HAVING been called through from the departure lounge, the passengers of BA2585 from Venice to Gatwick formed an obedient line in a passage – and waited. How had the communication between the plane and the boarding gate broken down so completely? The plane was not prepared for embarkation. The plane was a minute’s walk from the boarding gate. We shivered in the cold, considering what might have gone wrong.
On board, after a while, the chief steward pointed to the right (there were no seats to the left). He had slicked-back hair, a rose-pink complexion and a Carry On Flying style. “Good evening!” he said. It was five o’clock. “Or should I say good afternoon? It’s about G&T time anyway!”
We proceeded down the aisle, reaching row 24, where we began to place our bags and coats in the overhead locker.
That’s when we first heard them: the BA bag ladies.
Strictly speaking, they were stewardesses and they were looking disapprovingly at us: the plane’s passengers. “They put up the small bags. Why do they do that?” said one loudly – so we could hear. She was tall and slim with a sing-song estuary accent and a sharp eye. “I don’t know,” said the other stewardess – younger, with glasses and her hair tied back tightly. Her tone was one of weary agreement.
“Look at all those big bags,” said the sing-song stewardess. Both small bags and big bags were problematic. “They let them through with all those big bags. Then we have to pick up the pieces,” she continued in a booming voice. By “they” she appeared to be referring to the staff at the boarding gate. By “them” she was referring to us. The sing-song stewardess seemed at the end of her tether. “Why do they let them through with such big bags?” Her younger colleague sighed in sympathy. It was a deep sigh, one that appeared to indicate disappointment with the modern world. “I don’t know,” she replied.
Nervously we squashed our bags in the overhead lockers and sat down. Had we, by some miracle, the correctly sized bags? Or were our bags too small? Or too big? Were their comments aimed at us? Yes, partially (we were not the only “offenders”). The sing-song stewardess stepped forward. “These have got to come down,” she said. My travelling companion was handed her rucksack and coat. The rucksack was too small, said the stewardess. Meanwhile a large roll-on bag, far larger than we would have dreamed of passing off as “hand luggage”, was jammed in the freed-up space.
The sing-song stewardess retreated to the pantry where she took a call from the cockpit. “There’s a problem over bits – small backpacks,” she almost yelled into the receiver.
The plane taxied to the runway and took off, during which time we learnt about the sing-song stewardess’s hair. It requires, we discovered, “loads of hairspray and stuff”. We were sitting three rows away, but could hear almost all. Only the drone of the engines drowned out parts. “Oh my god that was so funny,” said the sing-song stewardess, her voice trailing off. “Oh Jesus… oh my god!” We almost wished we had caught the punch line.
The subject changed. The younger stewardess’s boyfriend was introduced. “Oh that’s amusing!” cried the sing-song stewardess, who declared: “Once they all got in it was quite quick wasn’t it?” By “they”, she meant us. We appeared to have gained the approval of the sing-song stewardess: the passengers at the back of BA2585 (us) were not such a bad lot after all.
For a while, at least. The plane levelled out. Great clanks and rattles emanated from the pantry. Trolley service was evidently about to begin. “Do you want the sandwiches on your side this time?” asked the sing-song stewardess. Her colleague mumbled a reply.
Trolley service began. M&S sandwiches were for sale, as were G&Ts, if the rose-faced chief steward at the front of the plane had his information right. But they were not available, we soon realized, for purchase by us. The sing-song stewardess rolled straight past, whereupon a series of clatters, bangs, clanks, scrapes and slamming sounds were to be heard from the direction of the pantry.
Trolley service was evidently complete. No M&S sandwiches or G&Ts for row 24. Perhaps the speed-by was a punishment: one of our bags had, after all, been the wrong size in the wrong place.
The flight purred along above the Alps without further incident – aside, that is, from the duty free run. The sing-song stewardess sped along the aisle with her goods at such a rate it was unlikely anyone could catch her eye to place an order. Upon her return she announced: “Nobody wants duty free!” What strange creatures passengers could be. Further clanking issued from the pantry.
On the run-in to Gatwick, the sing-song stewardess addressed me, without using words. She pointed a finger and hooked it upwards twice. What on earth did she want? “The window, the window!” she said. The window shutter was a quarter of the way down between my seat and the one on front. I put it up. The sing-song stewardess strode away wordlessly.
The captain made a Tannoy request for cabin crew to take their seats. “He’s already told us to sit down!” said the sing-song stewardess. “I’m sure he told us!” (He hadn’t).
The duo settled in for another chat. “I do like a quick run to Amsterdam,” she continued, sounding wistful. The run to Venice was not as good as a run to Amsterdam. If only she had been assigned a run to Amsterdam, then she would not have had to go all the way to Venice.
What a nuisance to go to Venice on Saturday, she implied, as though we had somehow inconvenienced her. All of this was spoken so loudly it had to be for our ears. “Amsterdam is so quick,” she added.
We were very close to landing now. The captain made another announcement. “It has been our pleasure to look after you and we look forward to welcoming you back,” he said. My companion and I glanced at one another. She raised an eyebrow. A passenger across the aisle from us chuckled. The irony of his statement hung heavily in the air among the passengers of BA2585 closest to the pantry, from which cackling could now be heard. What could they be cackling about?
One final matter remained: disembarkation. A set of steps had been brought to the door by the pantry. “The door is stuck!” said the sing-song stewardess. “It’s stuck!” She counted out loud to ten and tried again. The door opened. It was pouring outside. “We’re not using these steps, it’s too wet,” she said. “What’s the point of bringing these?” she continued, talking to whoever was outside. “Go away! What’s the point of bringing these steps? Oh, it’s cold! It wasn’t this cold earlier.”
The back door was closed and as we filed out towards the front exit – with our correctly and incorrectly sized bags that had been placed in correct and incorrect places – the sing-song stewardess rattled on to her colleague, the conversation in full flow. “My magic book…”, she said, beginning yet another line of thought as we parted. If only we could have stayed in row 24 of BA2585 to find out where she was going with that one.
Picture: big bags are better than small bags (sometimes)
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