A Flight to Savannah: Part III

Part III: Lost marriage licences, stewards, and war-paint.


There is another announcement from our captain. He says, in a slightly worried American accent:  "Sorry to interrupt your flight but one of the ladies on the flight has lost her marriage licence out of her passport. She still wants to stay married, so if you see it on the floor can you please pass it on to an attendant and hopefully we can save her marriage."

As far as highly random announcements are concerned, it is hard to beat that.

There is something different about this flight. For a while I've been trying to put my foot on it. Finally, after six hours on board, I have located the source of my niggling doubt. It is to do with the stewards. There is something wrong with them. Normally they are quite lovely young blonde ladies, with nice smiles and a helpful demeanour. My current steward differs in just a couple of ways: he is tall, bereft of the customary flowing blonde locks and  has a deep, booming voice. He is a middle-aged man. A very helpful, nice, middle-aged man, but a middle-aged man nonetheless. There is nothing wrong with this; it is simply different. There are ladies as well, all of whom are very nice, but not necessarily the most attractive that I have encountered on long-haul flights.

One of the stewardesses is about 60 years old. She does not look a day over 100, either, bless her. She walks up the aisle behind a little girl of about six years. All the while she looks down at the child, in disapproval. After a while she says:  "Whose child is this?" She clearly thinks the girl is a stray and is having terrible trouble suppressing the urge to chuck her out with the trash.

The lady in front of me has just taken to applying her make-up. Quite why she has chosen to do this is beyond me: we still have a couple of hours flight left and what is the point of looking glamorous? It is a flight, not a cocktail party. Going on the pull in the middle of a flight is not an option but she continues regardless, failing to realise that it matters not. Everyone looks like s*** at the end of a flight. There are no exceptions. I go back to reading my book. When I look up again thirty minutes later she is still painting away. How much make-up does a woman need? And why does she look exactly the same as she did before she started?