed down at me, as though mulling things over, as though considering my immediate fate. Her Far-Eastern features were inscrutable, giving away nothing of her thoughts and intentions.

"I-I'm very sorry, Miss Yi Ling!" I blurted, the building tension soon getting the better of me.

"I forgot - but it won't happen again!" I blurted further, far overstepping the prescribed parameters of my foot masseur's parsimony-of-words permissions.

"I'll just go back and get some spoons, shall I? I won't be a-"

"No - footboy! I'll go and get them," interjected Flight Attendant Mira. "You stay here - and begin performing your primary function!"

"Yes!" agreed Mira's co cane-advocating, Standard-Six recommending, Flight Attendant Diyanah.

"You will begin, with our flight supervisor, Chief Stewardess Serene. Remove her batik slippers for her, and minister to the soles of her bare feet."

"Yes, Miss Diyanah," I said respectfully.

And I did feel, a new, heightened respect for Diyanah, and for Mira too, in knowing that they would not hesitate to cane my bared bottom for the slightest reason.

I felt another, and more intense, rush, of that indescribable thrill.

So great and so urgent was Chief Stewardess Serene's need, though, after endlessly working the aisles of her Jumbo Jet on her fourteen-hour flight, literally walking all the way from Singapore to London, that she had no patience for adhering to the usual formal observances.

Dispensing with the standard protocol - a measure designed to preserve and further instil into the mind of the Comfort Station foot masseur his sense of place - Serene kicked off her batik slippers and, reaching back her legs she rested her feet upon the rounded rim of her barstool-like seat's circular chrome footrest, soles up.

Flight Attendant Diyanah then said further, in commanding tones, "Footboy: Go to your knees, and tend the tired and achy soles of your mistress!"

"Yes, Miss Diyanah," I said, obediently and succinctly, readopting the Comfort Station foot masseur's bounden parsimonious expenditure of words.

Upon going to my knees to the rear of Chief Stewardess Serene's barstool-like seat as directed by Flight Attendant Diyanah, it is impossible for me to describe what I saw with any justice the intensity of the feelings engendered and sensations of pity and tenderness evoked, and that swept through me.

Coursed right through me, upon observing close up, both the pity-inspiring, small signs, and the more distressful to behold, tenderness evoking proofs, of the work-begrimed weariness and desperate post-flight neediness of Serene's overworked feet.

Such pity!

Such tenderness!

Feelings and sensations of such pity, and such tenderness, for Chief Stewardess Serene's sweat-stained, work-begrimed, tired and achy long-haul reddened bare soles.

I pulled off my community-servant style uniform white T-shirt - emblazoned not with a community servant's ID but instead, with bold red letters declaring 'FOOTMAN' on the front and denouncing 'LITTER LOUT' on the back - and I folded it to use as a cushion.

Carefully, I lifted first Serene's right foot and then her left and inserted under them my improvised makeshift foot comforter onto the hard and unyielding rounded rim of her barstool-like seat's circular chrome footrest.

Serene did not go as far as to say thank you, for my thoughtful T-shirt divesting consideration. But from her murmurings, I knew that using my initiative in prioritising and promoting her comfort had met with her approval and was most agreeable to her.

It would not be an overstatement to say that it was nothing short of awe, now, that I stared down at Serene's side-by-side upturned olive-complexioned bare soles.

Had I ever seen feet, that were so perfect? So, shapely? So ... pretty?

I heard extraneous airport environment noises as the Comfort Station's glass entrance doors opened. Dolly trollies were being wheeled in, accompanied by the chattering voices of post-flight end-of-shift air hostesses - but I didn't look up.

Didn't look up, because here, now, sitting right in front of me with her sarong-garmented back turned to me was Serene: the most needful, desperate - and, to me, deserving - recipient to date of my primary function.

More and yet more chatterbox air hostesses both domestic and foreign came bustling in through the Comfort Station's glass entrance doors with their dolly trollies in tow, but I hardly heard them.

I barely heard the latest Comfort Station entrants speaking to colleagues in their various native tongues, as wholly voluntarily and non-compulsorily I precursive-kissed Chief Stewardess Serene's sweat-stained, work-begrimed bare toes and soles, not missing anywhere.

All but oblivious, as off my own bat and non-statutorily I concentrated my efforts and paid particular attentions to the reddened balls of her feet and the bottoms of her heels, ministering my tongue with industrial endeavour upon Serene's work-wearied post-fourteen-hour-flight feet.

Chief Stewardess Serene of Singapore Airlines did not go as far as to say thank you, for self-undertaking to respond as desired to her tacit, implicit, unvoiced proposal of decided construct, that, might - just might, possibly - be worth an extra mark or two.

But, from the contentful sounds, she made I knew that my decision to compliantly provide extra-obligatory personal foot service for her was the right one.

*


Flight Attendant Diyanah of Singapore Airlines had been right.

It was hours.

Hours, before the fog further north cleared.

Hours, before the granting of their awaited clearance, when Diyanah and her three colleagues were finally able to rejoin their male-steward colleagues and their male Flight Deck crew (who had all remained aboard the aircraft) and prepare to reposition their diverted Jumbo Jet to Heathrow Airport.

And hours, that, between giving me up to share and share alike with other needy air hostesses, Chief Stewardess Serene, Leading Flight Attendant Yi Ling, and Flight Attendants Mira and Diyanah, availed themselves and made the fullest possible use imaginable of my Comfort Station foot masseur's services, both obligatory and non-obligatory.

And in between repeatedly serving the four of them at (and under) their table while they awaited their clearance notification upon which they could return to their aircraft and rejoin the rest of their crew, I 'mingled'.

I used my judgement and acted on my initiative to provide post-flight end-of-shift succour first, to the footsore flight attendants who, as evidenced by both the harder to spot telltale signs I'd trained myself to look for and recognise besides the more obvious, were most in need of my relieving, relaxing and reviving ministrations.

But I was also on high alert, on the lookout for any air hostesses who were sending me 'messages' ...

An Air France air hostess, seated between two of her colleagues on one of the padded red leather banquette-style bench seats, was sitting with one dark-pantyhosed leg crossed over her other leg and from the toes of which foot she was dangling her flight duty pump.

But the question was: Was the Air France air hostess just simply glad to have at last taken the weight off her feet and now she was just gratefully cooling her heels and airing a tired and achy post-flight foot - or was she sending me a 'message'?

Because, she seemed to be implying, by a suggestive look, that she might not be averse to awarding me an extra mark or two in return for a moment or two of extra-obligatory personal foot service attentions.

Self-programmed to respond primarily to the perceived intentional, I took a chance on taking the Air France air hostess up on what I took to be her insinuated, unverbalised intimation of decided construct.

I went to my knees before her and, seeing from her Air France ID that her name was Nicolette, I said, respectfully and with the economy of words succinctness required of the Comfort Station foot masseur at all times, "Mademoiselle Nicolette."

Nicolette did not deign to reply but dangled her flight duty pump in front of my face, in what appeared a meaningful manner.

And then, upon her working her toes to cause her pump to swing up and down continually and to depend from her toes ever more precariously, I knew her allusion was no illusion - her unspoken implication was clear.

It was a 'message'.

So there was no mistake.

No error of judgement.

No room for doubt.

I had not misinterpreted the signals.

I had not misread the signs.

Nicolette had confirmed her tacit 'invitation'.

Sat to either side of Nicolette, her two Air France colleagues - who from their name tags I saw were Isobel and Vicki - smiled, as they watched Nicolette fanning her French foot fragrance into my passive, 'willingly' accepting face.

I was now three weeks into my six-week foot masseur assignment, and an ever-growing number of both Gatwick-based and long-haul hotel-stopover foreign, air hostesses' faces were becoming familiar. Some of them, such as the EasyJet air hostess, Pearl, I'd been serving several times a week.

But only now, was I making the acquaintance of these three stunningly attractive young ladies - but perhaps, just like Chief Stewardess Serene and her three Singapore Airlines colleagues, they too had been bound for Heathrow, and that was their usual route.

Now for the first time, I heard Nicolette's sexy-sounding, fruitily nuanced voice as she addressed me in her heavily accented English.

"Take off my shoe," Nicolette instructed - as quite rightfully she was entitled to, of the obligated sentence-serving Cabin Crew Comfort Station's foot masseur.

"Yes, mademoiselle Nicol-"

I got no further.

Because, not caring to hear the further utterance of my albeit respectful but superfluous words, immediately upon my doing her shoe-removal bidding Nicolette had stilled my voice - her officially unentitled but unofficially permitted foot, forcibly tilting my head back to the optimum angle for using the front of my face as her footrest.

Showing that she was no Comfort Station novice, Nicolette then made a minor adjustment; the one that all but the greenest air hostesses always made, taking care that the undersides of her dark-pantyhose covered toes were covering my nostrils, ensuring my olfactory attentions.

I heard Isobel and Vicki giggling.

But I hardly heard them.

Was barely aware, of Isobel and Vicki's giggling and chuckling - because yet again, the richly aromatic scent of yet another footsore flight attendant's post-flight feet was stirring up that strange turmoil within me and taking over my mind to the exclusion of all else.

I leant my face into the sole of Nicolette's dark-pantyhosed foot, returning her own, considerable pressure with interest.

But it wasn't enough.

I wanted more.

I wanted to feel Nicolette's warm, somehow excitingly fragrant pantyhose-encased sole-of-the-foot flesh pressing more and more firmly into my face; wanted to inhale deeply, of those heady, previously un-partaken of under- and in-between-the-toes scents.

I reached forward with my hands, about to place them on the top of her foot, and-

"Non!" admonished Nicolette, upon registering my intent. "I am comfortable."

Immediately, I withdrew my hands and put them safely away behind my back: For the moment, providing Nicolette's chosen comforts was my sole concern.

Isobel and Vicki said something to each other in French and then tittered again.

I understood none of Isobel and Vicki's words, but I discerned much from their tone.

I tried to look at them, but Nicolette immediately tilted my head back to her most comfortable footrest angle, and then it hurt too much to roll my eyes down so far, so I gave up on it.

"Now take off my other shoe, footboy," ordered Nicolette, placing her still shod foot on my lap so I'd know where it was. "My feet are both very sore, but this foot is hurting more," Nicolette told me, exerting a little pressure with the point of her heel for emphasis. "Massage firmly, but carefully."

So ... here was yet another air hostess calling me 'footboy'.

Perhaps it was universal, in all of the UK's Cabin Crew Comfort Stations?

But I'd long since got over it and stopped taking offence at the air hostesses who addressed me by the title - if I ever had, really minded.

Nicolette removed the sole of her foot from my face and rested it against my bare chest - bare because Serene was still using my folded-over uniform white T-shirt for padding to rest the tops of her feet on the rounded rim of her barstool-like seat's circular chrome footrest, leaving her feet soles-up for my ongoing attentions.

Nicolette's flight duty pumps were well-worn, but they fitted snugly.

And so it was that with a little careful exertion, Nicolette's other shoe came free from her foot with a whoosh of escaping trapped warm air that smelled of leather, but not predominantly.

The insole, I saw, was well-worn, too.

From the looks of things, the once-white original insole had seen a lot of long, hard service. It was work-worn a very dark, charcoal-grey colour - apart from at the arch, or mid-shoe, section, where a fading idea of the insole's original bright white colour still lingered.

No sooner was Nicolette's other warm to the touch dark-pantyhosed foot in my hands and I had begun to massage as directed when, Isobel and Vicki, still shod, appropriated my shoulders for footrests, thereby completing the three-on-one multi-use utilisation of the Comfort Station foot masseur as advocated during times of high demand.

The resting, relaxed weight of Isobel and Vicki's dark-pantyhosed legs and feet now bearing down on my shoulders, I was firmly anchored and stabilised on my knees in front of Nicolette; the sole of one pungently fragrant dark-nylon encased foot again pressing firmly into the front of my compliant and cooperative face as before.

As best as I could, I lavished Nicolette's warm and aromatic dark-pantyhosed sole with reverent kisses, which with equanimity Nicolette accepted as her due.

Nicolette then shared and shared alike.

Nicolette gently pushed the bottom of her heel against my lips, and, getting the 'message', I self-undertook to open my mouth accommodatingly in 'willing', extra-compulsory acceptance.

I watched the undersides of Nicolette's toes, right in front of my eyes; watched them, as behind the gauzy dark veil of her dark pantyhose they scrunched, spread and wiggled.

And, resting their feet cross-ankled on my shoulders, Isobel and Vicki followed Nicolette's earlier example - nonchalantly working their, toes to casually waft into my face from their, well-worn flight duty pumps regulated samples of their, French foot perfumes.

My head: enveloped in the invisible cloud of the heady olfactory complexities of their amalgamating post-flight foot scents; my mouth: extra-compulsorily but 'willingly' accommodating the bottom of Nicolette's dark-nylon encased heel and my tongue, licking and sucking on and swallowing the reduced concentrated essences of the work-begrimed thin mesh's entrapped salt-rich deposits; and my eyes: mere inches away from the thinly veiled undersides of Nicolette's playful toes and, on my shoulders, watching in turn and extra-obligatorily self-undertaking to self-subject myself to the nonchalant pump-dangling and casual foot-scent fanning of Isobel and Vicki - understanding nothing but interpreting everything from their nuanced asides, I listened to the three inconveniently diverted and probably never to be seen again Air France air hostesses chatter away in their native tongue ...

By 09:05 on the Comfort Station's clock, in addition to all of the usual Gatwick-based and the long-haul hotel-stopover air hostesses, ever more, deplaned air hostesses, from more diverted Heathrow-bound flights, were coming in through the Comfort Station's entrance doors to pass the time in comfort pending clearance to reposition.

Accustomed to the splendid hospitalities, the inconveniently diverted air hostesses promptly made themselves at home in the Comfort Station.

Availing themselves: of the generous offerings of food and beverages, regularly replenished by deliveries of the contracted quality catering firm; of the comfortable seating, when available; and of me, when available.

But until the next airport services bus arrived at 09:15, when the present contingents of Gatwick based and long-haul hotel-stopover air hostesses lucky enough to have seats vacated them and boarded the bus with their dolly trollies and relieved the overcrowding, a lot of the footsore flight attendants were still having to stand.

Due to all of these flight diversions - and from one of my quick peeks at the Comfort Station's Arrivals monitor, I'd noticed that some flights bound for Luton and Stansted airports were being diverted here to Gatwick too - I was seeing a lot of unfamiliar air hostess uniforms.

The situation was unprecedented in my three-week experience as Comfort Station foot masseur.

During normal times, the Comfort Station's seating provision was more than adequate.

But now, with air hostesses sitting shoulder to shoulder on the two padded red leather banquette-style bench seats and occupying all of the red leather and chrome barstool-like seats as well, for the moment, there was standing room only for newly arriving Comfort Station entrants.

As per Mrs Jepson's standing instructions, I 'mingled'.

Roaming the Comfort Station, my eyes peeled and my antennas attuned for detecting any of the myriad telltale signs she'd told me to look out for - and also, for the little tip-off giveaways, that I'd taught myself to recognise - it wasn't long before I spotted a possible 'messenger'.

An air hostess, standing among a group of four, was displaying one of the classic giveaway signs of PSD: post-flight soles-of-the-feet discomfort.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Such pity!

Such tenderness!

Her poor feet!

Her poor, egregiously overworked, post-flight feet!

It pained me to see them.

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

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

Well, there was one way to find out.

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

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

And, there was my answer:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No misinterpreting, the suggestive sign.

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

Friede was sending me an unverbalised 'invitation'.

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

I had sniffed out an 'opportunity'.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To share and share alike.

*


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I 'mingled'.

With my eyes peeled, and my ears attuned.

On the lookout for signs.

Signals.

Sniffing out 'opportunities'.

Knowing it wouldn't be long.

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

With an 'invitation'.


***


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was unbearable to contemplate.

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

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

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

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

My dejection was complete.

Who'd have thought it?

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

But, maybe it wasn't too late.

I took a look around ...

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

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

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

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

"Sir ...?"

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

"Sir ...?"

"Um ... I-"

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

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

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

*


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

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

But for a six-month term.

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

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

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

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

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

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

*


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

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

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

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

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

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

I owed him my gratitude.

I looked at my watch ...

Ah, what the hell.

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

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

*


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Arnold the Litterman was hard at it.

But, not as I'd imagined ...

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

Well, well, well.

Who would have thought it?

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

I stood stock still, beholding the tableau before me.

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

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

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

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

I left Arnold to it.

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


*


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

I would make my train after all.


The End.

This story is written by David, please send comments and appreciation to voondave@yahoo.co.uk