SYD to LHR on a Plane
Jan 19, 2004, 3:30 am
#31
Join Date: Jul 2000
Location: anywhere but here
Programs: LH au VS au BMI au
Posts: 2,375
<font face="Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" size="2">Originally posted by GoldFlyer:
She decided that "Brazilian" was passe and adopted the latest "Bo Derek" that involved ironing her pubic hairs and platted extensions. Of course it looked fetching (to her), almost like a Scottish sporin dangling beneath her mini skirt causinfg no end of silicious coments from the neighbours.
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She decided that "Brazilian" was passe and adopted the latest "Bo Derek" that involved ironing her pubic hairs and platted extensions. Of course it looked fetching (to her), almost like a Scottish sporin dangling beneath her mini skirt causinfg no end of silicious coments from the neighbours.
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Jan 19, 2004, 3:44 am
#32
Original Poster
Join Date: Dec 2002
Location: In Exile
Programs: QFF WP :-0, AC, FlyBuys, Porter's Liquor Store, Mother's Helper
Posts: 2,496
Welcome aboard to my new passengers. Here is PART 6.
Part 6
In my haste, I clumsily rush into a flight attendant. Looking at her name badge Dorothy Stamps I apologise profusely. A kind Gal and she offers her hand saying, please, call me Oz. Recognising my agitated state, “Oz” Stamps grabs my hand in a kindly gesture and leads me towards the rear galley precariously close to the action happening above with Captain Merri and the crew member. Not wishing to relive the scene I had just witnessed I make up some story about forgetting my medication and wanting to return to my seat for Champagne. I always find my medication reacts more positively with Champagne. I’m convinced it’s the fizzification effect, similar to that of Berocca, ensuring maximum absorption. OZ, kind-heartedly offers to fix me a drink, concerned that I look a little shaky and should probably sit down. I relent, feeling comfortable in Oz’s easy style, a delight I think and wish that she had been working in my section of the aeroplane.
I sit down on a seat next to a trolley that seemed to be loaded with an assortment of plastic trays and plastic wrapped food reminding me of those Asian restaurants with the “bill of fare” immortalised in full glorious moulded plastic in the front window. This “Why” section really is the wrong end of the aeroplane to be I decide. The trolley has a small brightly coloured piece of plastic protruding over the wheel; I poke at it with my foot as Oz arrives with my plastic of Champagne. Oz plonks down in the seat next to me and looks on intently as I fumble through my tote for my pill.
I comment on her lovely ring to which she informs me that it is new having just been married for a few weeks. It must be difficult in a job like yours and being away from your partner. Oh, no she says, I’m married to the Captain. To which I choke on my Champagne, spraying it into the air. Oz gets up to retrieve a napkin and I look nervously at the door leading to the Captains “Merri” little party happening above our heads. Oz, I decide must go from this area lest the Captain appear. A diversion is what’s needed and I think back to my conversation with the Captain and shake my head at the “threat” turning out to be his marriage. It’s at that moment that Mr. Gravy-Stains stumbles into the galley. He steadies himself against the trolley and holds his beer can above his head in a crude gesture indicating he was empty and required another.
Mr. Gravy-Shirt is slurring and frothing at the mouth, the image of a camel appears in my head both very disagreeable beasts I decide. I survey his grotty profile greasy thin hair combed in a wild loop around his head. Apart from his deplorable shirt, he’s wearing tight shorts barely visible under his ample paunch; black walking socks and tan sandals. A big toe protrudes through his left sock - another “WHY”. Oz is very calm with the moment as if it is something she deals with frequently. She engages him with simple conversation about his journey and whom he is travelling with. Mr. Gravy-Shirt stiffens as if his heavily disguised charms and well camouflaged attractiveness have drawn Oz. Like a pungent tropical bloom whose odour is designed to attract flies, fooling them into thinking it is an animal carcass. He puffs himself up as if wearing his Sunday best and is someone often mistaken for Brad Pitt to the casual passer-by. He hoists his rear onto the trolley like he was some athlete on a much-delayed comeback. Oz looks a little concerned but he speaks over her as he relates his story.
Mr. Gravy-Shirt and his wife Kitty Belle, are on the way to the UK. Kitty Belle, last seen slouched ungainly into the aisle, recently won a compensation claim after a nasty accident at her work in the hospital laundry. She accidentally toppled into the industrial size washing machine trying to retrieve a $20 dollar note. Luckily she was rescued moments before the main spin cycle. Perhaps that explains her unusual posture, I should be less quick to judge next time. She subsequently developed a nasty allergy to washing powder, perhaps that explains Mr. Gravy-Shirt and was pensioned off with a tidy sum.
Mr. Gravy-Shirt appears to be enjoying himself although his splattering mouth is becoming alarming. I notice his complexion becoming more crimson and sweat beads form on his forehead. Before our eyes he starts grasping at his chest and collapses across the trolley. Oz jumps into action and grabs the telephone alerting Mr. 6 to the emergency unfolding. Oz rushes to his side and listens for Mr. Gravy-Shirt’s breath and feels for his pulse.
Like a predator awaiting his prey Mr. Gravy-Shirt miraculously springs back to life grabbing at Oz’s petite frame and hauling her atop him. I reel back in horror as Oz struggles to free herself from his mauling clutches. Disoriented, I gulp at my Champagne as if it will buy me time to work out a plan. I curse its cheapness. I must save Oz and I stiffen my shoulders and march to her aid. It is at that moment that a violent shudder grips the aeroplane and I am thrown to the floor like a cheap suit after a Friday drinks party. I look up to see Mr. Gravy-Shirt and Oz, her legs and arms flaying like a parachutist, hurtling down the aisle on the trolley. The noise in the cabin was frightening, like a chicken coup raided by a hungry fox. I reach out my arm from my prone state on the floor in a vain effort to grab the trolley, a gesture as it speeds off into the distance.
Part 6
In my haste, I clumsily rush into a flight attendant. Looking at her name badge Dorothy Stamps I apologise profusely. A kind Gal and she offers her hand saying, please, call me Oz. Recognising my agitated state, “Oz” Stamps grabs my hand in a kindly gesture and leads me towards the rear galley precariously close to the action happening above with Captain Merri and the crew member. Not wishing to relive the scene I had just witnessed I make up some story about forgetting my medication and wanting to return to my seat for Champagne. I always find my medication reacts more positively with Champagne. I’m convinced it’s the fizzification effect, similar to that of Berocca, ensuring maximum absorption. OZ, kind-heartedly offers to fix me a drink, concerned that I look a little shaky and should probably sit down. I relent, feeling comfortable in Oz’s easy style, a delight I think and wish that she had been working in my section of the aeroplane.
I sit down on a seat next to a trolley that seemed to be loaded with an assortment of plastic trays and plastic wrapped food reminding me of those Asian restaurants with the “bill of fare” immortalised in full glorious moulded plastic in the front window. This “Why” section really is the wrong end of the aeroplane to be I decide. The trolley has a small brightly coloured piece of plastic protruding over the wheel; I poke at it with my foot as Oz arrives with my plastic of Champagne. Oz plonks down in the seat next to me and looks on intently as I fumble through my tote for my pill.
I comment on her lovely ring to which she informs me that it is new having just been married for a few weeks. It must be difficult in a job like yours and being away from your partner. Oh, no she says, I’m married to the Captain. To which I choke on my Champagne, spraying it into the air. Oz gets up to retrieve a napkin and I look nervously at the door leading to the Captains “Merri” little party happening above our heads. Oz, I decide must go from this area lest the Captain appear. A diversion is what’s needed and I think back to my conversation with the Captain and shake my head at the “threat” turning out to be his marriage. It’s at that moment that Mr. Gravy-Stains stumbles into the galley. He steadies himself against the trolley and holds his beer can above his head in a crude gesture indicating he was empty and required another.
Mr. Gravy-Shirt is slurring and frothing at the mouth, the image of a camel appears in my head both very disagreeable beasts I decide. I survey his grotty profile greasy thin hair combed in a wild loop around his head. Apart from his deplorable shirt, he’s wearing tight shorts barely visible under his ample paunch; black walking socks and tan sandals. A big toe protrudes through his left sock - another “WHY”. Oz is very calm with the moment as if it is something she deals with frequently. She engages him with simple conversation about his journey and whom he is travelling with. Mr. Gravy-Shirt stiffens as if his heavily disguised charms and well camouflaged attractiveness have drawn Oz. Like a pungent tropical bloom whose odour is designed to attract flies, fooling them into thinking it is an animal carcass. He puffs himself up as if wearing his Sunday best and is someone often mistaken for Brad Pitt to the casual passer-by. He hoists his rear onto the trolley like he was some athlete on a much-delayed comeback. Oz looks a little concerned but he speaks over her as he relates his story.
Mr. Gravy-Shirt and his wife Kitty Belle, are on the way to the UK. Kitty Belle, last seen slouched ungainly into the aisle, recently won a compensation claim after a nasty accident at her work in the hospital laundry. She accidentally toppled into the industrial size washing machine trying to retrieve a $20 dollar note. Luckily she was rescued moments before the main spin cycle. Perhaps that explains her unusual posture, I should be less quick to judge next time. She subsequently developed a nasty allergy to washing powder, perhaps that explains Mr. Gravy-Shirt and was pensioned off with a tidy sum.
Mr. Gravy-Shirt appears to be enjoying himself although his splattering mouth is becoming alarming. I notice his complexion becoming more crimson and sweat beads form on his forehead. Before our eyes he starts grasping at his chest and collapses across the trolley. Oz jumps into action and grabs the telephone alerting Mr. 6 to the emergency unfolding. Oz rushes to his side and listens for Mr. Gravy-Shirt’s breath and feels for his pulse.
Like a predator awaiting his prey Mr. Gravy-Shirt miraculously springs back to life grabbing at Oz’s petite frame and hauling her atop him. I reel back in horror as Oz struggles to free herself from his mauling clutches. Disoriented, I gulp at my Champagne as if it will buy me time to work out a plan. I curse its cheapness. I must save Oz and I stiffen my shoulders and march to her aid. It is at that moment that a violent shudder grips the aeroplane and I am thrown to the floor like a cheap suit after a Friday drinks party. I look up to see Mr. Gravy-Shirt and Oz, her legs and arms flaying like a parachutist, hurtling down the aisle on the trolley. The noise in the cabin was frightening, like a chicken coup raided by a hungry fox. I reach out my arm from my prone state on the floor in a vain effort to grab the trolley, a gesture as it speeds off into the distance.
Jan 20, 2004, 4:28 am
#37
Original Poster
Join Date: Dec 2002
Location: In Exile
Programs: QFF WP :-0, AC, FlyBuys, Porter's Liquor Store, Mother's Helper
Posts: 2,496
Part 7
Pinned to the floor, enveloped in fears and sadness, the sounds of people around me screaming in terror as trays and other galley items crash around me. I cover my head and my life’s regrets flash before my eyes. I regret the party last New Years Eve, my Mothers last. We were visiting distant relatives in Cupertino just outside San Francisco. The sprawling estate was built on a hillside and was originally an orchard later to become Silicon Valley. A grand party was arranged with marquees set-up throughout the gardens. Mother was always convinced that Eartha Kitt and her were just one chromosome apart despite the obvious skin shading. They shared the same birthday although different hemispheres and her love of men was equally legendary. Mother being a night person would subscribe to the late performance of the opera, I was never allowed to accompany her as performances never began before 11 pm and she always explained that it required intense concentration. The morning after I would awaken and walk down the hall past her bedroom. I think she was in love with the same opera as she could always be heard singing the same growling primal sounds in repetition and varying intensities, I always thought it was Philip Glass. I’ve never been able to verify the opera and Mother nonchalantly said it was 20th Century experimental. The next day, she was always physically exhausted from her intense concentration, so much so that she never arose before midday. I would return from my late morning constitutional to see her in the Drawing Room with rosy cheeks puffing satisfyingly on a Davidoff Cigar – she was deeply moved by her music.
I digress.
Mothers performance this night involved a performance of her kindred sister’s epic hit song “Where is my Man” whereby she would appear at the top of a set of stairs that lead up a hill-side overlooking the entire valley, the lighting provided by remotely controlled oil burners would command the attention of the gathered guests and she would be guided her down the stairs flanked by muscular young men in leopard print G-strings. The impression of an African Queen descending into the gathering was to be topped with a spectacular fireworks display over the estate as she reached the guests below.
My job was to ensure the burners were filled with oil and to keep the path clear of debris that could possibly cause an accident. It was a brilliant concept and I took ownership of my role as if it was the most important part of the act. In the late evening, aided by a torch I carefully filled the burners to ensure they would provide sufficient light to illuminate the performance. My overzealousness was to turn to disaster and even before my Mother had belted out the first bars it was clear something was wrong. The dry grass caught fire and although Mother was a true performer even she had trouble dealing with the ever increasing scrub fire that eventually resulted in the entire hillside ablaze and the fire brigade arriving as late, unannounced guests. The party was a disaster from there on in and feeling partially responsible I retired for the evening to the gardeners cottage. All was not lost and although the fireworks were abandoned a short, torrid and passionate relationship developed soon after between my Mother and Fire Officer Proctor . Mother nicknamed hin Doc as he was always running down to the discrete pharmacy above the pool hall to get generic medicine for Mothers ever increasing ailments. He later died when a tennis ball knocked him off his umpire seat and he drowned in the slushy iced water of the drinks container below him. An autopsy revealed high blood alcohol and it was later discovered that his refreshment bottle was more than just simple “refreshment”.
Other lamentations flashed before me including that of dying with the carbonated, dry puckering of cheap “champagne” in my mouth. I lamented not being in the cosy confines of my first class sleeper. Just as I was thinking of joining Mother in her leopard print boudoir in the sky, an eerie calm pervaded throughout the aeroplane. We began to level out and our plummet towards terra firma stopped and I could feel the nose of the aeroplane lift into the sky we were safe!
I could hear the chattering of the other passengers as they renounced hastily confessed statements and disturbingly above it, growing louder and louder a voice. It was Oz and I could hear her coming closer. She was alive and running towards the rear galley to see if I too were alive. There was something slightly disturbing in her voice, she still sounded highly agitated when all around I could hear comforting words and the odd clash of hand on flesh.
I looked up towards the aisle to which Oz had last disappeared and where I thought I would never see her before. Her voice was getting louder and there, in the distance she appeared just as I had seen her depart only this time the trolley was on a screaming reverse, hurtling back towards whence she had come, her arms and legs still upright in some gymnastic prose her head arched forward, Mr. Gravy-Shirt’s arms locked in a strong grip around her buttocks and her skirt riding high above her thighs. The trolley sped closer, gathering speed and I looked on helplessly fearing it would crush her against the rear wall. Poor Oz.
From the corner of my eye I saw the door to the crew quarters open and the figure of Captain Merri appeared in a violent clash of lime green underwear, beige socks and black shiny shoes. His uniform was scrunched in a pile under his arm. His nakedness was strangely incongruent in the confines and surrounds of an aeroplane galley as if he had arrived on set of a play in the wrong costume. It was clear that his “indiscretions” were about to be met full on by his rapidly approaching wife. I covered my head awaiting the inevitable to happen. Captain Merri looked at me on the floor then followed my gaze up towards the rapidly approaching Oz on a platter. His jaw dropped as he realised the inevitable and threw his arms in the air in a pathetic gesture to protect himself from a very serious “confrontation” with his wife.
[This message has been edited by GoldFlyer (edited Jan 20, 2004).]
[This message has been edited by GoldFlyer (edited Jan 20, 2004).]
Pinned to the floor, enveloped in fears and sadness, the sounds of people around me screaming in terror as trays and other galley items crash around me. I cover my head and my life’s regrets flash before my eyes. I regret the party last New Years Eve, my Mothers last. We were visiting distant relatives in Cupertino just outside San Francisco. The sprawling estate was built on a hillside and was originally an orchard later to become Silicon Valley. A grand party was arranged with marquees set-up throughout the gardens. Mother was always convinced that Eartha Kitt and her were just one chromosome apart despite the obvious skin shading. They shared the same birthday although different hemispheres and her love of men was equally legendary. Mother being a night person would subscribe to the late performance of the opera, I was never allowed to accompany her as performances never began before 11 pm and she always explained that it required intense concentration. The morning after I would awaken and walk down the hall past her bedroom. I think she was in love with the same opera as she could always be heard singing the same growling primal sounds in repetition and varying intensities, I always thought it was Philip Glass. I’ve never been able to verify the opera and Mother nonchalantly said it was 20th Century experimental. The next day, she was always physically exhausted from her intense concentration, so much so that she never arose before midday. I would return from my late morning constitutional to see her in the Drawing Room with rosy cheeks puffing satisfyingly on a Davidoff Cigar – she was deeply moved by her music.
I digress.
Mothers performance this night involved a performance of her kindred sister’s epic hit song “Where is my Man” whereby she would appear at the top of a set of stairs that lead up a hill-side overlooking the entire valley, the lighting provided by remotely controlled oil burners would command the attention of the gathered guests and she would be guided her down the stairs flanked by muscular young men in leopard print G-strings. The impression of an African Queen descending into the gathering was to be topped with a spectacular fireworks display over the estate as she reached the guests below.
My job was to ensure the burners were filled with oil and to keep the path clear of debris that could possibly cause an accident. It was a brilliant concept and I took ownership of my role as if it was the most important part of the act. In the late evening, aided by a torch I carefully filled the burners to ensure they would provide sufficient light to illuminate the performance. My overzealousness was to turn to disaster and even before my Mother had belted out the first bars it was clear something was wrong. The dry grass caught fire and although Mother was a true performer even she had trouble dealing with the ever increasing scrub fire that eventually resulted in the entire hillside ablaze and the fire brigade arriving as late, unannounced guests. The party was a disaster from there on in and feeling partially responsible I retired for the evening to the gardeners cottage. All was not lost and although the fireworks were abandoned a short, torrid and passionate relationship developed soon after between my Mother and Fire Officer Proctor . Mother nicknamed hin Doc as he was always running down to the discrete pharmacy above the pool hall to get generic medicine for Mothers ever increasing ailments. He later died when a tennis ball knocked him off his umpire seat and he drowned in the slushy iced water of the drinks container below him. An autopsy revealed high blood alcohol and it was later discovered that his refreshment bottle was more than just simple “refreshment”.
Other lamentations flashed before me including that of dying with the carbonated, dry puckering of cheap “champagne” in my mouth. I lamented not being in the cosy confines of my first class sleeper. Just as I was thinking of joining Mother in her leopard print boudoir in the sky, an eerie calm pervaded throughout the aeroplane. We began to level out and our plummet towards terra firma stopped and I could feel the nose of the aeroplane lift into the sky we were safe!
I could hear the chattering of the other passengers as they renounced hastily confessed statements and disturbingly above it, growing louder and louder a voice. It was Oz and I could hear her coming closer. She was alive and running towards the rear galley to see if I too were alive. There was something slightly disturbing in her voice, she still sounded highly agitated when all around I could hear comforting words and the odd clash of hand on flesh.
I looked up towards the aisle to which Oz had last disappeared and where I thought I would never see her before. Her voice was getting louder and there, in the distance she appeared just as I had seen her depart only this time the trolley was on a screaming reverse, hurtling back towards whence she had come, her arms and legs still upright in some gymnastic prose her head arched forward, Mr. Gravy-Shirt’s arms locked in a strong grip around her buttocks and her skirt riding high above her thighs. The trolley sped closer, gathering speed and I looked on helplessly fearing it would crush her against the rear wall. Poor Oz.
From the corner of my eye I saw the door to the crew quarters open and the figure of Captain Merri appeared in a violent clash of lime green underwear, beige socks and black shiny shoes. His uniform was scrunched in a pile under his arm. His nakedness was strangely incongruent in the confines and surrounds of an aeroplane galley as if he had arrived on set of a play in the wrong costume. It was clear that his “indiscretions” were about to be met full on by his rapidly approaching wife. I covered my head awaiting the inevitable to happen. Captain Merri looked at me on the floor then followed my gaze up towards the rapidly approaching Oz on a platter. His jaw dropped as he realised the inevitable and threw his arms in the air in a pathetic gesture to protect himself from a very serious “confrontation” with his wife.
[This message has been edited by GoldFlyer (edited Jan 20, 2004).]
[This message has been edited by GoldFlyer (edited Jan 20, 2004).]
Jan 20, 2004, 1:49 pm
#41
Original Poster
Join Date: Dec 2002
Location: In Exile
Programs: QFF WP :-0, AC, FlyBuys, Porter's Liquor Store, Mother's Helper
Posts: 2,496
MikeFly Wrote:
Don't you mean Quoites? I love that game although never really tried it on a plane. Given the narrow busy aisles it would no doubt soon get the name "Quoitus Interuptus"
<font face="Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" size="2">"reportus interuptus"?
</font>
</font>
Jan 20, 2004, 8:41 pm
#44
Moderator, Hilton Honors
Join Date: Nov 2003
Location: on a short leash
Programs: some
Posts: 71,422
I dont understand it. After flying to SIN I looked for you in the lounge but you werent there. The nice lady at the desk said something about your plane being late.
Cheers
PS Watch out - she also had a fetish for the "pass".
Cheers
PS Watch out - she also had a fetish for the "pass".
Jan 21, 2004, 1:46 am
#45
Original Poster
Join Date: Dec 2002
Location: In Exile
Programs: QFF WP :-0, AC, FlyBuys, Porter's Liquor Store, Mother's Helper
Posts: 2,496
<font face="Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" size="2">Originally posted by Kiwi Flyer:
I dont understand it. After flying to SIN I looked for you in the lounge but you werent there. The nice lady at the desk said something about your plane being late.
Cheers
PS Watch out - she also had a fetish for the "pass".</font>
I dont understand it. After flying to SIN I looked for you in the lounge but you werent there. The nice lady at the desk said something about your plane being late.
Cheers
PS Watch out - she also had a fetish for the "pass".</font>
I was afraid about the BP being an ever spreading fetish amongst the airline employees, something must be done.
Thadocta, you were a target ripe for plucking like a peach ready to drop. I have a real quandry with QF WP.
Seat 2a, I sincerely hope that he wasn't the unfortunate passenger directly across from me. "2A" is a proven pro and I'm humbled by such comparisons
To all,
After a very encouraging email from the Head Master of the Board, hand delivered by an appropriatly dressed FT employee resplendant with baggage tags,I feel a sense of stage fright at my ramblings in this report. I was grateful that I had at least the bottom part of my BA pj's on when opening the message.
Part 8 should however be up later tonight, SYD time of course.
[This message has been edited by GoldFlyer (edited Jan 21, 2004).]