Mile High Guy Read Free

they even contemplate walking into a tiny toilet cubicle in their bare feet? Everybody is now looking for iced water – especially those who have consumed alcohol solidly for the past few hours.
    Some passengers, when they find out the drink is free, ram it down their throats like it is going out of fashion. But there’s a price for everything. And the price for a hangover on board an aircraft is the dearest of all. Funny how these passengers are not as jovial now as they were getting on the plane back at JFK, huh?
    Babies are waking up and beginning to scream. Kids are yelling, ‘How much LONNNNGER Daddy?’ Adults are searching for aspirin and sick bags and I cannot wait for this plane to land.
    I’m going to try and sleep for a few hours when I get home. Hopefully I won’t meet my parents on the short journey from the front door to my bedroom. Not that I’ve anything against my parents, but after a sleepless night, cooped up in a stuffy metal machine with a couple of hundred passengers, I hate meaningless questions like, ‘How was New York?’
    I’m now making tea like a zombie. Not concentrating, I pour half the boiling water on my hand. No harm though; water on airplanes is never really hot enough to do serious damage but I do notice my Sunshimmer fake tan is streaking badly.
    Debbie is at my shoulder. Debbie and myself trained together and get along pretty well. I haven’t seen much of her tonight though because she’s been up in first class serving the Champagne Charlies.
    ‘Just think,’ she whispers. ‘We’ve the next three days off. I can’t wait.’
    She disappears again and I stare after her, slightly bemused.
    It’s funny the way the cabin crew always seem so delighted with all the time off. I disagree with that theory. I don’t think we’ve any more time off than anyone else. Because the first day after a transatlantic trip all you do is sleep. And when you do wake up, your body clock is all over the place and you don’t know whether it’s morning or night. That to me is torture, not time off.
    Anyway I’m not complaining – of course I’m not – after all what other job gives you a few days in LA when the most stressful decision will be whether you have a pedicure before or after lunch? And if it ever gets too much I’ll leave. Why stick at a job you don’t enjoy and spend your time moaning about it? Life’s not long enough for that.
    We’re at Shannon Airport now where some of our passengers are disembarking. I’m standing at the plane door, the icy Atlantic wind is biting my tan coloured tights, and I’m forcing myself to smile. My teeth are chattering and I’m trying to remember to say ‘Good-bye’ instead of ‘Hello’. A few passengers then embark; mainly businessmen going to work in the capital. They look so clean and fresh and I feel dirty and grubby in comparison. I can’t wait to go home and have a shower.
    Debbie comes to the door to relieve me. She says I can go up to first class and read the morning papers. It’s a tempting offer but I decline. I think if I sit down now I’ll never want to get up again. And besides I don’t read newspapers – they’re too depressing. Full of job losses, rising property prices, and gory stories about freaks living somewhere in Middle America. But Debbie says I should take a break anyway so I do.
    It’s a pleasure walking into the first class cabin. It always amazes me how calm it is up here while a few seats away, behind the curtain, chaos prevails. A couple of passengers are reading, others are simply snoozing in their luxury reclining leather seats. One well-dressed woman, dripping in heavy gold, is quietly flicking through Vogue and another elderly man in a charcoal suit is staring out the window. There’s nobody yelling for decaf tea, iced water, sick bags or landing cards. I relish the peace. It’s nearly always a joy working in first class as these passengers – whose tickets cost thousands of euro – rarely ask for