So if you’re an ex of mine reading this, now you
know why I won’t be taking you back.
Ever.
But it’s a vicious circle. Once I’m looking okay again, more often than not, some new hunk appears on the scene proclaiming his undying love for me. And of course, I’m strong. At first I am anyway.
And tell him I’m happy being single, ‘thank you very much.’
But then, unfortunately I succumb. It’s very hard to ignore someone who is telling you you’re the most beautiful girl in the world. Even if you know they’re only trying to lure you into the sack . . .and then it’s back to the humdrum of action films, Sunday walks, dull office parties and Friday nights making small talk with people (his colleagues) you don’t know. And before you know it, the weight is back on, the roots are showing again and the ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ speech is on the tip of his tongue. Even though it
is
me. In their eyes anyway.
And suddenly I’m back on the market again.
Like a commodity without a price tag.
But I’m glad to report that for nearly three years now I’ve been single. Well single apart from the fact that I’m supposed to be going out with Tim. I am happy and sane. And although I do not enjoy the ‘highs’ of falling in love, at least I do not have to suffer the ‘lows’ of rejection, waiting for the phone to ring, the constant suspicion etc.
I enjoy my girlie nights out, sipping wine, listening to my friends moan on and on about their men. Of course, I know that even while they complain, they secretly think they’re better off than I am. After all, I spend Friday and Saturday nights selling cheap tins of beer to gangs of drunken teenagers going to
Ibiza. And I’m not getting any younger either. But I don’t mind. At least I don’t have to suffer soirées with in-laws I can’t stand (God my own folks are bad enough!) or fight about whose house I’m going to eat my Christmas dinner in.
At this very minute, while I’m filling you in on my love life, I am sitting in the back galley of an airbus 330 having my break. I’m on my way home from New York.
But a break on an airplane unfortunately is not like a break anywhere else so I’m not expecting
much peace. Let me try to explain. If you worked in a shop, you would normally go out to have lunch. At least, what I mean is, you wouldn’t have to sit at your checkout desk munching a sandwich. Likewise, if you worked in an office you could go
out or visit the canteen. But on an aircraft you cannot simply pop outside. So you draw the little curtain and hope the passengers will respect your privacy for a little while. After all, the other crew members are covering your breaks.
But life is unfair and before long, some old guy whips back the curtain and throws a used napkin
on my tray. I think he thinks he’s doing me a favour. Like saving me from having to pick it up off the floor later on. Another woman barks that one of the toilets is overflowing. I politely ask her to inform another crew member as I am on my break.
Unfortunately though, she has already succeeded in putting me off my cheese and pickle sandwich.
Soon my break is over. My insides feel funny. It’s weird having a meal at four in the morning. I never know whether to have dinner or breakfast so I
usually have a little of both: an omelette and a bit of ice cream. Or crackers, cheese, cornflakes and chocolates.
Then I put on my lipstick, which makes me look like I’m smiling even when I’m not. I got it in Duane Reades last week for 99
cents. Worth every single cent.
The best thing about this lifestyle though is the shopping. Everything is discounted in the States. If it’s not discounted you don’t buy. Simple as that. I have tons of little knick-knacks. All bought because something was knocked off the original price.
Around thirty bottles of half full nail varnish removers currently lurk at the bottom of my wardrobe. And boxes and boxes of pills: which will
keep me slim, my hair glowing, my feet clean, my sinus cleared, my teeth white, my mood fresh, my cycle regular and my conscience calm. Well you just never know when all these little gems will come in handy, do you?
After all, one day I’m not going to be flying any more and where will I be able to snap up bumper bottles of hand cream
and anti-hair frizz serum then?
Anyway, enough muttering, it’s time to get back out now and serve another hundred teas and coffees. Agh. I hate this bit because people are beginning to wake up and the sun is streaming through the
window even though it’s only about 5.30 am. The smell of feet is insufferable. Why do transatlantic passengers remove their shoes and worse – how can 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 anything.
I make a strong black coffee. It’s real coffee up in first class, not the instant rubbish served down the back. I still refuse to sit down because to get up again would be hell. I look at my watch and
will the hands to move. A tap on my shoulder makes me jump.
I swing around. The tall man opposite apologises. He’s smiling though. And he’s cute. Very cute
actually. So he’s instantly forgiven.
‘I didn’t mean to frighten you but I was just wondering, if it’s not too much trouble, I’d give anything for a cup of that coffee. It smells divine.’
He has the most endearing smile I’ve ever seen. The type of man I bet other women love. Imagine being married to someone like that! Waking up to that face every morning. He’s like something from a Ralph Lauren commercial. I can’t believe he’s
Irish.
‘Sure.’ I smile back but am so tired I’m wondering if I’m dreaming. This guy with his twinkling greenish-grey eyes has to be the best-looking thing I’ve seen all night. In fact he’s probably the best-looking man I’ve ever seen in my life. But then I
remember that I don’t like good-looking men any more so I’m going to stop admiring him. Anyway I’m genuinely pleased to have something to do.
When you’re this tired it’s best to stay busy and keep talking. I ask my first class passenger if he slept well. He answers that he must have been asleep since take-off.
Lucky sod.
As I’m waiting for the coffee to brew, I ask if he was in New York on business or pleasure.
‘Business,’ he answers with a smile, ‘Kind of.’
I’d like to ask him what kind of business but I don’t. People who interrogate others with ‘What do you do for a living?’ leave me somewhat cold and anyway we are not at a cocktail party here. He is my customer. Sort of.
The senior hostess arrives into the galley and peers at my handsome male passenger. He seems sorry that we’ve been interrupted. The coffee is made now anyway so it’s not like I have any excuses
left to talk to him. I head back to the door where Debbie is now shivering.
‘Well?’ she smiles quizzically.
‘Well what?’ I answer. I’m so whacked I badly need two matchsticks to keep my eyes open. ‘You don’t suppose the captain will be able to get away early? I’m dying of exhaustion and my contact lenses are clinging to my eyes.’
‘Did you see anything nice in first class?’ Debbie raises an eyebrow.
‘Yeah,’ I nod. ‘I saw plenty of soft reclining seats with luxurious blankets and pillows that I’d give anything to rest my head on.’
Debbie is shaking her head. ‘Do you mean to tell me you went up to first class and didn’t see Adam Kirrane?’
‘Adam who?’
‘Good God girl, have you no life? Adam Kirrane is a God, an absolute God. He is the star of
DreamBoat
, that new American soap. Don’t you watch it? I cannot
believe
you missed him.’
‘I don’t have satellite,’ I tell her.
‘He’s the hottest thing in the US at the moment,’ Debbie gushes.
‘He’s American?’
‘Irish, but he works in America and is always in magazines and the papers.’
‘What does he look like?’
‘God, where do I start . . . er, tall . . . ’
‘With dark hair wearing a white shirt? The guy with the tan?’
‘So you
did
see him.’
‘Yeah, I was talking to him,’ I laugh as Debbie’s eyes widen.
‘You have GOT to be joking!’
‘I’m serious,’ I shrug, ‘I just thought he was some guy.’
‘I’ve been working non-stop in first class and Adam Kirrane has been fast asleep for most of the night with a blanket pulled around his head. I let you go up for five minutes and you have a whole conversation with him?’
I laugh. Debbie would get excited if Westlife were on board. She knows everything about everyone on television. I don’t get it. She’s the type of girl who, if the plane is delayed, pops into the toilet with her mobile phone to ring her mum. I used to think she was telling her mum not to bother collecting her. But no, she’s telling her to tape
Coronation Street
. Unbelievable!
Debbie goes back to her station but at this stage the wind is behind the plane so we’re probably going to land early and I know there isn’t a chance in hell she’ll be able to talk to Adam now. Poor girl. I hope she doesn’t ask for his autograph or something. I run down the back throwing uneaten muffins into a large plastic bag and collecting money in white envelopes from all the generous passengers to put into another bag for UNICEF. Then I’m yanking headphones off people even though the film hasn’t ended yet. But what can I do? The landing gears are going down and there are people still
standing up, wondering is there time to go to the toilet. I can’t believe it. They’ve had five or six hours to use the loo and they think NOW is a good time?