Musings at 4 AM.

Glasgow at 4.00 am is not a attractive sight,  any place at 4 am tends to be a bit on the grim side except  maybe the sun rising over the African veld or the moon on the horizon in the north of Iceland but Glasgow only looks good occasionally, the last time was July 2012.  And at 4am it looks a tad Chernobyl. Afterwards, not before.

the fair green city

Even in the airport , everybody is a zombie, doddering around,  weary, all trying to get somewhere else, bleary eyed, pulling reluctant suitcases. Nothing is pretty.

 As a slight aside, a casual observation  on the Brexit position. Who voted for it? Who were those 52%. Oh yes,  I know. I bet it was those guys who sit in restaurants in airports at four in the morning having  breakfast with a pint of lager. They  shouldn’t be  allowed to vote they should not be allowed to own a dog and they shouldn’t be allowed to drink lager at four in the morning. 

                                                               

                                                                          far too early for some...

The genetic DNA  Professor  spoke a lot about our pineal gland and how it deals, or does not deal, with jet lag.  The best way to deal with it is to give your wee pineal gland as much notice as possible as per what is happening at your destination. It helps the hormones get into the right rhythm.   

                                                             

                                                       cabin crew or Eurovision song contest entry?

But we were not going far, the one hour trip to London  to the launch of the Harrogate Crime writing Festival in Browns at Covent Garden. I have to turn up, inspect the canapés, shake a few hands ( those I don’t like ), hug a few that I do like, pretend that I do remember the name of the person standing in front of me, when I had no real idea at all. But I do recall they had two guinea pigs and one had a stomach problem. She was an elderly guinea pig  called Marissa but you can’t have a conversation that goes

‘Hi Caro, how are you?’ 

‘Hay, hello ( cough….), did Marissa survive?’

 But more of the launch later, with the mysterious M R Morris. Who may not be called M or R or Morris. He  did not have a helpful guinea pig but he has a detective called Dostoyevsky. He is also good at scrabble.

As I said, more of that later.

When we fly, do we confront one of the last bastions of non feminism, whatever that might be calling itself these days.

Cabin crew.

Or as they were, air hostesses.

                                                         

                                                                       as they were

 I do suffer from a lot of personal biases. You might have noticed. I make very snap judgements about people and situations constantly s I am very busy and it saves time.  That’s not the same as being prejudiced. Mine is a result of experience.

 I have an issue with cabin crew. Not all of them. Two of my good friends are cabin  crew. Both are cabin services directors, one has a law degree, the other can swear profusely in twenty different languages. And that’s a talent I admire.  These two can really pinpoint  the cultural difference between people ( lack of child care by parents on long haul flights is a common criteria for comment).  They like the job, they work about 10 days a month, they see films before anybody else and they like swimming in infinity pools in top hotels in far flung places. They are both intelligent, witty and  very funny. They hate most of the other cabin crew, who in the last ten years will be recruited because they have Kardashian eyebrows and no ability to stray from that strange announcement speak. And we do hope you do have a pleasant onward journey and do hope that we will have the pleasure of travelling with you onboard once more  again. 

                                                     

                                                                     is it me or does those gloves look a tad... medical?

I think my issues with being an air hostess started when I was  at school. All the pretty girls wanted  to wear the uniform, and served tea at  30 000. It was their only ambition in life. That and to marry a pilot. I don’t think any of them made it.

In the golden days of aviation, hostesses had to be single, slim and under 30. They had to wear a girdle, a wide smile and flicked up hair. There is a hierarchy I think between airlines, BA have the pretty girls and then the slide down to the other airlines. I guess BA just have the pick of the crop. The bright pretty people is smart neo militaristic  uniforms, pearl earrings,  court shoes ( High heels when on the ground but allowed flats when airborne for long haul)

 I think I am just jealous. I couldn’t deal with being nice to people for that long without punching them. And, at school, I was far more interested in sticking my arm up the nether regions of bovines than I was in marrying a pilot. Having done the former, and having a friend who did the latter, my opinion still stands. It’s the precise hair do, the drug dealers doughnut, the lip stick that doesn’t drift and the ever permanent  smile and head nod ‘ Welcome aboard, nice to see you, welcome aboard nice to see you.’ 

                                                         

                                                        chicken or pasta, chicken or pasta, chicken or pasta

Sometimes, you can catch them saying another word after that.  Sometimes it’s not a very nice word.  It’s a game they play.  Drunk. Botox. Facelift. Zoomer. Nobody hears it as we are all too busy, bustling on, shuffling to the seats, heaving heavy bags into overhead lockers.

I am not the only ones to make snap judgements!

And I know they are well trained in getting passengers off  'in the event of an emergency'. But you don't need the eyebrows for that, do you?

Caro Ramsay  05 04 2019