Confessions of a Hostie 3

More true stories of an International Flight Attendant

By Danielle Hugh

Copyright © 2014 Danielle Hugh

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CONTENTS

introduction

sleep is at the top of my list of places I'd like to go back to

the party is smokin'

the bigger the fool, the harder they fall

how does the floor taste?

now listen here...

for some, knowledge comes and goes, but wisdom lasts forever

zoo stories

not all alarms are false

changing times

don't expect a gold watch and lavish send off

when you want something bad enough...

knowledge may be having the right answers; but intelligence is asking the right questions

knowledge is knowing tomatoes are a fruit, but wisdom is not putting them in a fruit salad

a positive attitude

those who can laugh at themselves never cease to be amused

sometimes sleep can come at a cost

digging a hole for yourself

some are accidentally more foolish than others

in the eye of the storm

sometimes you are too busy to contemplate just how busy you really are

hop to it

anger can be a cowardly extension of one's own bitterness

kill them with kindness

every now and then I wish I was wrong

breakfast travel stories

children's rights

don't lose sight of the bigger picture

chase down your passion like it is the last bus of the night

introduction

When I was eleven I fantasized about being an international hostie. I thought I had some idea of what the flying life would be like. I had no idea at all. After twenty years of flying around the world, I finally have an inkling. I'll even share my experiences from when I first applied to the airlines (unsuccessfully). Every story I am about to tell you is true and every character you are about to meet is based on someone I know or have met.

Welcome to more snapshots of my world.

sleep is at the top of my list of places I'd like to go back to

I sit up with a jolt. The room is pitch-black except for the glow from the bedside clock: 2.15 a.m. Where the hell am I?

I have awoken in many hotel rooms around the world not knowing which city I am in. To me, there is nothing unusual about that, but what is most disconcerting is realizing I am in my own bed. Could there be a more defining moment for someone who spends so much time away from home to not know my own bed?

I once said hotels are my second home. Maybe my second home is actually my own home? Surely one day I'll wake in the early hours of the morning, tired and hungry, grab the phone and attempt to ring hotel room service - only to realize I'm in my own apartment. Don't get me wrong, I love hotels, well, good hotels, it's just I love my own home more.

My home is my sanctuary. After working a sixteen hour night-day-night-again-day, four hours of sleep is not nearly enough, but I am in my apartment; in my own bed.

I make a note to myself: Dear sleep; I know we had a few problems when I was younger, but I am so in love with you now.

I bury my head into my favorite pillow to vegetate.

That's what being home is about: a day may be lost, but a soul has been saved.

The hard thing about arriving home early in the morning is sleeping while the rest of society is awake, including friends, boyfriend, and family. I have some 'earthling' shift worker friends, knowing what it is like to sleep during the day. The big difference between their life and mine is: jetlag. Jetlag is a beast - raising its ugly head - wrapping its tentacles around your world - gripping oh so tight. There is nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.

I love the word irony. Trying to explain to someone just how horrible and intrusive jetlag is, while you are actually jetlagged, is a verbal recipe for disaster. That's irony. It is like someone going to a psychiatrist and being diagnosed with hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia.

What, you say?

I'll explain: Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia, which yes is a real phobia, means: having a fear of long words. Imagine being diagnosed with this condition - while the doctor was halfway through telling you what the condition was, you'd be totally freaking out.

That's irony.

My girlfriend, Helen, tells her own lovely irony story: When her kids were very young they were in a bath together. The youngest child picked up a bottle of Johnson & Johnson No More Tears and hit the other one over the head with it.

That's irony.

Please note that being jetlagged is like being hit with every Johnson & Johnson product repeatedly.

Not every trip I do is so invasive, yet often I'll suffer jetlag from one trip and not fully recover before doing another. The jetlag is accumulative.

Someone once asked 'When you are in other countries, why don't you just stay on your own home local time?'

It sounds good in theory, but rarely works in reality. My flying rosters are all over the place, both in where I go and at what times I work. Sometimes I start work at midnight, sometimes early in the morning, sometimes in the middle of the day - often in countries having no time correlation to my home.

In the last month alone I have traveled to five different continents; all with different time zones and weather conditions. I've been north, south, east, and west - on the equator, to the northern hemisphere and the southern. My routine is no routine. Sometimes the very chaos I love becomes the chaos I most detest. I don't know one international flight attendant who doesn't whine about something - and that something is usually sleep deprivation or jetlag (usually both). I love my job, but not all aspects. Most who love their job would say the same.

When I'm with friends and family I rarely complain about jetlag and exhaustion. They see it, they know. Those neighbors seeing me come and go, and don't know I am an international hostie, must think I am either a drug addict or I have a twin sister who always looks drained and disorientated. These are the two faces I must wear.

Finding enough days to have usable time at home is a rarity. This is one of those rare times. I have a whole week off. Yes, I've paid my dues, but a whole week? Yay.

Even taking into account jetlag (and a day or two of looking like my fictitious twin sister), I still have plenty of days to practice my favorite pastime - nothingness. Nothingness is underrated.

How many jobs, when you're not on holiday, can boast having seven successive days off?

The bliss.

Of course I cannot do nothing for a whole week, so it's time to roll out Danielle the Entertainer. It's been so long since I had a dinner party and I've been told I host a very good party. I only need to invite a handful of people, as often the more intimate the occasion, the more fun had.

One of the real drawbacks of my lifestyle is not being able to plan too much in advance. I am rarely home, and even if I am, how am I going to feel? Consequently, most things are done on short notice. I have come to nickname myself: Last minute.com.

My last minute social networking skills kick into overdrive. First call is to my boyfriend Dean, as it usually is. There is no point having a party to show-off the love of my life if he can't make it.

Good news - he can make it. Even better news is he thinks a party is a great idea.

With notepad in hand, I place my first tick next to Dean's name. Next I ring my best friend Helen, inviting her and her hubby. Helen also thinks a party is a great idea.

Tick two.

Next to contact is Dean's brother Danny, a fellow flyer. I'm reluctant to phone other flight attendants, never knowing whether they're in the country or, if they are at home, they might be sleeping or jetlagged. When I'm jetlagged the last thing I feel like doing is chatting on the phone. I send a text, inviting Danny and his wife Bernadette.

Two ticks, two wait-and-sees.

My next text is to my good friend, the promiscuous and emotionally unstable Mary Gomez. Mary's nickname within the airline is Mary-go-round (because every guy has had a ride). I think she has just started seeing some guy. That was about three weeks ago, so she may have had several new boyfriends come and go since then. One never quite knows with Mary. I know she is away on a trip so I don't expect to hear from her straight away.

To my surprise Mary texts back within minutes.

She returns from her trip the day before my scheduled party. Mary is still seeing the same guy - I think. She mentions his name in the text: Craig. I can't be positive if Craig was the name stated three weeks ago. Mary is always mentioning guy's names, yet experience has taught me to remember lots of things in life, but rarely does remembering Mary-go-round's many dates feature prominently. If Craig is indeed the same fellow, then she received my text, in a different time zone, contacted Craig, he responded back, and then she has replied to me - all within five minutes.

Three ticks, two wait-and-sees

Several more texts to other hostie-friends return differing results. I haven't caught up with my friend Sue for some time. I didn't think she would make it. She can't, yet I feel better for inviting her. Sue is good friends with another flyer, Damien. We have done plenty of memorable trips together. Only a month-or-so ago Damien and I had a great trip, yet, like most of the flights he is on, there were dramas-a-plenty. Even so, I really like him. I send him a text.

Damien responds, being able to make my little party. I'm aware Damien has a partner, I recall his name is Stuart. I haven't met him, although I know he doesn't fly. I text my address details, who is likely to come, and invite Stuart. Damien texts back, confirming his partner would love to come.

Four ticks, eight people, two yet to respond.

Now I have some party decisions to make: eight or more people are too many to sit down and dine in my small apartment. It looks like it will be a standup affair. Finger-food was always going to be the easier option - now it's a no-brainer.

Whether eight, ten, or more, I am really looking forward to the opportunity to relax with my friends. I might even see if Dean wants to invite any of his friends. I may even invite my neighbors.

I can't wait.

the party is smokin'

One small apartment - 16 people - six days of planning - two days of cooking - two glasses of wine.

I'm ready to party.

Danny and his wife Bernadette have come, as too friends of Dean, even my next door neighbors have joined the fun. I have met Mary-go-round's new beau, Craig - and he is really nice. Most of the guys Mary date are handsome, yet within a millisecond of meeting them I can tell there is something wrong; some demons, some damage. Craig seems normal in every sense - and he adores Mary. She is a tad drunk, she was when she walked in. Mary is always drunk socially. Often her moods swing like a pendulum, but tonight she is in the zone; funny, quirky, and, by Merry-go-round's standards, even a little bit reserved.

She must really like this guy.

They say opposites attract. Craig is a tad shy. As a nine-to-five worker, he is fascinated by our hostie lifestyles. I doubt he has met someone like Mary-go-round before. If he is spellbound by Mary's flying stories and behavior, he is absolutely gob-smacked by the flamboyant antics of Damien, being loud and gregarious. Damien's partner Stuart is quiet and unassuming, yet listens intently every time Damien speaks.

'Danielle and I were on a trip to Bangkok, what, two or three weeks ago?' says Damien.

It was actually a smidgen further back than that, however it is one of the things we flight attendants struggle with: the concept of time. I can tell you what I did twelve years ago in intricate detail, but ask me what I was doing two months ago and I need to stop and think. Other crew have said the same.

Damien and I had the funniest night out in Bangkok, but the flight there was no fun at all.

In Damien's words: 'If you look up the dictionary meaning of the word hell you'll find a description of our flight to Thailand.'

I know from experience the dramas that can play out on an aircraft. One of my worst flights, passenger-wise, was a trip with Damien to Honolulu. A passenger head-butted Damien, spreading poor Damien's nose from one side of his face to the other. Damien does not mention this flight during the party, although I am positive the story has been retold many times at host of social gatherings.

On our Bangkok trip we had two separate and unrelated incidences. Damien is an exceptional storyteller, so when he tells of the events everybody listens. It was a full flight with Damien the galley operator at the back of the plane and me working with him. Just after takeoff he turned on the ovens. While the meals cooked we set-up carts and looked after the usual requests in the cabin. One of the company's major frequent flyers was onboard:

'A gold, triple premium, platinum-wrapped, diamond-studded, we-must-give-you-everything frequent flyer.'

These are Damien's words, not mine.

'Anyhow, we kissed this guy's butt, racing up to the front of the plane to serve him the finest red wine a vintner can make' tells Damien.

Sometimes the most important corporate clients, including frequent flyers, are not who you would imagine. This man was middle-aged, casually dressed, and a little rough around the edges. Damien used more insulting dialogue in his descriptions, but realistically the man looked and acted just like a typical passenger - at least initially.

In the galley the crew prepared drinks, readied carts, and waited for the meals to cook. All of a sudden thick smoke billowed from one of the middle ovens. The thick smoke and the smell of electrical burning hit our noses at the same time. This was major. This was dramatic.

Damien was closest to the oven. He turned it off, then instinctively, and as per procedure, he turned off the power to the whole galley. We saw smoke, but no flames. As crew we are trained to fight fires, implementing basic fire drills. The first person on the scene, after isolating the power, fights the fire. The second person acts as a communicator, and the next crew member becomes a backup firefighter - and so on. I was standing next to Damien. I became the communicator.

If you're at home and something catches fire in the kitchen, you turn off the power and fight the fire. The big difference between a house and a plane is: if you are at home, and the fire gets out of control, you can always call the fire brigade and get out of the house. You can't do that at 35,000 feet. You have to fight the fire and put it out. There are no other options.

We still had not seen flames, which is reassuring, however Damien barked 'Get me a fire extinguisher.'

As I pick up the nearest crew phone, one of the other crew, Phil, grabbed an extinguisher to hand to Damien. I made an emergency call to the whole crew, including the flight deck. From where I stood, and with the phone having a long flexible cable, I could see most things going on. My job was to communicate clearly and effectively the situation to all crew, particularly the flight crew; in this case being the captain who has seen the flashing oh-this-can't-be-good button and picked up the phone.

In relaying the story, Damien is animated and theatrical. In reality it was a lot of smoke and potentially catastrophic, yet we had everything under control, however the way Damien tells the story: we were engulfed in toxic fumes and ready to die.

The first thing I told the captain was we had thick grey-white smoke pouring from and around an oven and the smell of something burning - an electrical burning smell. Damien had switched off the galley power and was about to investigate. I was very careful not mention the word fire. On an aircraft it is the worst case scenario. Nobody wants to hear the F word. Several of the crew from the front of the aircraft, including the boss, venture down the back to help while I stayed online with the captain.

I must say that Damien handled the situation brilliantly. Although the power was turned off, the smoke was still coming from in and around the oven. Phil had retrieved some firefighting equipment, including thick fire-retardant gloves and a fire extinguisher. Damien slipped the gloves on, telling everyone to stand back as he came in low, as to avoid smoke and possible flame, to open the oven door, not fully, just enough to see in. The last thing you want to do if there is a fire is allow extra oxygen to fuel the flames. Damien knew this.

Not as much smoke came out of the oven as one might as expect - and thankfully no flames. Most oven fires occur from the ignition of food (usually oil) or some other item, like paper, which shouldn't have been in the oven. This was not the case here.

Damien pulled the oven racks, loaded with food, from the oven. He threw them on the galley bench. He could still see smoke oozing from the back of the oven, through the vents where a fan generates the oven heat. Damien made an instant decision to fire-off the extinguisher into the back of the oven. I relayed this information to the captain. Although the captain agreed, Damien began doing it anyway. He squeezed the trigger, emptying the whole contents into the oven, with the door only ajar enough for the extinguisher nozzle to poke in. He then shut the oven door. The smoke began to dissipate.

Fire extinguisher repellent is toxic. Phil donned a device called a smoke hood. It is a fireproof headpiece with its own internal oxygen supply. When a toxic material like a fire extinguisher has been let off, this is the piece of onboard equipment you really need. Phil went in, opened the oven door, and investigated. No flames, no smoke. Phil and Damien checked surrounding panels, but thanks to the quick response from the crew, any emergency was diverted. I happily relayed that information to the captain.

The smoke disappeared. Our relief was obvious, yet the job was far from done. The smell of burnt electrical equipment inside an aircraft is not the sort of thing passengers fearlessly embrace. I once had my kitchen toaster burn out. It did not catch fire, yet the burnt electrical smell stayed in my apartment for days. That's what we faced in the cabin.

The onboard manager was fantastic, making a P.A explaining the situation, reassuring everyone that everything was under control and safe. The captain did the same. The danger was averted, although we now had a service issue. This aircraft has two galleys; a small one at the front and the main galley at the back. That main galley was now out-of-action and the power won't be turned back on. Although only cooked for ten minutes (on a 30 minute cycle), the meals in the affected oven would taste like a toxic dump. With around 300 passengers, and approximately 50 unusable meals and the rest only partially cooked, we had a real problem. These are 300 passengers impatiently waiting for food and drinks. The only person at the back of the plane with a drink was the frequent flyer - only because he visited the front of the plane to top up his glass, three times at least, even at that early stage of the flight.

Only an hour into the flight our frequent flyer was totally oblivious to our firefighting efforts, the commotion in the galley, the smoke in the cabin, the P.As, and the rest of the world. Discovering he'd been guzzling wine so quickly had my alarm bells ringing louder than any emergency smoke alarms in the aircraft.

the bigger the fool, the harder they fall

Using the business class galley we managed to cook the salvageable meals, being a slow and laborious task. We succeeded in feeding most of the masses, somehow making up for the 50 meals we were short. Fortunately several passengers did not eat, yet we still searched every nook and cranny of the aircraft for the smallest morsels of food. By the time we had finished, not even a cracker was to be found in the carts.

Our frequent flyer-wine-gulping-supremo was one of those who didn't eat. He was probably too busy guzzling red wine. While we ran between galleys, he snuck under our guard, helping himself to yet more wine. We were still serving meals over four hours into the flight when a passenger brings our attention to a multi-color surprise left near the back toilets.

I think the passenger's words were: I think someone has been sick at the back toilets.

They said 'at', not 'in'.

Damien and I investigated. I wish we hadn't. The report of someone vomiting at the back toilets was a tad understated - and I am talking about the statement being understated, not the action. It was all over the toilet door, all over the wall - and all over the crew jump seat a crew member is to occupy for takeoff and landing.

Guess whose crew jump seat it was?

Mine.

The culprit was in the closest toilet to my jump seat. One didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to see the red-wine-infused vomit dripping off the outside of the toilet door to know who the offender was, especially as we could hear him continuing to throw up inside. The sound of banging and crashing into the walls and door was another give-away. We then heard water splashing. It sounded like a shower in there.

As Damien tells the story: 'At least we knew he was alive. Poor Danielle and I had to clean up the results of this moron's stupidity, with him on the other side of the door while we cleaned that door. I could hear him in there - and he must have heard us. I cleaned the door - and cleaned it damn loudly. I think I swore even louder.'

It took Damien and me sometime to clean the area, yet the frequent flyer did not come out. He was either too embarrassed or too drunk to venture out. Regardless, neither of us cared by that point. Sometime later we did see the man stagger down the aisle wearing his drenched shirt, unbuttoned, his glistening pot-belly leading the way. His pants and clothes were saturated. He had obviously thrown-up on himself and then taken off all his clothes in an attempt to wash them; only to put them back on again. Being revolted, I glanced only fleetingly at the drowned rat, although I could see his shirt was all screwed up. At some point he must had attempted to somehow wring it dry - with little success.

He wobbled past the galley and back to his seat. He then collapsed in a pool of drenched misery. When Damien relayed part of the story to the onboard manager it was suggested we might take a clean blanket and a pair of pajamas to the man. Three minutes into Damien's monologue about how he and I were on our hands and knees cleaning up the man's vomit, the boss knew beyond a shadow of a doubt nothing was ever going past the business class curtains.

It was early in the evening when we landed in Bangkok.

Damien said 'Come on - we're going out!'

He took me to a bar in Bangkok's Patpong, the most famous entertainment and red-light district in the city, teaming with sex clubs, bars, and markets. I have been to the markets many times. They are great, but the truth-be-told, I have seen just one of the sex shows - and that was some years ago.

It's not really my cup of tea.

Damien tells the party-goers about some of the sex acts performed on stage in Patpong. Very few people can talk about these demeaning performances, featuring ping-pong balls and darts, amongst other things, and get away with it in mixed company. Damien can. Even if he can't, he'll say it anyway.

When Damien first started talking about Patpong, I thought he was going to tell all my friends we had a night out in a strip club, which we didn't. Damien has a wicked sense of humor. In the company of my friends I am a little nervous. I need not worry as Damien sticks with the facts.

We went to a bar in Patpong with the most amazing copy-cat singers, impersonating the likes of Tom Jones and Tina Turner. My personal favorite was a little old skinny Thai man who really thought he was the incarnation of Elvis Presley. Apart from the Thai accent and the fact he looked nothing like the real Elvis, he still sounded pretty good. Damien and I had a fantastic night, getting back to the hotel in the wee hours of the morning.

Sleep in our job is so very important, but nobody recalls with fondness the nights where you went to bed early.

When Damien talked of partying and sex clubs, Mary-go-round's ears pricked. She is eager to share her own stories. Mary has some saucy accounts. I know - I've heard some. To her credit she shows some decorum around her new beau, only talking of the one time she danced on a pole at a club in Patpong. I was not there, although I have no qualms that she would have done it. There would have been a guy in tow who she was showing-off to, no doubt. There usually is. I am also sure she has done far more risqué stunts than pole dancing, but for tonight at least, she keeps those stories to herself. Many of the stories I have heard about Mary, from others as well as herself, she has little recollection. The outrageous things she does are proportionate to the amount of booze she consumes. Most stories about Mary are memorable, yet she remembers very few herself.

Of the 16 guests, only four are flyers: Damien, Mary, Danny, and me. Even so, it is amazing how non-flying people are fascinated in our lifestyle and what we get up to. I would imagine Danny's wife Bernadette and Damien's partner Stuart would hear stories all the time, however the other guests are captivated. I have the feeling Danny doesn't talk much about what goes on away from home as much as I would have thought. I can see Bernadette is as attentive as everyone else to the stories.

My best friend Helen and my boyfriend Dean have been on a number of separate trips with me. As the night progresses, and thanks to some of my special cocktail drinks, they too share their own observations and onboard stories. Helen, in particular, is enthusiastic about her travel experiences, referring to herself as her majesty - a nickname coined by Damien of all people, who just so happened to be on a Honolulu flight I took Helen on. She's been on another trip since, but it was that Honolulu trip she will never forget. She repeats some aspects of that excursion: a passenger being arrested and then sedated onboard, a couple joining the mile-high club, being seated up front of the plane across from Ronn Moss (the former actor from The Bold and the Beautiful), and Helen and I walking in the water along Waikiki Beach by moonlight in the early hours of the morning.

The most recent trip with Helen was not as eventful, however Helen does tell one onboard story:

'The last time I went with Danielle, she was just about to serve me - I was at the pointy end of the plane you know, as Your Majesty should be' she jokes, 'when another passenger reached across and grabbed Danielle by the skirt to get her attention. As cool as you like, she said: Yes sir, that is my dress, attached to my body, and when you let go - and you will let go - I'll adjust my uniform, forget that you scruffed me, and then I will return to find out what it is you want.'

I can't recall saying those words on that flight. I might have said something along those lines. It does sound like something I would say.

Mary has her own stories about being touched, grabbed, and groped by passengers. Her responses are less diplomatic and far less sarcastic than mine. Damien too has a major input into the subject. I somehow thought he would. He can be cutting and condescending onboard, but what he says and what he really thinks are fortunately worlds apart. If he acted on how he really felt about certain situations, I am sure the obituary columns would be overflowing.

The one flight attendant who is quiet on all subjects hostie is Danny. I know Danny well. Apart from being Dean's brother, I have done a number of trips with him. Danny is one of the smartest people I know. I realize he rarely partakes in what we call galley gossip. He is diplomatic, thoughtful, and looks at the bigger pictures.

I would really like him to be involved in the conversations, as would the other guests, particularly Damien. Danny and Damien have flown together only a few times. They know each other by sight, but that is about it. I can tell Damien respects Danny.

It is Damien who actually asks Danny 'What is it about the job that really ticks you off?'

Everyone listens.

'Let's face it, the job itself can suck' replies Danny.

I am taken aback. Danny is a positive and upbeat guy, well-educated, and articulate. I know he loves his job, not being the type to begin a conversation with the words job and suck in the same sentence. I listen intently.

'We all see and put up with things that most non-airline people would have no idea we put up with, but at the end of the day I look at the time frames involved: I can spend, say, thirteen or fourteen hours in the air and granted some of it can be hell. Not all of it, not all the time, but sometimes, yet when I get off that plane I have two, sometimes three days to do whatever I want to do in a foreign land - a foreign destination. I'd put up with a few hours of pain to have a day of pleasure anytime.'

Bernadette chimes in, 'And Danny loves to travel. It's a small price to pay for him to see the world.'

As she cuddles up to her husband, he smiles to say 'And I get paid to do it.'

Bravo Danny.

As much as we hosties bitch and complain about some of the aspects of the job, we ultimately love the job and the lifestyle it can bring. Danny's words of wisdom are taken onboard only fleetingly as Mary turns up the background music to start dancing like she was on that pole at Patpong.

how does the floor taste?

Mary is getting drunker, becoming louder and more flirtatious. Craig loves the attention. He is a seemingly conservative man, yet revels in Mary's outrageous ways. He even has a dance with Mary, well, it is more like a standup lap-dance actually. Helen and her hubby dance, Dean and I dance, Danny and Bernadette dance, Damien and Stuart dance - we all dance.

The evening is a great success. The only near-hiccup is when Mary starts getting a little shaky on her feet. While in the act of pole dancing on an invisible pole, she slips and falls over.

'I didn't fall. The floor just needed a hug' she says giggling, face down on the carpet.

Craig really likes Mary. He has never met anyone as outgoing and outrageous as Mary-go-round. There is no doubt he is smitten.

Will the relationship last?

I hope for Mary's sake it does, yet I've had hopes many times before.

Parties and Mary are synonymous. She is always the last to go home. The only exception is when she gets so trashed she either passes out or someone takes her to bed. When I say 'takes her to bed' it has two meaning, both being relevant. Tonight is different. We have all partied late, yet Mary and Craig are the first to leave. Mary is drunk, although by Mary's usual standards, she is stone-cold-sober. Sure she fell over, sure she is loud, but Mary is showing a new sense of responsibility seldom seen. She must really like this guy.

Sometimes parties have high points and low points. There are no low points at my little gathering. After the last of the guests leave, Dean wraps his arms around me to say 'Wow, what a great night.'

The next morning I barely have time to reflect on the previous night as I fly out in just over 24 hours. I hadn't even thought about my next trip. I've done all the usual mundane duties like washing, cleaning, and paying bills, but I've yet to even contemplate going back to work or where I am even off to.

Actually, where am I going to?

I joke. I do know, but sometimes my life is so chaotic I need to stop and think for a moment. Sometimes it is hard enough to know where you've been, let alone where you are going to. This is where a paper copy of my flying roster comes in handy. I have a copy held onto my fridge door with a magnet. I quickly glance at it.

I'm off to Singapore.

I knew it was going to be somewhere in Asia.

Most times I have a flying roster, so I know what trips I am doing in advance - in theory anyway. Often trips are changed, delayed, or cancelled. What is in black and white paperwork under my fridge magnet can look very different by the end of the roster period. There are times, however, where I don't know what trips I am doing. As airlines need to have some additional crew as a back-up to cover flight changes, sick crew, and unforeseen events, there are always a percentage of crew on a standby arrangement. I need to do this standby thing every so often. I find it no fun at all.

For a spirited soul, not knowing where you are going until the last minute sounds like a good thing in theory: I receive a phone call, often with very short notice, to go somewhere in the world. It is a lottery.

'How exciting' my non-flying friends say.

The big catch is the short notice. I can't venture far from home - and I could be in the middle of something, like having coffee with Helen (as I was last time). I received a call to scoot out the door mumbling 'run Forrest run!' Then I needed to pack. I usually have something packed already, but how can you prepack properly when you have no idea where you could end up? I could be going to the equator or I might end up in the snow - and how long will I be away for?

Even when I do find out the destination or destinations and how long I am to be away, the clock is ticking. I literally need to drop everything and run. I remember some years ago being called out on a ten day trip, which, with disruptions, ended up with me being away from home for over two weeks. As I had been on a standby arrangement, not knowing whether I would be called out or not, I had fresh produce in the fridge, including seafood. A girl still needs to eat. I had not been called for several days, being on standby all that day, without a call. I had less than an hour to go.

'They won't need me' I rationalized, so I bought a nice piece of fish to have for dinner. Just as I turned the oven on, the phone rang. I turned the oven off, rushing to get ready. The fish was still in the fridge, yet it was the last thing on my mind.

When I returned home, after more than two weeks away, I was unaware that the building's power was shut off for some of the time I was away. I opened the fridge door... I wish I hadn't.

One other standby story I'll share is from some years ago: I was on a 12 hour standby arrangement, from 10.00 a.m. until 10.00 p.m. This means the phone could ring at 10.01 in the morning and I could be off somewhere or it could ring at 9.59 at night. I'd had two days of this procedure, not being called to go anywhere. On day three at 9.57 p.m. I opened the fridge door to remove a bottle of wine, singing 'Just three more minutes to go, just three more minutes to go.' The inevitable occurred. As I reached up to the cupboard to remove a wine glass, the phone rang.

I was to operate a 13 hour flight. I do this all the time, but, in this instance, I had been awake since early in the morning. How can you sleep throughout the day on the off-chance of being called in to work? I can't take a sleeping tablet - and without it I can't sleep in the daytime anyway, besides, I could be called in the morning or at night or not at all. This standby arrangement is a lottery - and I was screwed.

I later explained to Helen about how unfair the system is. Helen is a (part time) school teacher, so I put it in terms she could relate to: Imagine you have been awake all day, doing your normal chores and routines, you've put the kids to sleep, and you are about to have one glass of wine before going to sleep when the school rings. They want you to race into work to teach a classroom of children until two o'clock the next afternoon. Add a lack of oxygen in a pressurized tube and 400 passengers to the mix and you get some sort of idea how I felt. By the end of the flight I had been awake for over 30 hours - and I'd had a good night's sleep the night before. Often I don't.

I must say that this scenario is rare, yet it does highlight some of the unique and incredibly taxing situations we face in this job.

I am thankful for having a roster at present. I'm looking forward to going to Singapore. The first 28 times I went to Singapore I would say to myself 'Yah - I'm off to Singapore.' I still love Singapore, but I have been so many times there is a certain familiarity which prevents me from doing cartwheels. I still get out and explore from time-to-time, however what was once greeted with unrestrained excitement is now dulled to a smile of complacency. I really haven't done anything exciting in Singapore (apart from shopping) for such a long time. I make a conscious effort to do something worthwhile on this trip.

Maybe I'll catch the cable car over to Sentosa Island (again)?

I could do a river boat cruise (again)?

I could catch a ferry to Bintan or Batam (Indonesian islands about an hour by ferry from Singapore), but once again I have been a number of times.

Maybe I'll go to the top of the new Marina Sands hotel to have a cocktail by the infinity pool, 57 stories above the ground (again)?

I might even go to Universal Studios (again).

I think of more options. It's been years since I've been to the zoo and had breakfast with the orangutans. That was so much fun last time, which was, gee, nearly ten years ago.

That's what I'll do - I'll go to the zoo.

The day before a trip I usually put some thought and effort into packing for the trip. After years of practice I am an extremely quick packer, yet I still plan ahead. I normally jump on the Internet to check the weather forecast for the country I am going to, although I am going to Singapore. Singapore is on the equator - I already know it is going to be hot with late thunderstorms. I check anyway: hot with late thunderstorms it is.

I always have a little raincoat packed. It is a tad more upmarket than a simple plastic sheet, but the great thing about my raincoat is, when not in use, it scrunches up to the size of a tennis ball. Being a seasoned shopper I have so many clothes. I am always wearing new clothes, yet I only have one little raincoat - and I've had it for at least a dozen years.

My raincoat and I have some great memories together:

On a windy Rome day we were sprayed by the Trevi Fountain's water. We were soaked while in a boat under roaring waterfalls at Iguazu Falls on the Argentina-Brazil border. We walked the sodden streets of Paris in a summer storm, battled our way to the shops in a typhoon in Hong Kong, and were hit by hail in Dallas, Texas. We trudged through Poland's infamous Austerlitz Concentration Camp on an appropriately wretched day, we strolled sections of the Great Wall of China on several days of varying weather patterns, we were smashed by a massive storm while yachting on Sydney Harbour, and were covered in fog, mist, and rain while walking blindly around the cliffs of Old Head of Kinsale, Ireland. We were caught in a tropical storm whilst trekking elephants in the wilds of Africa, we plodded through flooded streets in Bangkok, and we danced in the rain in vineyards on the Rhine in Rudesheim, Germany.

I love my little raincoat.

Over the years the flying has changed. I tend to do more single destination trips than I once did, where we fly to one city, have a layover, and then fly home. I have talked with hosties from other airlines, and although rosters and flying vary from airline to airline, it would seem a continuing trend. I still do multi-sector trips, as well as shorter shuttles, often to and from the overseas layover port we are staying, but more and more trips are just to the one destination. It also means I am away for less time than I was, however going to work more often. It is the changing face of the airline industry. We crew adjust.

I am happier to do four or five day trips than be away for a fortnight. It allows some resemblance of a life at home. The jetlag becomes a continuing issue, yet these days I have a better chance of remembering what the color of my bedcover is. It is what it is, but my bedcover is pastel pink - I think?

I pack for my Singapore trip. It doesn't take long. My little raincoat is a permanent suitcase item, as too my away toiletries bag, my away medical supplies bag, a universal travel adaptor, and a wine bottle opener. If my little raincoat has fond memories, my bottle opener has more. I doubt drinking wine will be on the agenda this trip... but you never know?

now listen here...

Most of the crew on my Singapore trip are older and more senior flying-wise than me. The oldest is a lady named Kathy, with 40 years of flying experience. I cannot begin to imagine being a hostie for 40 years. Funnily, in my 20 years I have never met Kathy. She is obviously in her sixties and should look like a typical grandmother or a long lost aunt, yet she doesn't. She is vibrant, energetic, and simply lovely. I am instantly drawn to her calmness and demeanor. When the work positions are allotted I discover I'll be working down the back of the aircraft on a cart with Kathy. I am really looking forward to it.

The flight to Singapore is about as relaxed and as easy as it gets. There are plenty of spare seats and very few passengers stand out as being potential problems. Both Kathy and I have a rare commodity on an aircraft: time. We don't need to rush, having time to enjoy the service and the passengers. Seldom do we get that chance. Most times the crew are so frantically busy we bark 'Chicken or beef?' to dispense the meal onto the passenger's tray table with the speed of superman. It is not the ideal way to do it, yet the necessary way.

With hundreds of impatient passengers to serve, on most flights, it just isn't humanly possible to be chatty and relaxed with everyone. I know from experience that if I were to slow down, take my time, and serve five passengers deliberately and efficiently, the sixth passenger would complain that the meal has taken too long to get to them, the fourteenth would complain that their meal wasn't hot enough, and the eighteenth that their meal was cold. Then we would have to go through the 'I've been waiting for 40 minutes for you to collect my tray' procedure when we collected the dirty trays... or worse.

Some passengers dump their dirty trays wherever they see fit - on door bustles, spare seats, crew seats, and even on the floor. Could you imagine being in a restaurant and someone places their dirty plate on the floor? I know aircrafts aren't exactly five-star restaurants, yet the thought of dumping a used tray and meal on the floor is beyond my comprehension. As far as trays being placed on door bustles and crew seats, I'll address my thoughts about that with this little story: While on a cart, collecting dirty passenger trays, during a flight from a certain Asian destination, we had sudden turbulence. The seatbelt sign came on accompanied by an announcement from the flight-deck informing the passengers and crew to sit down immediately. When the word immediately is used on an aircraft, it means just that: sit down and strap in immediately.

I was close to a crew jump seat, so we locked the brake on the cart, leaving it in the aisle, and I headed toward that nearest jump seat. The turbulence was already quite severe, so making my way down the aisle was no easy affair. When I arrived at the seat I discovered three dirty trays piled where I needed to it. In addition, the door bustle beside the seat was stacked high with trays. I had no choice but to try and place the trays left on my seat onto the floor and strap myself in. With the shaking aircraft, the act of placing the trays on the floor was more like throwing.

Safety, including my safety, is always the number one priority, although I knew the mess now at my feet will need to be cleaned up by someone - and that someone would be me. Adding to my woes were the trays on the door bustle. The turbulence was such that the aircraft shuddered in a side-to-side motion. Most of the trays fell off the bustle and onto the floor; right beside me. Some of the trays fell on me. Half full coffee cups splashed stale coffee up my legs and scraps of food littered the floor, my lap, and my feet.

I was angry.

When the seatbelt sign finally turned off I leant down to begin picking up trays. It was obvious which passengers had dumped them as they were the ones with an empty tray table in front of them. Some of these passengers did not speak English; it mattered little as my expression relayed exactly what I was thinking. I calmly placed the trays back on each of the vacant empty tray tables. It didn't matter whose tray it originally was. I then picked up the strewn individual components to put on each tray. I returned to the galley to retrieve a dustpan, broom, and a bag to put all the scraps in.

While I was on my hands and knees cleaning and scrubbing, one of the passengers, to whom I'd returned a tray, leaned over the top of me in an attempt to place the tray back on the door bustle. I can't remember my exact words, but I did not swear - well, not out loud anyway.

If it is not already apparent, my pet hate is trays being placed on the floor - often in areas which may cause a safety hazard to the crew or other passengers. The selfishness and irresponsibility of these actions is inexcusable. When I tell Helen of passengers doing this, she too is dumbfounded.

'Does it happen very often?' she once asked.

It shouldn't, but it does.

I once slipped on a tray placed in the aisle, so I am particularly cautious and equally frustrated by the scenario.

Here's a tip for that .1% who deem themselves more important than the other passengers and MUST have their tray removed immediately after use: Place it on the floor under YOUR OWN feet, then turn on your laptop or do whatever you need to do on your tray table. When the crew come collecting, simply pick up the dirty tray and pass it your flight attendant.

It's that easy.

I have some revelations for those who think airline service is slow: I don't know one flight attendant in the history of aviation who has deliberately given slow service. It is the opposite. We go as fast as we possibly can, given the tools, the preparation, the safety, the resources, and the procedures we have to work with.

The airline times the service events before they are ever implemented. This is done in a virtual world; a world based on theory. In their laboratory-conditions there are no screaming babies, no passengers complaining about their seats, no hosties being tugged on their dresses every twelve paces to be asked for drinks, no adjusting air-vents, no fixing inflight entertainment systems, no replacing broken headsets, no turning on reading lights, and no demands for newspapers, magazines, extra blankets, pillows, headache tablets, and a partridge in a pear tree.

The questions passengers ask are often fired from a question-asking machine-gun at deadly speed.

Habitually it is the most inane questions which are asked at the most inappropriate times.

'Excuse me Miss, can I get another arrival (immigration) card?' is usually asked when the seatbelt sign has been turned on with me walking back to my seat for landing.

I feel like saying 'Oh, I'm sorry; didn't we hand you an immigration card, what 12 hours ago, and although you have had half a day to fill it out, you do it now - and stuff it up - right when we are about to land?'

By the way, from my understanding about immigration and customs forms, they are not the responsibility of airlines. They are a country-to-country requirement legislating an agreement between the visitor or citizen and that country. Airlines hand out documents and assist with tips on how to fill them out as a nicety, not a legal requirement.

On several occasions I have been abused by passengers because we had run out of immigration forms onboard. This was because customs officials in the departure port, not our airline, did not have enough forms at the time to give us. In one instance a passenger had made a mistake with their paperwork and, true to form, asked for another just before landing. When I said we had no more (which we didn't) the passenger became abusive. In times like that I would love to have a printed card I could hand to the passenger. It would read: Now listen here...

for some, knowledge comes and goes, but wisdom lasts forever

Today's flight to Singapore is going so smoothly. I've chatted with a number of passengers. So much of our time is normally taken up with problems. Sometimes they are genuine problems; sometimes the problems lie fairly and squarely with the passengers. The most annoyed I ever get on the aircraft is when passengers become so self-centered that their actions affect other people.

Am I judgmental?

'No way; I'm only judgmental to those who deserve it.'

I say this statement with my tongue firmly implanted in my cheek. Like most jokes, there is often an element of truth behind the laughter. I am judgmental. Experience has armed me with the tools to identify those I like, those I don't, and those to be wary of. We can't like everyone, however part of my job is to try to mask any ill-feelings. Acting skills are a key component of the hospitality industry. I'd like to think I can identify passengers with genuine problems and deficiencies. I would never knowingly ridicule someone who cannot help who they are or what they are doing. Those who have a choice, and choose to be disrespectful to others, well then, in my eyes it's open season.

If a passenger pops sleeping pills to wash them down with alcohol with the inevitable consequences, then it's open season. If a passenger is so rude they upset everyone in the vicinity, then it's open season. If they put a meal tray on the floor, putting crew and other passengers at risk of injury, then it's open season.

It is not just on the plane; I see acts worthy of 'open season' everywhere: If someone takes 105 items into the supermarket's cashier lane clearly signed eight items or less, then it's open season. If someone spits in the street, queue jumps, is racially or sexually inappropriate, swears in front of children...

Societies have rules. Airlines have rules. Not every one of those rules, if broken, is going to have someone end up in a prison cell, yet there are certain guidelines and manners which should be afforded to our fellow man.

A friend of mine once told her boyfriend: Treat me with respect and I will be your friend forever; disrespect me and I will annihilate your world.

I am a strong, independent woman; I make no apologies for that. If I have an opinion I will give it. I joke that the only time I am helpless is when my nails are drying, yet the rest of the time I am primed and dangerous. Most of my fellow female hosties are independent women. They need to be; it is a physically and emotionally-demanding job and lifestyle. That is one of the reasons I am enjoying my conversations so much with Kathy. I don't see a 65 year-old woman wearing a little too much make-up to cover her wrinkles. I see a vibrant woman full of life, a woman with a strong sense of where she has been and where she is going.

To share in someone's wisdom is more educational than sharing in someone's life. Most people talk about what they want and what they do. I can be one of those people. I wish I wasn't. Kathy talks about what she has learned and how she is enjoying life more because of that knowledge.

We should all be more like Kathy. I know I should be.

She's been doing this, sometimes monotonous job, for 40 years and yet I have not heard her complain once. I don't need to ask if she enjoys the job because I can already tell she does. She is highly intelligent and not intimidated by the workload. This flight is stress-free and easy. Even so, I can tell if someone is lazy or not. Kathy is hard working.

Sometimes I work with crew with some type of physical issue. They'll usually tell you - some sooner than later. Occasionally someone has a legitimate physical injury or restriction limiting their ability to work in the cabin. It cannot be major or debilitating. Ours is a physical job: there are heavy weights to lift, lots of bending and stretching, much pushing and pulling, and constant walking (and running) - all in an oxygen-starved piece of metal hurtling along on an angle to make every step feel like you are walking up a mountain. I hear so many twenty-something new recruits complain about the physical burdens of the job, yet Kathy, being 40 years their senior, says nothing.

I really like her.

I tell Kathy of my plans for the following morning; breakfast with the orangutans at Singapore Zoo.

'I haven't been to the zoo for, well, it would be 20 years' she says, 'and I have never had breakfast with the orangutans. Are you thinking of going on your own?'

In a heartbeat I invite Kathy to join me in.

Several crew talk of having a drink by the pool after we arrive at the hotel in Singapore. To my surprise Kathy is one of the first to accept. It takes little persuasion for me to also say yes. It is not so much about the drinking, but the chance to unwind, to be social, and to spend time with someone intelligent and wise.

I don't drink much, however I drink often. It is a lifestyle attracting sociable people. We don't have to drink, yet most of us do. As office workers often get together over a few drinks at the end of a long week, we too get together after an arduous day. We are at a nice hotel with a superb pool area and, as crew, we get discounted drinks. It is understandable why many airline crew, after work, have either a cold beer or a glass of wine in hand. When drinking in our hotel we don't have to drive anywhere, being only a short stagger from our beds. It is a perfect drinker's storm - or should that be: a drinker's perfect storm? Either way, we are having drinks as we so often do - yippee.

The drinks, the people, and the location by the pool are awesome. There is so soothing looking at water. Five of the crew turn up, which is not a bad turnout for a mature crew. Kathy is again delightful. She is not shy, yet she is not one to dominate conversations. She has much wisdom and experience, however I get the feeling she wants to learn much more. She listens intently to others, occasionally asking questions; not inane silly questions, but questions which help a conversation - not kill it.

I think it was Ralph Waldo Emerson who said: Every person I meet is my superior in some way in that I learn from them.

Kathy absorbs every word spoken.

One thing I find annoying, at times, is when crew get together over drinks to talk purely about work. Often it is about incidences onboard, and that I accept because some of those occurrences are quite traumatic. It helps to talk it out, though the conversations which irk me are when crew talk about procedural, service, or safety work-related issues.

I sometimes think to myself 'Here we have a group of intelligent, worldly people; we've just had 12 hours on an aircraft where inane work-related issues could be discussed and yet you now choose to talk about it? There are so many other interesting subjects we could be talking about, however we are talking shop.'

Why?

There is no such thing as a typical hostie. I see a commonality in many crew: compassion, sociability, and poise (just to name a few) - nonetheless, everyone is an individual. Most flight attendants had some other working career before joining the airline. Many have fascinating interests, sometimes continuing other careers outside of flying.

I know it can be like a security blanket to talk about subjects we all know and experience, yet I find it frustrating. The pilots are just as bad as cabin crew. So many times I've heard a group of pilots in a social situation talking technical airplane jargon. Remember these people sit up in a sterile locked-up environment for hours and hours with often nothing better to do than talk about technical airplane jargon anyway. It is a social human trait I fail to grasp.

Some of the most amazing people I have met are airline crew, inclusive of pilots. I've spent untold hours chatting about wine to a captain who owns his own vineyard and winery, another who lives on a 50 foot yacht, a first officer who breeds horses, a captain who restores old aerobatic aircraft to fly them, ... just to name a few.

Over the years I've had some incredible conversations with the techies (pilots), usually chatting one-on-one. For some reason put three or four tech crew together in a social situation and they feel this inane need to talk about airplanes.

Regardless of what the pilots talk about, I have the utmost respect for what they do. Airplanes are by and large very safe. I've been on flights involved in a few minor incidences and I must say the pilots in each and every instance were awesome. It helps to have that confidence in the personnel driving at 30,000-plus-feet in the air.

By the way, I am always happy to hear their stories about such incidences. How they handle the situations and relay the stories, well, that's fascinating.

zoo stories

No pilots are poolside tonight, only cabin crew. After a refreshing drink, we decide to grab a bite to eat. Crew are incredibly finicky about their taste in cuisine. A restaurant must tick a number of boxes to get our seal of approval: it must be good, cheap, and close to the hotel. Rarely do we dine in five-star opulence. In Singapore, and almost everywhere else in the world, we eat at casual, inexpensive cafes with good authentic food. That is exactly the type of place we go to tonight. All the crew have been before; ordering the same dishes as I have seen previous crews order.

If it aint broke, why fix it?

Singapore is a mix-match of different cultures and influences, being reflected in their food. As many Indians have immigrated to countries like Malaysia and Singapore, the Indian cuisine is typically excellent. The local Singaporean cuisine has many inspirations from surrounding countries such as Malaysia and Indonesia, although western influences can be seen as well. The most famous local dish is chilli crab. For crew to share in the experience of ripping apart crab legs is messy and hard to divide evenly, therefore crab is not ordered. Most times when crew eat together, particularly in Asia, we order a number of different dishes to throw into the middle of the table to share. This is the case, as it always is, at the little café tonight.

Butter squid, chilli prawns (shrimp), Asian veggies, chicken in curry sauce, pepper beef, and three different rice dishes are just a few of the dishes to grace the table. I rarely drink beer, but when you are on the equator and the nearest quality chilled wine is in your dreams, then beer it is. It is amazing how refreshing an ice cold drink of any description can be when the outside temperature is as hot as the chilli prawns you are eating. Even so, one beer for me is ample. Mind you, the glass is massive.

Apart from the one beer each, Kathy and I only drank two glasses of wine each by the pool. For some that is a lot, but for seasoned drinkers, like ourselves, it is par-for-the-course. Thanks to the effects of jetlag, waking up with a hangover is sometimes not easily recognizable. I should have no such problems tomorrow.

The clock must have ticked past 2.15 a.m. without me noticing. I have a great sleep, waking up as refreshed as can be expected given this job and lifestyle. Kathy told me to call her any time after eight in the morning. Kathy revealed she has a coffee addiction.

'Funny about that...' I said with a grin.

We meet at Starbucks to collectively sigh 'Ah-h-h' before catching a cab to the zoo.

By the way, taxis are so cheap in Asia. A country like Singapore is small, yet traveling from one side to the other by cab costs little more than going to the next suburb in a city like Los Angeles. Consequently, taxis in Asia are usually my preferred transport choice.

Breakfast with the orangutans is fun. It is not really as the name breakfast with the orangutans suggests - we are not sitting at a dining table sharing toast and jam with orangutans. It is a normal breakfast with orangutans nearby, with their handlers. Orangutans are beautiful creatures. They perform a few tricks. It is quite demeaning for such a majestic animal being captive, nevertheless the whole zoo experience is about seeing the animals and learning.

We cannot overthink the situation.

At one point handlers bring out a snake; a python. This is no snake - this is an aircraft fuselage with a forked tongue. They ask me if I would like to pose for a photo with this reptile of gargantuan proportions draped around my neck.

Not on your life.

I would rather tackle a drunk, crazy passenger on the plane (which I have) than touch a snake. It is one of the funny things in life; most women are so strong and fearless, yet we scream when we see a spider - or a snake. I know I do.

I tell Kathy about some of my onboard physical encounters - in an attempt to demonstrate that being scared of a snake doesn't prove I am a coward. I did not really want to talk about work with Kathy, yet I know in my 20 years of flying how many incidences have occurred. I was wondering if Kathy had similar events in her career, being twice as long as mine. She had.

She tells of an incident almost 30 years ago; back in the days when the flight deck was not more secure than Fort Knox. Since September 11 that all changed. There are now codes, passwords, secret handshakes... Seriously, to get into the flight-deck for crew is a complicated procedure these days. It would be almost impossible for potential bad guys. It was a different aviation world 30 years ago.

Kathy tells of a passenger, a big man, who was drunk and delusional. For some reason he decided he needed to go to the flight deck. Another passenger travelling with the man followed him toward the front of the plane, yelling at the man to return to his seat - and thus drawing attention to the crew. Kathy was closest to the flight deck door, with two other male flight attendants working nearby.

'What ensued just happened so quickly: the delusional man threw a punch at the man trying to stop him going to the flight deck - and then he grabbed the man and threw him into the door - and THROUGH the door. As you know, in the old days the doors weren't secure, in fact they often had a panel which could be kicked out in an emergency. Anyhow, the panel of the door opened up and before we knew it both men were in the flight deck, on the floor, right on front of the instrumentation and controls between the seats of the two techies. Bodies were thrashing around everywhere. You should have seen the look on the techies' faces. The bigger man, the delusional one, is on top and about to do, well, I do not really know what - this in serious stuff, so I dived in on top of him. The other two crew did the same. So we now have five bodies stacked on top of each other in the flight deck, right in front of the techies, while they are trying to fly the plane - and this idiot is still thrashing about. I think the FO (First Officer) at one point rammed his elbow into this guy's head. I know I had my arms wrapped around his neck, like a wrestler. I couldn't believe how strong this guy was.'

As I listen to Kathy telling the story, I am mesmerized. Flight decks are tiny. I can just imagine the horror of the situation.

She tells of how they managed to subdue the man and then drag him a few paces backwards, while still in the flight deck doorway - in full view of passengers. Kathy and the two other flight attendants were handed handcuffs. They then attempted to cuff the man.

'This guy is still thrashing about. He is also making noises like a wounded animal. His brain is obviously scrambled, but he is very strong. As you know, we are not policemen. Trying to handcuff this brute wasn't easy. I reckon it took at least two minutes to get the handcuffs on him. That's a long time when you are being thrown around and you know if you let go of him he could end up back in the flight deck and doing who-knows-what? Anyhow, we finally got the cuffs on, but this guy kept thrashing about...'

not all alarms are false

I am spellbound as Kathy tells of the incident of the out-of-control man in the flight deck, explaining how she and the crew handcuffed him. Although the man's arms were restrained, she told that he continued to thrash around. She was bumped and buffeted when they bundled him to a seat. Regarding the scuffle in the flight deck, she is unsure of how many times she was hit, although recalls it was numerous. She tells that the flight wasn't full so they were able to move some nearby front row passengers to other seats to then bundle the cuffed man into the seat, using seatbelts and whatever they could to strap the man down. They also covered him in a blanket as he was making so much noise.

I've heard, on other airlines, of passengers who have had their mouths gaffer-taped shut. I guess when the comfort of the other passengers is compromised, one has to do what one has to do.

An interesting observation Kathy makes about the incident is she said that not one passenger got up to help while the event occurred.

In her words: 'They all sat there looking like stunned mullets.'

The flight deck door, and the incident, was in full view of many passengers, yet no one left their seat to help. She noted that this was before September 11.

'I think these days if some lunatic was threatening the flight deck you'd have every passenger jumping out of their seats and attacking him within a heartbeat.'

It is a wise observation. What happened on September 11 changed the aviation industry forever. I know our emergency training has changed. If there was a hijack threat of any description we were once told to be passive and negotiate. Now we are trained to use whatever force or means necessary to overwhelm the perpetrator or perpetrators. Passengers too know the possible consequences of inaction.

Kathy tells me the man who ended up smashing the flight deck door had recently split with his wife, was drinking for days prior, and then jumped on the aircraft to wash down a whole lot of pills with yet more alcohol. He was taken into custody when the flight landed, however Kathy said that almost a month after the incident she received a letter from the company saying the man had no recollection of the incident and was receiving physiological treatment.

Kathy is a compassionate person, yet I can see the anger in her eyes when recalling the episode. Even though it was long ago, she still bares emotional scars. Apparently she only received a few bumps and bruises on the day, yet the trauma of the event left a lasting impression. The man who caused so much grief to the crew was getting psychological treatment and the crew got nothing. Kathy is a strong woman; very little would phase her, nevertheless she was affected by the episode.

I think these days the airlines offer a little more assistance to traumatized crew than what they once did. A phrase like duty of care has become an integral part of the workplace. I can tell you though, from my 20 years' experience and all the dramas I have seen onboard, not once have I been offered any counseling or assistance - nor have I asked for any help.

After telling the story, Kathy changes the subject. I have the impression it is a story rarely told, however I am pleased she shared it with me.

We stay at the zoo until lunchtime. Eating zoo-café-food is not really my idea of gourmet indulgence, so I suggest we head back into Singapore proper to grab a bite to eat. After discussion, Kathy and I discover we share a love of Indian food. We catch a cab to a little Indian restaurant I've dined many times. Funnily, Kathy has not heard of it, yet keen to try. It is cheap, fresh, and very good. While mopping-up the last of the butter chicken sauce with her naan bread, Kathy declares she will be back.

With content stomachs there is only one relaxing thing left for two girls to do: shop. We go to Orchard Road. The name came from fruit orchards, and spices like nutmeg and pepper plantations, which the road led to in the mid-1800s. Commercial development began in the twentieth century and took off in the 1970s. Now it is wall-to-wall shopping centers, mostly high-end. As international travelers we are spoilt with shopping choices. Asia, overall, is very cheap, yet I find the major expensive brands so much cheaper when on-sale in places like The U.S. Kathy and I are too savvy to pay full retail.

Some of the centers in Orchard Road have really good sales, with one such store on our bargain-radar being a Japanese department store, Isetan. Kathy and I spend an hour at Isetan, scoring some terrific bargains before continuing our shopping quest.

Carrying shopping bags aplenty we make our way back to the hotel. What a great day. I really enjoyed Kathy's company - and am sure she was appreciative of mine. We have a ridiculously early start in the morning, so a late night is not an option. We are both still full from lunch, so we grab some supplies from the local supermarket, in case we get hungry later in the evening or when we wake up at that ridiculously early time.

I continually say the hardest thing about my job is getting adequate sleep. Even disregarding time changes, there is no routine in the times I go to work. Sometimes it is late at night, sometimes in the middle of the day, and, like tomorrow, sometimes it is in the wee hours of the morning. It is what it is, so we try to adjust the best way we can. In my case (like many others who fly), to sleep, it is popping a sleeping pill.

I use a natural product as I don't like drugs of any description. If I could sleep naturally I would. The product I buy is available over the counter in most countries and on the shelves in The U.S. I take the recommended amount; one tablet. It helps me sleep for exactly four hours. I once took one and a half tablets, working on the theory I might get six hours sleep, however what sounds good in theory rarely works in real life. I still only had the mandatory four hours sleep.

I have tried stronger prescription sleeping tablets, but I tended to get headaches or dizzy spells after. Everyone is different and what works for me may not work for someone else.

The one real problem with any sleeping tablet is when I am woken inside the mandatory four hours of sleep I usually have. This has happened a few times.

I'll tell you about one memorable instance: It was in Paris during the middle of winter when the hotel's evacuation alarms went off. Everybody had to get out. I had a sleeping tablet only an hour before the alarm bells rang. I was out for the count. I woke up disoriented with the sounds of evacuation bells ringing at deafening levels in my room and throughout the hotel. Dressed only in pajamas, I clumsily threw a jacket over the top, grabbed a hairbrush from the bathroom, and hot-trotted out of the room. For all I knew the building may have been on fire.

Why did I grab a hairbrush?

I later asked myself the same question.

I guess I saw my hair in the hallway mirror as I was about to leave the room. It must not have been a pretty sight. Realistically, my computer has all my contacts, my writings, my life, and what I should have taken, however vanity is a funny thing. Although I was dazed, to be seen in the street with messed up hair, to me, at the time was unacceptable.

The first rule of being in a high-rise building with a possible fire is: don't use the lifts. I found the nearest stairway exit and joined the dozens of other guests leaving the building - all 21 floors down.

As an international flight attendant my sleep-time is often in the middle of the day as was the case this day. People in Paris typically dress beautifully. I stood outside on that cold Parisian day wearing pajamas and a coat (but at least my hair looked good). By the way, the evacuation turned out to be a false alarm - they usually are, but you never know.

In my hundreds, if not thousands, of hotel stays, I have yet to be involved in a major incident nor fire. I have had a number of instances where I've been stuck in the hotel, although never where I've had to permanently leave. Events where I have had to stay in the hotel were a result of either security issues in the country at the time, or natural disasters. I accept that natural disasters occur throughout the world, however it's security issues which scare me the most. When the crew are told to not leave the hotel because of riots or political unrest, I take note - no matter how enticing the local shopping may be.

Fortunately Singapore is politically stable, and apart from severe electrical storms, I've yet to be disrupted by nature's fury - in Singapore, at least. In other countries I've been through typhoons, hurricanes, a cyclone, severe snow storms, earthquakes and tremors, and even a tornado. I am sure every international flight attendant or global traveler would have a story or two about being stuck in a place because of circumstances beyond their control. It happens frequently; some places more than others. I've had the most disruptions in Asia. In Mumbai, India we were flooded-in for three days and on two occasions we were confined to the hotel because of terrorist activities. Similarly, in Bangkok we were stuck at the hotel because of flooding and on at least three occasions political unrest and demonstrations saw us not venture outside the hotel. A typhoon in Manila was harrowing, as too earth tremors in Japan and Chile. I've seen the devastation Mother Nature can bring. It is an unpredictable world.

changing times

The flight from Singapore allows more time to chat with Kathy. She has seen many changes in the airline industry during her career. I am fascinated to find out her opinions on how the job and lifestyle has changed - and why.

She speaks candidly:

'Back in those days we were called air hostesses or stewardesses. The job itself wasn't that glamorous - we had to clean up vomit, collect trash, and clean the toilets, just as we do today, but the big difference was: the job was perceived to be glamorous. Everyone I talked to who wasn't a flyer thought my job was so classy, so stylish. I think the general public is much better educated these days; they travel so much more. Most know the job is anything but glamorous. When I first started flying, people would say: oh you lucky girl, it must be so fantastic up there; traveling around the world. These days they say: oh you poor thing; how do you do it?'

Kathy reasons the job hasn't changed that much, however people's attitude has. These days passengers have higher expectations and stronger reactions - or as Kathy called them: 'overreactions'. Kathy, or me, had never heard of a term like air rage until more recent years. She makes comments applicable to whole community:

'I see a lot more impatience and anger. People are more irritated and in more of a hurry to get somewhere. So often we see the passengers get on the plane stressed. I know airports are busier than they used to be, however check-in processes are more streamlined and if you are well-organized it shouldn't be a traumatic process. Clearing security is always going to be what it is and waiting in terminals is becoming increasingly more comfortable. I see unwarranted anger not only on planes, but everywhere; on the roads, in the streets, even in supermarkets. I was buying groceries the other day and a woman, a young woman, started screaming at the cashier because the supermarket wouldn't accept an out-of-date discount coupon. God help this woman if she flies with us and we are unable to give her a meal choice or she doesn't get an aisle seat.'

I totally understand what Kathy is saying. Overreactions to little things are my biggest gripe also. When passengers have genuine complaints or enquires I go out of my way to help, but when they overdramatize simple scenarios or ask for the impossible, then I too get frustrated. The number of times passengers bitch and complain about things out of my control is staggering.

I'll relay a recent onboard incident to demonstrate: During a meal service I was trying to serve a row of three passengers, when two of them, a couple, started complaining (and yelling) about something so obviously out of my control. The onboard entertainment system for the entire aircraft had some issues. This happens. The onboard manager made a clear announcement to say the system, being a computer, was being reset. It would take 10-15 minutes to reboot, hopefully fixing the problem. That announcement was five minutes prior. This couple could see us out in the aisle handing out meals this whole time. It was oh-so-obvious that the crew were hearing exactly what the passengers were hearing.

'So when will the entertainment system be fixed?' they snarled.

'The manager just made an announcement saying it will be 10-15 minutes to reboot the system, so it should be available soon.'

This couple started yelling and screaming: 'This is a long flight, what are we going to do if there is no entertainment system?'

I reiterated my earlier statement, however they still kept complaining - and yelling.

Why are they yelling at me? What can I do to miraculously make the system work on my command? I am not a genie, I have no magic wand. I am standing there trying to serve them a meal (and now delaying food being served to everyone else behind them) all because they expect me to perform a miracle.

I am magician, yet fortunately I can multi-task.

'As I keep repeating: the manager made an announcement saying it will be 10-15 minutes to reboot the system, so it should be available soon, for now would you care for the chicken or the beef?'

They still argue. I serve the gentleman sitting next to the agitated couple. He quickly responds 'Beef'.

'And sir, how about a nice glass of wine to have with your meal?'

He has a red.

'There you go sir, please enjoy your lunch and I am sure the entertainment system will be up and running before you have finished.'

I manage this whole conversation while the couple next to him continues to bitch.

I ask them again 'Would you like the chicken or the beef?'

They still complain about the lack of entertainment.

'As I keep repeating, I have no control over the entertainment system, yet I do have control, at this stage, of a choice of meal. Should I need to come back later with your meal, that option may not be available. So, would you like the chicken or the beef or would you prefer to eat whatever meals are left over later?'

I was only moments away from pushing the cart toward the next row when the man finally answered 'One beef and one chicken.'

I know some people like to vent for the sake of venting, yet being yelled at because an entertainment system is unavailable for 10 minutes-or-so is ludicrous. Fortunately the system did reboot successfully. Sometimes it doesn't. It is an aircraft, having limited power and limited capacity with nonessential items, such as inflight entertainment systems. The mechanics of the plane essential to flying through the air have intricate backup systems; entertainment systems don't.

I'd much rather have a reliable aircraft than a reliable TV screen. I would have loved to relay that to the screaming couple.

Planes in modern times have always been reliable, yet safety has improved dramatically over the years. With more and more planes in the skies each year, one would expect more incidences, however there are less. It is testament to a professionally run industry with strict guidelines. I regularly say that I feel safer in a plane than in my car - but that might be a reflection of my driving abilities. The facts are that you are safer in a plane than in a bus, car, or a train.

I have been asked 'What is more important; safety or service?'

It is a clear choice: Safety.

Did you get there safely is a far more significant question than how was your meal or how was the movie?

In a perfect world each passenger has a choice of meals, a working entertainment system, and a seat with plenty of legroom. It does not always pan out that way. When passengers complain - and they do - we try not to take it personally. Some things are out of our control. Even so, you need a thick skin to be in this job.

Working with Kathy continues to be a pleasure. She's had 40 years of complaining passengers. There were no individual entertainment systems inflight when she began flying. There was next-to-nothing. Reading a book or watching a small TV screen with only a couple of movies were the only forms of amusement on a twelve hour flight, yet, according to Kathy, passenger complaints were a rarity.

Kathy is not the type to start every sentence with when I began flying or back in my day..., however I love learning about the job 40 years ago. I ask many questions. Kathy is happy to oblige.

When she first joined, the airline the Boeing 747, the Jumbo, was the latest and greatest aircraft to hit the skies.

'I remember how huge it was, how impressive' Kathy recalls. 'I thought to myself at the time, being the 1970's, that if this amazing aircraft is flying around now, what will be in the air by the turn of the century? I remember thinking in the year 2000 that the Jumbo still looked like the Jumbo from 25 years earlier. I know there were refinements and more efficient engines, but essentially it was the same aircraft as a quarter of a century earlier. The aviation industry hasn't changed all that much - and I thought it would. I know it is much safer. That we can be thankful for.'

Regardless of the changing times I sense Kathy is enjoying the job more than ever. I guess she has limited time left flying, wanting to make every moment count. I admire her attitude.

don't expect a gold watch and lavish send off

I ask Kathy how long she intends to keep flying. She talks frankly:

'As long as I still enjoy the job - and they don't force me out the door - I'll keep doing what I do.'

When Kathy said the word they, she is referring to our company. Retiring is something I had not given a lot of thought to - until now.

A job as a flight attendant, particularly internationally, is unique. My closest non-flying friends in the workforce include a school teacher, a dentist, a medical equipment technician, an accounts manager, a café owner, and a police woman. These are all jobs based in either a head office or one location, working with the same core of people consistently. We hosties go to work with different groups of people on almost a daily basis. If something goes wrong we are accountable, but by-and-large we go from trip to trip as virtually a self-managed team.

I have an overseer supposedly monitoring my overall performance, but as I keep a clean slate I don't have any dealings with that ground-based manager. I am not Danielle Hugh the individual, I am a multi-digit staff number. If a ground-based manager wanted to know what I looked like, they would need to look at a picture on my computer profile. I am sure it is the same with most large companies, with the added complication that my office is at over 30,000 feet in the air.

There are advantages to being virtually anonymous, yet, like most things in life where there is a positive there is often a negative.

Kathy tells a poignant story: She returned from a recent trip to find a male colleague sitting on a curbside gutter crying. She knew the man well, making her way directly to him. He had 41 years of flying, having returned from his last ever trip - yet he was not crying because of retirement. He explained to Kathy he was excited to enter the next phase of his life with no jetlag and loads of free time. He described of just having returned his staff I.D. This is the card required to enter the airport, our company's buildings, car-park, and so on. On the way to the security section to return his I.D he passed a staff room of ground-based workers. A woman, who had been with the company for less than 18 months, was being thrown a party as she was pregnant and going on maternity leave.

The retiring flight attendant walked past the office party. After handing-in his I.D, he was escorted from the building by security personnel.

Over forty years with the one company, the one job, and he is shown the door. That's it; not even a goodbye. His tears were due to the impersonal way he had been treated.

'I was not expecting a gold watch or some sort of lavish party' the man said, 'but to finish my last trip, made to return my I.D, and then be escorted off the premises, well, that is humiliating. I don't know what I was expecting, but not this.'

Kathy treats every trip as if it could be her last. She wants to leave on her terms, with no regrets. She has seen so much in her 40 years of global travelling, yet she wants to see more.

If we have no dreams, we have no passion.

For much of the flight home I talk with Kathy about what she wants from her remaining 'hostie time'. Surprisingly, she wants little. She has no bucket lists, no definite plans. All Kathy wants is to enjoy herself.

With the trip finishing I hug Kathy to tell her 'I can't express enough how enjoyable it was working with you - and learning from you. I hope you fly for many more years to come - and I hope we work together again.'

I meant every word I said. There should be more Kathys in the world. I do hope I fly again with her soon, yet the odds are I won't. It is one of the sadder aspects of the job when working with great people and knowing you may or may not see them again in the foreseeable future.

I have only two days at home before going to Asia again; this time to Jakarta. On my last trip to Jakarta I did some charity work. Dean came with me, so it is a destination we can share conversation and good memories. There is no charity work planned this time, although I do have a trip to Africa after my Jakarta, so that trip may provide an opportunity to give something back. For now I have thoughts of Indonesia.

I love Jakarta, not as a tourist destination, but for what I call 'me-time'. There are so many self-indulgent things to do that are cheap and accessible. Often I will look at my roster, when knowing I am going to a place like Jakarta I will organize my upcoming beauty regime around that trip. Things like haircuts and styling, pedicures and manicures (or as Mary refers: treatment for paws and claws), massages, facials, and general chores like having keys cut and duplicated, shoes resoled, clothes tailored, and watches fixed are so much cheaper and convenient in Jakarta. The shopping is also awesome.

I love travelling with family and friends, yet every so often it is nice to have some time on your own. This next trip will be one of those trips. I actually asked if Helen would like to come on the trip with me - and she would have loved it, but she has her niece staying at her house for a few days. Funnily enough, her niece wants to become a flight attendant. Helen asked me if I could chat with her while she is in town. These next two days will be my only opportunity so I'll attempt to shake the jetlag and see them over coffee.

I joke that all the new female flight attendants joining our airline are young, beautiful, and all named either Amber or Holly. Helen's niece's name is Holly. When I found out I chuckled out loud. I have yet to meet Holly (the niece), however Helen describes her as: 21, beautiful, eager, and she has always wanted to be a flight attendant.

'You just described me - 20-odd years ago' I teased at the time.

I am looking forward to talking with Holly, being more than happy to help her or anyone else with a passion for becoming a hostie. Doing the last trip with Kathy, with her 40 years of flying, has made me think more about my own career. I reminisce about when I was Holly's age - and my desire to become a flight attendant. I had little help in applying for the airlines and even less idea about the realities of the job. I wasn't completely naive, yet I look back to realize I knew next-to-nothing. All I recognized is I really wanted the job.

When you have been in a job like mine for as long as I have, you sometimes forget how badly you wanted it in the first place. It is not always the case, but it was for me.

when you want something bad enough...

Most girls who now fly were like me, having similar ambitions and dreams. Some crew, however, got the job by default. I know Mary Gomez did. She had a girlfriend who truly wanted to be an international air hostess. Mary had given it little thought, but applied anyway. It is a story I've heard a number of times; where two people apply, have interviews, and the one who couldn't really care less about getting the job is the one who gets it. Mary became a hostie, her friend didn't.

Getting the job is a hit and miss affair, mostly misses. For the number of candidates very few get the position. I'd love to tell you that I waltzed into the first interview and they said 'We love you Danielle and we can't imagine how we'd survive without you, so can you please start tomorrow' but I can't. The reality is I was rejected on several occasions, over several years, before finally securing the job.

I remember my first ever interview. It came after months of applications to a host of airlines. I thought the initial interview went well. It did, so I was invited back. I was so excited. The second interview went well also - or so I thought. I thought wrong. I was rejected and told I was unable to reapply for a minimum of another 12 months. I was crushed.

What did I do wrong?

How could I have handled myself better?

What should I do next time (assuming there is a next time)?

Rejection is a heavy burden, nonetheless I dusted off the disappointment to apply again.

This time I was asked to attend an interview for a domestic airline. I'd never really given much thought to flying domestically, but at the time I said 'what the heck.'

This time I was better prepared. I found out more about the real role of flight attendants; reading-up, learning the terminology, the expectations, and the challenges. I was prepared, relaxed, and confident.

Once again I bombed out.

Maybe it's me?

Maybe I'm not what they are looking for with this job?

Maybe I am delusional?

I contemplated not applying again. I went into justification mode: I already had a good job, I was university educated, why would I want to be a 'trolley dolly' pouring tea and coffee and handing out trays of food?

When I was at high school I once joked that I wanted to join the debating team, however someone talked me out of it.

It was purely a pun. I never wanted to be on the debating team, but I can tell you that if I set my mind on doing something, no one would talk me out of it. I have never been a quitter.

I stopped feeling sorry for myself to apply once again, including the international carrier who rejected me the first time round. The year of being 'banned from applying' was up, although it took almost two years to be in the right place at the right time to get an interview. During that time I had matured. I worked some customer service-orientated jobs, studied another language, and improved the other language I already knew - all to help build my résumé. I travelled and loved it. I watched the flight attendants on each flight during my travels, studying their every move. I knew I had the right stuff. There would be no more excuses.

Third time around, and after two further interviews, plus an additional medical, I was lucky. I was accepted.

The day I was issued my uniform was the proudest of days. I partied long and hard.

I couldn't wait to start my new career and lifestyle. I hadn't given the training side of things a great deal of consideration; all I could think about was flying around the world and staying in five-star hotels. It took several months to be give a start date, being the commencement of flight attendant training school. When that day came the euphoria of being accepted was quickly replaced with the realities of the training. It was to be a sobering experience.

Mary Gomez was in my training class. I remember that first day we met. Mary was gorgeous; looking about 16 and acting even younger. Most of the guys in my class were gay, not all, but most. Even the gay guys were knocked over by Mary's beauty. The straight guys couldn't stop staring.

Mary was there for one reason only: to party. I don't think she had given the whole I want to be an international flight attendant thing a great deal of thought.

On our first day of training I could tell that Mary was hung-over. She didn't care. She wanted to have a good time. She had no plans, ambitions, or direction. She still doesn't.

She dodged many bullets during our training. The biggest one was emergency training. I took her under my wing. I can honestly say that if it weren't for me Mary would have had to choose another career path.

Mary, study, and exams don't go hand-in-hand. She's smart, but not focused. Most probably think flight attendant training would be easy. It's not. It's hard; not the service side of things as almost all of us had some hospitality skills and an idea of what the job might entail, it's the emergency training being the toughie. The safety procedures and terminologies were foreign - and it was all condensed and shoved down our throat at a million miles an hour.

I had a university background, being accustomed to studying. I had structure; poor Mary had nothing. It was a struggle for her, but somehow she made it through. Not everyone did. Two people in our class who failed, being banished - never to return. I was never going to be one of them. I won't say that I breezed through, but I did put in the required hard work to get myself (and Mary) through the course. I had my eye on the bigger picture.

Most in my initial training class were more like me than Mary. They were excited by the job, being privileged to have the opportunity to see the world and travel. Mary was the youngest and most carefree. The majority had life skills and some sort of profession prior to becoming a hostie. Some had long-term aspirations, yet some, like Mary, adopted a see how I like it and if I don't I can leave attitude.

One guy in our class was incredibly smart, witty, and outgoing. From the first day of training he said he would be in the job for two years only. He wanted to be an investment banker, with some training already under his belt. He would travel the world, see as much as he could, and, in his own words: 'Two years down the track, I'm out of here!'

True to his word, two years later he left.

I haven't seen him in years, but the last I heard he was a multimillionaire.

I knew he would be successful; well done.

Almost half of those in my initial training class are still flying. That's a lot. How many jobs could say that nearly half of a training class would still be in the same job 20 years later?

Two girls in my class were already married when they joined. One left after four or five years and the other divorced not long after graduating - and she still flies. One of the single girls married a pilot, a captain actually. She left the airline to have a family. The last I heard, the marriage didn't last and she is applying to all airlines in the hope of getting back into industry. I've talked with a number of people who left the job. Most are happy with their decision, yet they admit to missing certain aspects of the lifestyle. I have the distinct impression that several of those former-hosties regretted leaving.

With such a unique job and lifestyle, leaving can take major adjustments. No one would miss the jetlag, extreme tiredness, and being away from home, however the travel, the hotels, the shopping, the independence, and the great people you work with and meet are key aspects which make being a flight attendant a difficult job to walk away from.

I have no plans of leaving in the foreseeable future. I enjoy the job and lifestyle as much today as I did 20 years ago.

I constantly state that being an international flight attendant is not for everybody. Even in my initial training group there were varying personality types. In my opinion some were perfect for the job and lifestyle, some were not.

I remember unwinding after my first week of training and thinking to myself: It took me three attempts, and dealing with the associated rejection and pain, to be accepted - and I always thought I had the right personality, grooming, and attitude, yet there are several people in my training class who just don't appear to be right for the job - and they somehow made it through the exhaustive interviewing processes.

I was a little miffed. It is human nature, to compare yourself with those others when you are rejected and others are not. If one thousand people apply for just the one position, there will be 999 unsuccessful applicants asking: What did the successful person have that I didn't?

I am sure unsuccessful applicants with a host of airlines would see themselves as being so much better than the flight attendants they see on their flights. At times they might be right.

I admit feeling guilty having those thoughts. I was grateful to become a flight attendant, no matter how much I went through to get it. Even so, I am still perplexed at how some get the job. There was a guy in my class who had so many personal issues. He was withdrawn and lacked warmth. Within moments of meeting him I knew he was wrong for the job. He did not make it through training school, not because of his personality, or lack of personality, it was because he failed emergency procedural training.

Another in my class, a girl, also appeared to choose the wrong profession. She did not come from a hospitality background, was also introverted, and lacked tact. How she was selected in front of hundreds of other applicants was a mystery to me - and the rest of my class. She was not liked.

The training was a struggle for her. She somehow made it through, upsetting most of us along the way. She flew for about five years before leaving. Every day on the aircraft must have been difficult for her. She was just not the right type of person for the job or lifestyle.

From time to time I fly with other flight attendants who don't really fit the personality profile of what I think makes a good hostie. Some of those have been flying for many years more than me. Being a square peg in a round hole world must be frustrating. I am surprised these people remain in the job as long as they do. As perplexed as I sometimes am, I must say that the persons I feel unsuited for the job are very much the minority. The vast majority of crew are outgoing, caring people, and exceptional workers onboard.

Most of the time recruiters do get it right.

knowledge may be having the right answers; but intelligence is asking the right questions

Knowing I am meeting Helen's niece, who wants to become a hostie, stimulates thoughts of my younger years. I remember boasting about how I wanted to be an international jet-setting air hostess and how deflated I was with the initial rejections. Crew rarely discuss amongst each other how many times they applied and with what airlines. Like most, we talk more about our successes than our failures. I'm no different. If friends or family ask about a trip or destination, I will tell of the exciting things which happened or I saw, not mentioning waking up at 2.15 in the morning to spend hours bored in a dark and dinghy hotel room. We tend to talk about the things we think others wish to hear.

A friend of mine is a professional golfer, having played hundreds of tournaments around the world. He is one of the humblest people I know, yet rarely does he talk of the tournaments where he didn't make the cut, instead he talks about the successes. That is what people want to hear.

When talking about becoming a flight attendant, I am conscious of conveying a balanced appraisal of the job and lifestyle. I keep saying 'job AND lifestyle' because it is such a unique profession; working on the aircraft is only a part of the overall package. I am sure Helen has told her niece some of the aspects of my job. Being my best friend, she knows the effects of the lifestyle on my body. Helen told me Holly is 21; wanting to be a flight attendant since she was a little girl.

I love meeting passionate people, so it is with excitement that I walk into Helen's and my' usual coffee shop.

Helen and Holly are already there. Helen is bubbly; Holly also exuberant - maybe a little too much so. Holly is pretty, outgoing, and chatty - very chatty. I almost forget what it is like to be fresh and high-spirited, although Holly seems very young. She fires-off a trillion statements before Helen and I have the chance to order a coffee. Each declaration has the word 'I' firmly entrenched five times in every sentence.

Holly is trying so hard to sell herself to me. I'm not interviewing her, I'm not on any recruitment panels. I'm here to help her; to share some of my 20 years' experience, to maybe pass on any advice to assist her with her application and subsequent interviews - should she be lucky enough to be 'at the right place at the right time' to get an interview.

It was a while ago when I did my multitudes of applications and I admit I'm a bit rusty, however I have a hostie-friend involved in our company's recruitment and training. He has shared many tips and stories with me. I am probably better placed than most to offer advice. Even so, Holly is more intent on telling me how good she is and how much experience she has, than taking advantage of my expertise.

She already knows the job inside out, I think to myself - being tongue-in-cheek. She's 21, been on three flights in her life, and she has heard a couple of stories about life as an international hostie through the eyes of her aunt.

Of course she knows it all, I sarcastically think to myself.

Out of respect for my friend, I sit and listen to the world according to Holly. I think Helen is a tad embarrassed by Holly's self-centered approach. Before Holly can add another 'I am...' to the list, Helen steps in. She tries to get Holly back on track:

Maybe Danielle can give you some tips on what the airlines expect?

Maybe you should ask Danielle about what questions they might ask in an interview?

Maybe Danielle can help you with some grooming advice and what to wear to an interview?

Helen really wants me to help Holly. She is not a bad kid, she's just a bit caught up in her own importance. The first thing to remember when applying for a job with an airline is to be aware that they don't need you. Hundreds, if not thousands, will apply for the handful of positions. Everyone is a Holly. Whether she gets the job or not, the airline will go on.

I don't tell Holly this. I am not there to annihilate her ego.

The great thing about listening to somebody intent on telling their life story at break-neck speed is: eventually they will run out of self-indulgent things to talk about - or slow down to a more acceptable pace. In due course Holly heeds her auntie's advice to ask questions about the interview processes. I've talked before to aspiring hosties, so I know how to respond.

I'll share my tips as I did with Holly:

The first thing about wanting to be a flight attendant is simple: you really WANT to be a flight attendant. It is that easy, but you need to know what the job is really about; know it and then really want it. That means knowing the negatives as well as the positives. What someone may think the job is (like Holly) and the reality may be worlds apart.

Before applying read carefully the guidelines and stipulations for the application processes. Airlines usually have a website outlining the qualifications required and the format of the résumés and submission forms they prefer. Don't deviate from their suggestions. Be regimented, be professional.

If you are fortunate to get an interview, these are my suggestions:

1) Dress as closely as you can to the uniform of the airline interviewing you. Make sure your grooming is immaculate and conservative. If you want to be a flight attendant, you need to look (and act) like you belong.

2) Be early - and be 'switched on' from the time you arrive until you leave. I've heard of instances where a 'dummy applicant' will be amongst the many other applicants. This 'dummy' is a company employee monitoring and reporting back on the group of hopefuls. Rarely will you have a one-on-one interview at the initial interview stages. Often it is a group session. Remember there are many aspiring flight attendants with only a few positions. Most won't make the cut.

3) Be polite and sociable with everyone, not loud and gregarious, but pleasant and interested. By the end of the interview you should have sore cheeks from smiling.

4) Your résumé should tell the interviewers how perfect your qualifications are for the job. Don't say how good you are. Be humble, be sincere.

5) If you are involved in a group session, often interacting with other candidates, then don't be the most vocal - and don't be the quietest. If it is your turn to talk or comment on something; take your time, answer each question confidently and concisely, make eye contact with the question-asker as well as the group, and never stop smiling. The airlines don't want boisterous know-it-alls. They want crew to follow instructions, work as a team, and problem-solve with a minimum of fuss. Communication is one of the key aspects of the job; you need to communicate confidently and effectively.

6) Know the job intrinsically. There may be questions about onboard incidences or passenger requests. There could be any number of questions asked, however I know of scenarios specifically designed to pit procedural or safety issues against service matters. As a rule-of-thumb, you will employed for your people skills and then trained in emergency and safety procedures. Every airline has a policy of: safety over service. Never forget that.

During the interviews the questions will never be black and white; e.g. a blatant service versus safety issue. You'll most likely get cleverly disguised 'grey area' questions. I'll repeat: safety always comes before service. Also remember an aircraft has a chain of command - from the captain down. If you get the job you will be at the bottom - and you can always ask questions, often requiring to talk to someone higher up the chain of command. Should you be given a scenario or question which visits one of these 'grey areas', a great response might be: 'I understand the chain of command on the aircraft, so I would consult my onboard manager (Purser, Cabin Manager, Service Supervisor, etc. - make sure you know the terminology for your airline as they vary between companies) and then I would follow instructions/recommendations, etc....'

Other questions you may be asked include: How do you handle stress? How would you conduct yourself when faced with a difficult passenger situation? How well do you work as a team player? How do you take directions? Why do you want to be a flight attendant?

Don't answer the latter: 'Because I like to travel and meet people'.

A good answer might be: 'I have been on five flights now with (airline name) and saw how well the cabin crew work together. It is that team work and bonding which impressed me most. After talking with some of those crew, I understand the job can be demanding, yet very fulfilling. I know this is what I want to do'.

Also have some (good) questions to ask the interviewers should the opportunity arise, something like: 'What is the company's approach to training and development?' or ask questions about the direction of the airline; but be specific and current, e.g. 'I understand you are looking to buy more Boeing 787's; does that mean opening more routes?'

A little tip when asking these types of questions: Always know the answer before asking the question.

7) Airlines are procedurally driven. There are rules and regulations, procedures, and guidelines. You are to follow those rules, not question them.

8) If you are fortunate enough to have a face-to-face interview with one or more people, then you a have a huge opportunity to be personal.

Henry Ford once said: If there is any one secret of success, it lies in the ability to get the other person's point of view and see things from that person's angle as well as from your own.

The interviewers are more-than-likely current or former flight attendants. They spend hour after hour listening to hostie-wannabees telling them how good they are, hearing the same things over and over. Be different - see things from their prospective. When I had a one-on-one interview all those years ago, it was with the most beautiful woman. I asked if she was a flight attendant. She was. We talked about her flying career, her love of the job. She could see I was passionate and interested - and she was involved. I'm sure the success of that interview was the major reason why I got the job.

9) Charles Schwab once said: I consider my ability to arouse enthusiasm among the people around me to be the greatest asset I possess, and the best way to develop that in a person is by appreciation and encouragement.

Be enthusiastic, be positive.

10) Have fun. Given the pressure of the occasion, it is easier said than done, but it is important to be relaxed and happy. You are there because you want to be there. Enjoy the opportunity.

One of my favorite sayings is: Don't seek a profession; seek a passion.

Being a flight attendant is more than just a job, it is a lifestyle. If it a lifestyle you will love and a job you can tolerate, then go for it, I say.

knowledge is knowing tomatoes are a fruit, but wisdom is not putting them in a fruit salad

Did Holly listen to what I said?

Probably not. I think Helen knew Holly missed a fabulous opportunity to learn. My only comment to Helen was I thought Holly was a nice girl - and she was. I didn't tell Helen I doubted Holly would get the job; not at the moment anyway - but I could be wrong. I often am.

Holly may mature, yet Helen admitted Holly lacked focus. If she is unsuccessful with her initial applications, I would doubt she would reapply. If she does get an interview and fails, I would also be surprised if she reapplied.

According to my friend involved in the recruitment and training, the vast majority of hopefuls have applied for the first time - and it shows. It was his opinion that applicants who have applied before were not seen as failures. Applying multiple times was seen as a positive.

'It shows persistence and passion' he said. 'It also is an advantage to know the interviewing procedures and expectations.'

Wisdom will outshine knowledge every day.

Some years ago I was approached by another young girl, a friend of a friend, also wanting advice to become a hostie. She had more focus than Holly, being certain becoming a globe-trotting trolley dolly would be the life for her. She was studying at university at the time. She was so intent on following her dream she contemplated leaving her studies to devote more time to applying to the airlines.

'I think that would be a big mistake' I told her bluntly.

She was a smart, motivated girl, but why throw away an education on the off-chance she gets an interview with an airline?

Education is important - very important. I told her that most of the crew are well-educated, with many having degrees and diplomas. A university education will not hinder your chances of becoming a hostie, it will enhance it, I told her.

You can always apply to the airlines and attend interviews, but at least you'll keep your options open.

In her second year of study she attended an interview with a domestic airline. Domestic flying was not really what she wanted, yet she went to the interview anyway. She was unsuccessful, and as I understand it, she was unable to get an interview with any international carrier in the short term. She finished her university course, graduating to find a great job. She would have loved to get into the airlines, however it was not meant to be. She has since married and had children. Becoming a hostie is no longer on the agenda.

I recently saw her. She loves to hear stories about my job, yet admits that if she had left her studies it would have been a huge mistake. She thanked me for the advice I gave those years ago. We both knew it was the right thing to do at the time.

Airline crew are worldly; most well-educated, with additional qualifications, many continuing to study - often with interests outside the flying industry. Just because we are sometimes perceived as ditzy trolley dollies pouring tea and coffee all day, don't be fooled. In the past few months alone I have flown with a trained psychologist, a radiologist, an ex-policewoman, a number of former teachers and nurses, an architect, and even a former priest. Often flight attendants' past or current professions are not mentioned while on trips. I never make assumptions about crew. They constantly surprise me.

Like most, I love music. I've met many crew with musical backgrounds, from a concert pianist to a guitarist in a former well-known rock band. One of the guys in my training class was a keyboard player in a moderately successful eighties band. He said nothing throughout training, but in later years revealed his love of music - and his past. We flew recently and I divulged that I saw one of the band's video-clips on You Tube.

'Love the hair' I teased him, 'and what was going on with the pants?'

'It was the eighties' he justified with a smile.

One of my good friends was a lead singer in a cover-band for many years before flying. She continues to sing in various theatrical productions when time permits. I have even been known to belt out a tune or two (in the shower). I am not tone-deaf, however I could be accused of being tone-hard-of-hearing. I can tell you that as a singer I make a wonderful flight attendant.

Cabin crew come from eclectic backgrounds. I've flown with an Olympic medalist, another a top fashion model, a guy who was once a world-ranked tennis pro, a former professional footballer, a radio D.J, and even a former acclaimed ballet dancer. These are just those I know about. Everyone has a story to tell.

On a recent flight we had a male passenger who drank far too much; loudly demanding more. The manager, who just so happened to be a big burly man, told the man there would be no more alcohol served for the rest of the flight. The man became irate, irrational, and aggressive; looking up at the manager, seeing he was a broad-shouldered and apparently heterosexual, to comment something along the lines of: 'I thought all flight attendants were gay'.

The manager was actually a former police Sargent. Standing beside him was the flight attendant who was the former professional footballer, being even beefier than the manager. This passenger picked the wrong crew to mess with on that day. I was within earshot, hearing the manager lay down the law in no uncertain terms. The passenger looked scared - and rightfully so.

The man passed out to later wakeup yelling for more alcohol. I might add that we suspected he'd been drinking his own booze at some stage and although he had slept, he was still slurring his words.

The manager again read him the riot act. When we landed, in Denpasar, Bali, he was very unsteady on his feet. Leaving the aircraft we saw the man taken away from the immigration queue to be questioned by the local officials. He remonstrated with airport customs officials. We went through customs and immigration, not learning of his final fate, but we knew it wouldn't be good for the man. We presumed he would be placed in a room to sober up and then put on the next flight back to his country of origin (at his expense). It is a hefty price to pay for getting drunk and not following instructions.

Having two physically intimidating flight attendants onboard was a real bonus. Often the petite hosties need to deal with situations onboard. Sure we are trained, and most of us willing to put our bodies on the line should we have to, but having a former police Sargent and pro footballer amongst our ranks would be my preference every time.

There is no such thing as a typical flight attendant. Several trips back I worked with the most amazing fellow; part Gypsy, part Jewish, and a whole lot of fun. I saw him in 'civilian' clothes. He was covered in tattoos, dressing like a European backpacker (now I am making generalizations as well - please forgive me), however you wouldn't meet a nicer guy - and he was wonderful onboard. The passengers loved him.

I had some incredible conversations with him - and I cannot recall talking about anything to do with airplanes. What an interesting life he had led, holding equally thought-provoking opinions. I like talking to people who sees things a little differently to most. I could tell he was highly intelligent and one instance onboard proved me right:

We had a young woman and man who met for the first time onboard. I could talk-up the story with notions of love and romance, but the reality was the potential lovebirds were drunk and looking to join the mile high club just for the hell of it. They'd taken their get-to-know-you routine to the exit row at the back of the plane. That is all well and good, however there were passengers trying to get to sleep, with the young couple extremely boisterous. My Gypsy-Jewish-fun guy-colleague already had an informal chat with the couple, asking to keep the noise down, but it obviously it fell on deaf ears. The young girl was getting drunker and leaning all over the door bussle and the crew seat at the exit row. Around this area are pieces of emergency equipment, including a crew phone.

'Watch this' my colleague said as he poked his head from the galley. He could see the girl leaning next to the phone. With that he picked up the galley phone, ringing the phone at the exit row.

Bing Bong.

The young girl nearly wet her pants.

My colleague raced down the back, telling her that where she was leaning has all sorts of emergency equipment and she must have 'bumped the phone or something'.

'I think you should go back to your respective seats for a while' was his advice.

They left, not to return.

There are many funny characters who fly. I will admit that we were able to get away with far more shenanigans in the past than the present, yet the characters still exist. I did a trip not long ago with a guy who had flown for almost 25 years, yet told everyone he used to work in a helium gas factory.

He said 'The job was alright, but I hated being talked to in that tone of voice!'

I laughed.

Another older crew member was bending down to pick up a passenger's fallen headset from the floor when he lamented how stiff his back was. He told me (and the passenger) he was thinking of doing yoga. The yoga teacher asked if he was very flexible.

'I'm free most Thursdays' was his reply.

Most crew have a great sense of humor.

Years ago I flew with a really senior guy who only did trips to tropical island locations like Hawaii, Tahiti, Seychelles, Fiji, etc. He only packed the smallest of bags, no matter how long the trip - and he always took ONE rubber flip-flop (also called a thong or a jandal). His rationale in taking just the one flip-flop was he would always find another one washed up on the beach somewhere. Rumor has it he did indeed find a flip-flop on every beach he visited. .

Every time I see a single flip-flop on a beach (and I do regularly), I think of him and chuckle.

a positive attitude

I meet the crew for the flight to Jakarta, knowing some, but not all. The ones I know are lovely. I quickly establish that one of the girls I didn't know is one of those personalities who shouldn't really be in the job. Her name is Wendy. She is a few years younger than me, having flown about 16 years. I identify her temperament within a heartbeat. I am sometimes wrong with judging characters, but only sometimes.

Wendy is to work down the back of the plane with me. In the earliest stages of meeting Wendy I struggle to see good in her. She lacks warmth, manners, and decorum. Not only do her facial expressions make me want to run for cover, every word from her mouth is either negative, derogatory, or downright mean:

Are we there yet?

I bet these passengers are going to be a pain.

I've flown with the captain before; he's a real piece of work.

I'm over this already.

Seriously, are we there yet?

These are sentences muttered before the passengers have even boarded the aircraft.

Minutes into the flight she launches a tirade of insults on the airline, the service, the passengers, and the destination. I don't like listening to overly negative people; few do.

An old saying goes: Misery loves company, but company doesn't love misery.

I understand that everyone needs to vent at some stage, but Wendy is relentless - and most of it is unwarranted. I've made an early decision: I will stay as far away from her as possible on the aircraft. In the confined spaces of a plane that is easier said than done. I think the rest of the crew have made the same decision, however Wendy has no idea, being oblivious to our pain. She sneaks up from behind, backs you into a corner, and then unleashes a verbal barrage of pessimism.

You can tell when someone is having a bad day for whatever reason, but I think Wendy has more than just a bad day going on. She is painful to the core - on a daily basis, I'd bet.

When working with a negative person, like Wendy, I'll often be more upbeat - not to cover that person's gloom, but to prove a point.

One of my favorite (and hopefully funniest) sayings is: I find that if you have a positive attitude it ticks off enough people to make it worth the effort.

Every time I am near Wendy, I smile. When she whines and complains, it goes in one ear and out the other - instead I grin like a Cheshire cat. She doesn't know how to take me. My ruse seems to be working as she complains less to me as the flight goes on, preferring to irritate the other crew.

'Sorry other crew.'

I really like the rest of the crew, especially one of the girls, Julia. She has flown for just a few more years than me, but she is strong, independent, and takes no nonsense from anyone - not even Wendy. When Wendy starts complaining, being almost continuous, Julia just walks away. I have noticed, the rest of the crew has noticed, yet Wendy is oblivious.

I try to talk with Julia in the galley, but it proves difficult. Wendy is a conversation killer. She listens to our discussions with the sole intent to interrupt or disrupt - and when she does, Julia walks away.

The hardest thing about being in a skinny aluminum tube with a painful person like Wendy is: there is nowhere to escape. I look over my shoulder to make sure she is not around before starting what could be interesting dialogue with Julia or the other crew and, before you know it, Wendy is leaning over my shoulder.

Most crew talk about the claustrophobic environment of working on a plane, usually referring to the physicality of the job. I find it far more intrusive when we are cornered emotionally.

In Wendy's words: Are we there yet?

When working in confined spaces for so many hours at a time, it is inevitable there will be some personality clashes. Fortunately the personalities like Wendy are the minority, but when someone is negative it often impacts on everyone else. One Wendy is bad enough, but I did a trip not long ago with three Wendys. Of course Wendy was not their real names, but for the sake of the story, Wendys it is. The truth be told, I tend to forget these type of characters as quickly as I can, so remembering their names is never a priority.

All the 'Wendys' were working down the back of the plane with me. It had the makings of a perfect negativity-storm. The onboard manager had flown with the girls before, being smart enough to recognize there could be potential problems. He very carefully orchestrated for none of the Wendys to be working on a cart together. That meant one of the Wendys was working with me. The manager pulled me aside to apologize for changing the work positions. I knew why he did it - and he recognized I knew. I was fine with it all.

Even though I was working on a cart with one of the Wendys, the work throughout the aircraft relies heavily on group teamwork. At the back of the plane we all interact regularly, particularly in the confines of the galley. This is where teamwork and spatial awareness are at a premium. Most passengers see the crew out in the cabin, usually in pairs, handing out meals and drinks from a cart, however the processes for getting everything ready are intricate. The galleys are tiny, so add setting up carts in or near the galley and it becomes a claustrophobic's nightmare. Crew are constantly getting out of each other's way or in each other's way; usually both.

The Wendy I worked with was tolerable one-on-one, but putting her together with the other two Wendys became painful. They fed off each other's negativity. It was like a growing organism - the perfect storm was brewing.

The manager did everything within his power to diffuse the ticking time bomb - with no success. Towards the end of the flight, when everyone was tired and fatigued, the predictable occurred - it all went pear-shaped.

Another saying goes: No one describes themselves as much as they describe another.

Each Wendy bitched about the other Wendys. Eventually the bitching went from nasty comments behind backs to nasty comments to their face. I stayed away from it all.

It is very rare that I say anything in these instances, however I said 'Sort it all out yourselves; we've still another 13 hour flight to get through after this one.'

To the Wendys' credit, they took my advice. The negativity did not cease, but at least the yelling did.

The Wendy on today's flight is not likely to yell and scream (I hope), yet she has continued her pessimistic outbursts. Fortunately she has no one to feed off; no one to fuel the fire. The rest of the crew also ignore most of her comments. That doesn't seem to stop her though. How could she not know? She must have blinkers on.

I'm trying my hardest to not let Wendy get under my skin. It is not easy. I take solace that in my job we work with so many different people. I may not see this Wendy again for months, if not years, if not ever. Imagine working in an office job with someone like Wendy, day in, day out.

I shudder at the thought.

I survive my handful of hours with Wendy. If having to work with a Wendy every now and then is the worst of my troubles on a flight, then it is a good flight. Wendy aside, it was a good flight. We arrive in Jakarta on-time and reasonably fresh. It is early evening, local time. Julia is friends with several of the crew working at the front of the aircraft.

When Wendy is not around, Julia whispers to me 'A few of us are having drinks by the pool when we get in. Would you like to join us? But keep it to yourself, we don't want a certain you-know-who to know. God, hearing her on the plane for the last seven hours is seven hours too long.'

I know exactly what Julia is talking about, although I feel like a school kid being invited to one of the cool kid's parties and sworn to secrecy from telling the not-so-cool kids. Regardless, I don't want to hang out with Wendy socially either.

'It sounds good, count me in' I whisper back.

those who can laugh at themselves never cease to be amused

I had drinks by the pool on my last trip. God knows how many times I've been poolside with a glass of wine during my flying career, however I can't recall ever regretting the decision.

Like many of the hotel pools, particularly in Asia, this pool in our Jakarta hotel is magnificent.

As I don't know the other crew well, I arrive poolside fashionably late. I am on-time or even early with most things, but a single girl turning up to an empty bar is not really a good look. There are occasions where this has happened, so I have gone back to my room for ten minutes before returning. Sometimes I've done this several times. Sometimes no one turns up.

Fortunately Julia and three other crew are already seated with drinks in hand. There is no Wendy in sight. With Julia are crew who worked at the front of the plane; two guys and a girl. All are slightly older than me, relaxed, and welcoming.

'We were just talking about Wendy Cranston' says Julia.

I didn't know Wendy's last name until now. I don't like Wendy, but I am hoping this gathering is not going to turn into a bitching session. Everyone knows Wendy and from their expressions, no one likes her.

'Poor Danielle has to work with that cow' sympathizes Wendy.

To Julia's credit, she lets fly with just a few expletives before offering to change the subject to: 'something a little more pleasant.'

Everyone else is on the same page. I quickly discover that none of the other crew wish to talk about onboard events. They are all experienced, having been flying between 23 and 32 years - long enough not to be tempted into the trap of talking about onboard procedural issues or dragged down by some of the negatives of the job or some of the people around them.

These people love life. All are upbeat and fun. No one dominates the conversation and no one is negative. Add a few drinks to the mix and this is a night I wish would never end; five of us having great conversation in a beautiful location.

We talk about things I rarely hear discussed, including some of the funnier moments while away, particularly in hotels. We spend half our lives in hotels within foreign countries. Between us we have stayed thousands of nights in hundreds of hotels across the globe; it is inevitable we have stories to tell.

The subject of being naked in a hotel foyer or lobby came up. I am not sure how or why the topic was raised, but I listen attentively. I know my friend Mary has two incidences (that I know of) at the same hotel, where she ran around the foyer buck naked after knocking on hotel doors. Her tirade was pill and alcohol-induced. This time the crew are talking about accidently being locked outside their room. To my surprise everyone had a story, where it happened to a friend or to themselves.

One of the guys talked of a night in Singapore where, in the early hours of the morning, he wandered naked out onto the balcony to take in the view. Our hotel at that time had great views. He was on a high floor, around 30 floors up, so no one at street level was going to see him, and no other rooms looked in either. To go outside naked is no big deal, the only trouble is the sliding glass door to the balcony was self-closing. It should not lock when it shuts, but in this instance it did. He was locked out. All the glass is soundproofed, so as much as he yelled, no one could hear him. At four in the morning the chances of someone walking out onto their balcony in one of the rooms near his was remote.

He stayed out on the balcony, naked, for hours. It wasn't until nearly midday the next day, when he had missed answering his mandatory wake-up call, that hotel security opened the room to find the guy red-faced and naked on the balcony. He laughed about the incident, although it could easily happen to anyone. Singapore is on the equator so it is hot. Imagine being stuck outside, naked or scantily dressed, in a northern European city in winter? It sends shivers down my spine just thinking about it.

One of the possible hotel scenarios which has played on my mind is when placing something like a room service tray outside the room, the door, which is usually heavy and self-closing, slams shut. I keep one foot inside the door, just in case, but I can see how easy it would be to be locked out of your room. It happened to Julia.

Julia reveals she was wearing only a G-string when a door slammed shut behind her, leaving her standing near-naked in the hallway.

As she was telling the story I could just imagine the panic Julia felt. When you are tired, jetlagged, and possibly a little drunk, it can easily happen.

'What did you do?' I asked, anxious to find out how she handled the situation.

Many of the hotels we stay have a hallway phone on each floor, however Julia pointed out that there was no phone at this hotel. The last thing she wanted to do was scramble into an elevator and then waltz into the public view of the hotel's lobby. Julia knew most of the hotels place crew in rooms within close proximity of each other. It was early hours of the morning; with the rooms either side of hers occupied, the do not disturb signs hanging over door knobs. Julia thought back to when she checked-in to the hotel. She could not recall anyone from her crew entering these rooms, but was unsure.

She placed her ear against the first door, hearing no noise from inside. She moved to the next door. This time she could hear that the television was on. Julia took a deep breath, covered one arm and hand over her breasts, and knocked on the door. She stood back enough for whoever was on the other side of the door to look through the peephole to see her standing there red-faced, next-to-naked, and mouthing the word help.

'Is that you Julia?' said the voice of a very surprised man.

He was crew, not from Julia's flight, but he obviously knew her. How lucky was she?

He handed her a bath towel to then call reception to have staff open her door for her.

Julia said she was so relieved she even offered the crew member a sneak peak of her near-naked body as a thank you.

'Had he been straight he would have accepted' she reveals with a smile.

The other girl at poolside drinks is Anna. She sympathized with Julia's story, revealing she too had gone close to being locked out of her room on several occasions, but adopted my strategy - narrowly avoiding the door fully closing by placing a foot in the doorway. She tells of several occasions, within her 32 years of flying, of hotel staff walking into her room while she was in there. This has happened to me also. I make sure I put out the do not disturb sign or, in hotels with an electronic sign, I press the button indicating I do not wish to be bothered. Occasionally these systems fail. I've had other guests steal my doorknob sign, and once, with the electronic sign, the small light-bulb which illuminates the do not disturb didn't work. I only discovered this after a minibar attendant was in my room to check the contents of my minibar. I was three hours into a four hour sleeping-tablet-induced coma. I didn't even hear him come into the room. It was only when he turned the lights on did we get the shock of our lives.

Anna's story is similar, but with one big difference: Anna reveals that she likes to sleep on top of the sheets - naked. Anna is the most reserved of the poolside crew, yet she has a wickedly devilish sense of humor. She is in her mid-to-late-fifties and would be the first to admit she is not the physically beautiful specimen she once was. She admits that a love of wine and cheese platters have taken their toll.

'I will confess I sometimes forget to put out the do not disturb sign' she tells, 'when I've had a few chardonnays I tend to forget a lot of things. Anyway, I guess it has happened at least seven or eight times over my 32 years of flying, where hotel staff, usually a cleaner, have walked into my room to be greeted by this' she says while pointing to her ample-sized body.

Anna has a gulp of wine before adding with a grin 'I'm sure those that saw me naked back in 1985 had a far better experience than those in later years.'

Over yet more drinks we discuss more hotel stories, including sleepwalking. There have been a few incidences of crew wandering around hotels naked as a result of sleepwalking or alcohol mixed with sleeping tablets - or both. I did not remark about Mary-go-round, although her name does get mentioned.

One of the guys tells of some unusual occurrences happening to him. He was never aware he sleepwalked, his wife and family had never mentioned a single incidence at home. Often our hotel rooms have twin beds. He tells of several incidences, being jetlagged, tired, with a few beers under his belt, where he slept in one of the beds and woke up next morning to discover he was in the other bed. He could remember swapping beds in the middle of the night. He must sleepwalk and didn't know it. Swapping from one bed to another is no big deal, although most hotels are in high-rise buildings, many have balconies. He tells us that he now locks the balcony door and puts a chain across the front door, just in case.

I am pretty sure I don't sleepwalk, yet I tell of my experiences of waking up and not knowing where I am. All have had the same experience. Julia mentions that on a recent trip she woke up not knowing where she was or the time. After taking a few deep breaths, she collected her thoughts. She was in Hong Kong, having arrived late in the evening. She was exhausted, downing a glass of wine before going to sleep at around one in the morning. When she awoke she checked the bedside clock to discover it was almost seven o'clock. She decided to have a shower, get dressed, and then go downstairs for breakfast. When she arrived in the hotel lobby she discovered it was pitch-black outside. It was seven o'clock alright, but not morning, it was seven o'clock at night. She had slept for nearly 18 hours.

Julia brings up the subject of dreams; not dreams in hotel rooms, but dreams onboard the aircraft. On long-haul flights there are designated crew-rest areas. Some aircraft have little bunks, usually located in the tail. They are not exactly king-size orthopedic mattresses with satin sheets and feather-down pillows, but at least it is somewhere to rest away from the main cabin and passengers. On a 12 hour-plus flight it is blessing.

I struggle to sleep on an aircraft, yet on the few occasions I have; I dream - and they are very different dreams to what I might have in my own bed or even a hotel room. When Julia mentions her dreams in the crew-rest area, they are eerily similar to mine:

'I dream that I am in an aircraft, the one I am working on, and we are flying along a road, not high in the air, but just above the ground' reveals Julia; 'and a bridge is approaching. We fly under the bridge, then make our way toward an approaching city. The aircraft flies between buildings, avoiding light poles and signs. We don't crash, but the crew are looking out the windows - and we are terrified.'

Of the five of us, four have had the same or similar dream or dreams - always while on the aircraft. I had never discussed my dreams with others before. I have goose-bumps thinking other crew have the same experience as me. One of the guys reveals he dreams of flying in a large tunnel; the other girl tells of flying through a city, with her description uncannily similar to Julia's. The one common denominator in each dream is the aircraft appears destined to crash, but doesn't. We all reported that we awoke before we know the outcome.

Four out of five had the same or similar dreams. Is it an amazing coincidence or could it be the same for many other crew? It is a topic I'd love to revisit sometime in the future. We all live virtually the same lifestyle, yet we often react differently to certain situations. I know Mary-go-round handles jetlag differently to me. The fact her body has an array of different chemicals swirling around may have something to do with it. Even so, there are often similar reactions to certain situations, like those dreams.

I am not a psychologist, although I think we opened up a whole can of worms.

sometimes sleep can come at a cost

Dreams continue to be a subject of poolside discussion. Julia sometimes has the weirdest dreams after having a sleeping tablet. She does not elaborate, yet confirms the dreams have nothing to do with aircrafts or flying. I must admit there was one prescription sleeping tablet I tried which gave me strange dreams. I stopped taking them, preferring more natural products.

All five of us admit to taking sleeping tablets. I can't vouch for all international flight attendants, but I'd be surprised if most didn't take something to get some sleep or dull the effects of jetlag. Some of my flying friends swear by melatonin, a naturally produced chemical in the body, available in tablet form in some countries. It doesn't work that well for me. I keep relaying that everyone is different; what works for some doesn't work for others.

I am no goody two-shoes, yet I am not really into prescription drugs. I'll avoid them if I can. If my doctor says I need to take a course of antibiotics, I'll take them if I need to, but my preference is to dodge them. The word drug is loosely defined. I drink alcohol and guzzle coffee, however I have never, nor ever will, indulge in anything that might be found on a list of banned substances. Crew can be drug-tested. It rarely occurs. This is not the sole reason I am anti-drugs. It is a personal choice. I have seen the devastating effects some drugs can have, not just physically, but emotionally. Ok, that's enough of Danielle the anti-drugs campaigner, let's get back to sitting around the pool with four other likeminded people discussing everything from being naked in hotels to sleeping habits:

Julia tells a story of taking a sleeping tablet four hours before her scheduled wake-up call - or so she thought. She had misread her wake-up call time. What she thought was 16:00, being 4 p.m., was actually 14:00, being 2 p.m. Two hours may not sound much, but when you have just taken a pill which knocks you out for four hours and the phone rings... I'll let Julia tell the story...

'The phone rang. I was in gaga land. I must have picked up the phone and put it back down. I have no idea. Later the phone rang - and it was our boss. How long will you be Julia? he asked, the crew are on the bus. Oh god, I screamed - I didn't get my wake-up call. He said yes you did; the hotel has a record of it, but don't panic. We will go to the airport. You'll need to catch a cab and pay for it yourself. How long do you need to get ready? I was still dopey from the sleeping tablet. I stupidly said I could be ready in ten minutes. I'll have a cab ready for you in 15 minutes then, he calmly told me. So we'll see you on the plane. Why did I say ten minutes? How the hell could I get ready in ten minutes even if I was wide awake? I hadn't packed or anything. I threw myself in the shower, but didn't wash my hair - just splashed my face really. I'll apply my make-up in the taxi, I thought to myself. Have you ever tried to put make-up on while in the backseat of a moving car? I certainly wouldn't recommend it. And to add insult to injury, because I threw everything in my suitcase and bag in a frenzied panic, I must have left some things behind, including my lipstick I use for work, plus the world's most expensive perfume. I could survive without the perfume, but the cost of replacing it, along with the 45 minutes cab fare, were a bitter pill to swallow. I had a backup lipstick in my purse, but not the one I use on the plane. Cherry red lips - great for a nightclub, but not really the right color for work. I made the plane on-time, only just - and I looked awful. I was rattled and I had to face a plane full of passengers on a 12 hour flight. God, stupidity can be painful.'

Julia is a good storyteller. We all laughed, chiefly as each of us had similar experiences. One of the boys talks of being repositioned crew, where he was a passenger out-of-uniform, to have a 16 hour layover and then operate on the plane back home. When he arrived at the hotel he discovered he had not packed his work pants. He had the rest of the uniform, but no pants. No other crew would carry spare pants. Even if they did, the chances of them fitting were improbable. He arrived at the hotel at night. No shops were open. He only had a small window of opportunity the next morning to purchase a pair of pants remotely similar to the work pants. He said the pants he bought, being outrageously expensive, were the same color, but a different style. He wore his jacket for the whole flight, covering what he termed 'very effeminate pleats'. He did tell the onboard manager about his attire, yet the rest of the crew had no idea he was wearing non-uniform pants. As a footnote, he said he never wore the pants again, also lamenting about the financial ramifications of his own stupidity.

I've had no major uniform incidences which have impacted my work, yet there have been plenty of occasions onboard where I wish my uniform had a protective outer skin. I've been sneezed on, vomited on, spat on (all accidentally) ... you get the drift. My uniform has seen it, and worn it, all.

When crew talk about our uniform it is usually in terms of how comfortable or uncomfortable it is, yet the uniform must meet all sorts of other standards. Apart from looking stylish, it must be made of fire-retardant materials and not hinder us in an emergency.

A little rarely known fact is: male flight attendant neckties, in most airlines, have a Velcro quick-release section so that if the tie was grabbed with enough force, the Velcro would unhitch and the tie would come off. It is similar with police officer's neckties. I'd be surprised if passengers, and even some crew, know this. Realistically, we are more concerned with the uniform being comfortable. We spend so many hours in the air and beyond. In all my years of flying, and wearing different uniform styles, I must say that the designers and manufacturers do an amazing job. There are at times teething issues, but if half the clothes in my wardrobe were as durable and looked as good after a 16 hour flight as what my uniform does, then I'd be very happy.

Julia refers to one of the crew uniforms from decades earlier. She absolutely loved it, so much so that she took the uniform to a tailor in Hong Kong and had the exact same outfit made - 'in different fabric and color of course' she added. Julia said that in all the years she wore the tailored outfit nobody ever tweaked that it was the same style as her work uniform. She did admit that she never took the outfit away on trips, only wearing it to non-crew events.

One of the guys tells a similar story about one of his work suits. He also had a tailor-made suit based on his uniform, but only after the work suit had been superseded with a new style. Although different buttons and coloring, he too reiterated that no one ever put two-and-two together. Not that he would have cared, he revealed.

I can't say I have clones of any of my uniforms in my closet, yet I understand the rationale behind their thinking.

We have talked (and drank) for hours, deciding to finish our drinks and then call it a night. I must say I really enjoyed the company and the conversations. We agree to do it all again tomorrow night. I will be meeting Julia in the morning. She mentioned she is going to the same shopping center as I was planning to go, so we've set a time to meet in the hotel's lobby and then share a cab.

A good night should be followed by a girly day of pampering, shopping, and self-indulgence. Yippee.

digging a hole for yourself

I wake up early, not 2.15 a.m., but still early. I hit the gym before having breakfast by the pool. While I eat breakfast, Julia strolls by. She woke early, ordered room service, yet assures me that she is always up for another coffee. She joins me to excitedly discuss shopping and pampering plans for the day.

Julia mentions a fabulous massage and spa joint not far from the shopping center. I've actually been several times before - loving the place.

'Have you had the massage and full body scrub combo?' she asks.

I haven't. I am intrigued.

'One hour of massage, I like oil' reveals Julia, 'and then a further hour of being massaged with a body scrub lotion. It's a bit rough, not painful, but you feel fantastic after.'

'Count me in' I say with excitement.

I am still in my gym gear, so I return to my room for a shower and to get changed before venturing to the hotel lobby where I'll meet Julia.

I have a spring in my step entering the lobby, but only momentarily. My heart sinks as sitting in a lobby chair is Wendy. I politely say 'good morning' before she continues to explain why it is not a good morning at all. With or without sleeping tablets, this girl must dream negative thoughts.

'No, no, no' I think when Wendy reveals she is going to the same massage place as Julia and I. It gets worse; she invites herself to share a taxi. She has never been to the massage place before. She asks a myriad of questions, mostly about price. We are in Jakarta; to us everything is cheap, yet she asks about the costs anyway - repeatedly.

For a two hour Indonesian massage it costs less than an apple martini in New York, even so, the price continues to be a sticking point for Wendy. She then queries about what type of massages are available, the state of the rooms, and the price structure (again). I have only been a few times before. I get massages all over the world, mostly in Asia, so I cannot remember specifics. I did recall there were individual rooms, or cubicles, with a mattress at ground level with a slot in it where you can place your face. I also tell Wendy that at the end of the mattress was a recess in the floor, a step-down box, where the masseur climbed in to kneel down and work on your head.

Wendy had not heard of this step-down area in other massage places, being intrigued.

'I love my head being worked on' she says, almost jovially. 'So they kneel in this box and massage your head?'

I explain that it is not really a box; more a recess in the floor, but in essences 'yes'.

'So how much does it cost again?' she asks causing me to grit my teeth in frustration.

Julia turns up. Thank god. Behind Julia is another girl from the crew. She too wants to share a cab.

Taxis in Indonesia are so cheap. I'd much prefer to share a cab just with Julia, as planned, but feel obligated to let the other two girls tag along. A 20 minute cab ride with Wendy will be 20 minutes too long. Just then another girl from the crew steps into the lobby. She too is going the same direction.

Yay - five people - too many to share one standard cab. Julia is on the same page as me, offering to jump in a taxi with me while the others can share another cab.

Wendy races to the first taxi which arrives at the hotel. With Julia's insistence, the two other girls reluctantly hop into Wendy's cab. I could sense they were embarrassed that Wendy took off without any consideration to the rest of us.

'Go' I tell them. 'We'll see you there.'

Julia also noted Wendy's self-centered charge to get the first taxi. She verbalizes what I am thinking:

'We're off to get a massage and shop, so what's a few more moments waiting going to matter?'

Unfortunately those few more moments end up being another 15 minutes. Finally a cab comes.

Julia has a sharp wit. She comments that a 15 minutes wait is a small price to pay for avoiding being with Wendy. I rarely voice such forthright views. I think them, but seldom say them out loud. In this instance my smug smile is a give-away that I agree wholeheartedly with Julia's comment. Wendy is never going to be on either of our Christmas card lists.

When we arrive at the massage place the three other girls must already be inside. Julia and I are told we have to wait almost two hours for a massage because the staff are busy. The other crew must be the cause of the delay. It is no big deal. As much as we would have loved a massage first up, there are plenty of other things to do while waiting. At the top of the list is shopping. Other activities on my 'me-list' include a haircut, a facial, and a pedicure, but they can wait until after the massage, so, for now, shopping it is.

Jakarta has many copy goods, but they also have the real McCoy items. Many of the big brand companies have factories in Indonesia, so you can find some incredibly cheap bargains. In today's center I visit a factory outlet clothing store with brands like Hugo Boss, Versace, Burberry, and Lacoste. It is a great opportunity to buy some nice polo shirts for Dean. He also hinted that he could use a new pair of sunglasses. I might go down the 'copy' path for those. I buy three pairs of Ray-bans and four shirts before my massage beckons.

I meet up with Julia. I have been salivating at the thought of a two hour massage and body scrub combination. I've had plenty of facial scrubs, but not full body. There are choice of scrubs, with different flavors. Julia said she had a coffee-infused scrub last time.

I clowned that I am a coffee-addict; rubbing coffee into my skin while it is trying to escape from the inside might be a recipe for disaster.

It would be like two swollen rivers colliding, I joked.

The most popular scrubs, according to the girl at the front desk, were green tea or a cream vanilla flavored.

Vanilla scrub it is, I say instantly. Julia will have the same.

The massage component is first - an hour of oiled bliss. The little recess or box at the head-end of the mattress is a brilliant idea. The masseuse kneels down, being in the perfect position to rub my head, neck, and shoulders. I'm in seventh heaven.

The scrub component is a continuation of the massage, yet using the cream with some sort of grit in it. It feels a bit like sandpaper when applied and rubbed in, but it is not uncomfortable. The hour goes very quickly with my skin revitalized. After the massage and scrub I shower as bits of the grit are still on my skin. Showered, relaxed, and grit-free, I'm ready to indulge in the next of the activities on my 'me-list'. Julia has some more shopping to do, so we will meet for a coffee later in the afternoon before sharing a cab back to the hotel.

As I make my way to the hairdressing salon I see Wendy hobbling through the shopping center, being helped by one of the other girls.

'What happened to you?' I ask when seeing a bandage wrapped around her leg.

'I fell down THAT hole.'

'What hole?'

'That hole at the end of the massage mattress. I know you told me about it, and I even saw it, but I fell in it anyway' tells Wendy.

'Oh you poor thing' I reply, trying hard to sound sincere.

I've just been in the massage place. All the cubicles are the same. That recess in the floor is past the mattress on the floor and the same width as the mattress. It is clearly visible and hard up against a wall. Why would she step into it?

I know Wendy is a pain and self-centered, but I guess we can add not-so-bright to the list of adjectives. She tells me that she fell in 'the hole' when she went into the cubicle. This means she fell BEFORE the massage.

Even though she wants to lament about the pain of the fall, I ask 'So, what about the massage?'

I'm no fool. I can evaluate that Wendy must have had the massage and then gone shopping. She arrived at the shopping center over four hours ago. She probably had a two hour massage before going shopping. The other girl is carrying an armful of bags. I would bet any money that most of the bags belong to Wendy.

Wendy confirms that she did indeed have the massage. She fell, scraped her leg, they wrapped her leg in a bandage, and then she had her massage. After, she somehow convinced one of the hosties to go shopping with her and to carry her shopping bags.

Wendy explains that they are going back to the hotel to report the accident to the onboard manager as she will not be able to operate on the aircraft the following day. Our company will not have time to fly in a replacement for her, so logic tells me we will be operating home one crew member short. This also means Wendy will be a passenger on our flight. It will be a double whammy.

I meet with Julia for coffee, with Wendy the first topic of conversation. Julia also saw Wendy hobbling through the shopping center, even later than I saw her. We compare time frames, guessing that Wendy shopped for at least another 30 minutes after announcing to me that she was returning to the hotel to report the incident.

Julia is not surprised with any of Wendy's actions. What was annoyance at Wendy's personality has turned into outright hate, at least from Julia's point-of-view. I think similar thoughts, nevertheless I keep my mouth shut. Julia knows what I am thinking though.

There is no doubt Wendy is not the most likable human-being on the planet, and her fall is certainly not life-threatening, however she genuinely could not work in her condition. Her leg is a little swollen and bruised.

Julia is less sympathetic, deducing: 'If she can hobble around and shop for several hours, then surely she can push a damn cart on the plane.'

I doubt Wendy can, but regardless, our workload will be dramatically increased because of Wendy's foolishness.

some are accidentally more foolish than others

Many crew suffer injuries while away from home; some onboard, although numerous are hurt while on layovers. Accidents occur, but add in jetlag and exhaustion and the chances of something going wrong dramatically increase. I know one crew member who walked straight outside our crew hotel and stepping onto the road to be hit by a bus. His injuries were severe, but he survived.

A 'flying' girlfriend of mine was on a layover after working a 14 hour flight across numerous time zones. She had a few hours sleep to then join the crew for a drink at the hotel's bar before going out for dinner. She only had the one cocktail at the bar and was on her first glass of champagne at the restaurant when she semi-dozed off. Her head just dropped momentarily. Unfortunately she slammed her face into the champagne glass, breaking it, leaving a nasty gash above her eye. She was so lucky, it could have easily pierced her eyeball.

I've heard of all sorts of crew injuries, from muggings to falling off pushbikes.

You must remember that most crew get out-and-about when staying in a foreign land. We face all the usual travel problems the general public face, yet we travel so much more than most - and the majority of the time we are jetlagged or tired. Things will happen.

I have never been seriously injured while away on a trip - touch wood. I was once sick in New York, which would have been a fantastic place to enjoy the few extra days if I hadn't been genuinely bed-bound. It is no fun being sick anywhere, let alone being on your own in a foreign country. Sometimes crew are able to passenger home, like Wendy will, but sometimes they cannot. I know of several incidences where flight attendants have had weeks or even months stuck in other countries, with illnesses not permitting them to fly.

In Wendy's case her accident was caused by her own foolishness. It is hard to be overly sympathetic; a fact pointed out by Julia in the cab ride back to the hotel. Wendy will not be operating on the flight home. This will impact the entire crew. The taxi ride is slow, so Julia has much time to vent. Jakarta traffic can be a nightmare. It is this afternoon.

Travelling the world I have the opportunity to see the most amazing things, visiting iconic tourist attractions and spectacular scenery. With that said, sometimes a simple taxi ride can expose some surprisingly interesting sights. The streets and main roads in Jakarta are chaotic, with motorbikes everywhere. They dart in and out of the traffic at incredible speed; some have one driver, some a pillion passenger, so several passengers - and more. On my last Jakarta trip I saw a family of six, including a newborn, all crammed onto the one bike. I've seen two school-age boys on the back of a bike with their father in Mumbai, India, with both sons doing their homework while the bike weaved through traffic. I've seen crates of chickens being carried on the handlebars of a motorbike in Vietnam and I've seen kids as young as one or two hanging on for dear life - and none wearing helmets. They rarely do in third world countries.

What I see coming up alongside our current taxi, for me, is the most bizarre motorbike incident yet: A man is steering the motorbike while his female companion is holding on to the bike with one hand and the other arm is holding cartons of beer. These are not flat cartons with cans of beer, but high cartons with large bottles of beer - THREE cartons of them. They stack up much higher than her head. She cannot see a thing, yet he is driving at speed along a main road - weaving in and out of traffic.

I point it out to Julia. We joke that they must be going to a party, giving kudos to the woman. Julia says there is no way she would carry even one carton of beer to a car, let alone sit on a motorbike with it. I tell Julia about seeing the family of six on the one bike on my last trip to Jakarta.

'That's nothing' Julia says pulling out her phone to show me a picture; displaying a photo from a recent trip to Cambodia.

'How many people are on this motorbike?' she asks with a smile.

At first glance it looks a lot; probably seven, maybe eight.

'Nine people' she answers.

She hands me the phone. I start counting. She is right, there are nine family members on the one bike - and not babies, but a mother and father with seven kids ranging from three or four years-of-age to teenagers. I am dumfounded. This is not some photo-shopped joke, but a genuine photo taken through the window of a taxi. I ask Julia to send the photo to my phone, so when I tell the story of nine people on a motor-bike, not being some sort of Guinness Book of Records stunt, people will believe me.

On an unrelated note, Julia shows me another photo on her phone. The accompanying story is hilarious: The photo is of a pair of men's old fashion white underpants pulled over the handle of an aircraft's emergency exit door. I thought it was a joke, expecting a caption like: only touch in case of emergency. I was not a joke at all. Julia explains that a passenger went to the toilet after obviously soiling themselves. He washed his underpants in the sink and slipped them over the door handle to dry.

'This is the same door handle they expect me to open if there is an emergency' she quipped.

The emergency exit was in full view of dozens of passengers, with many eager to point out to Julia who the culprit was. She took a photo before notifying the man that emergency exits were not a public laundry. I won't reveal the man's nationality, but can say, that according to Julia, he was not the least embarrassed. She also noted that even though the underpants were wet and washed, she reveals they were far from white.

'Too much information' I said cringing at the thought.

'So what happened next?' I asked, still being curious.

In broken English the man questioned: 'If I can't hang them (being the underpants) here, then where can I hang them?'

Julia's reply?

'In the trash can.'

We finally arrive back at the hotel. I go back to my room for a quick shower, then change before heading down to the pool bar again.

All four from last night are there, as well as several others from the crew, including the boss. The manager, David, is a nice guy. He sits down to explain Wendy's predicament, reiterating she will not be operating the next day. The way David tells the story, Wendy fell AFTER her massage and came straight back to the hotel to report her injuries.

'The poor thing' he says with empathy.

Hang on, I thought, did he just say what I believe he said?

Julia cannot hold her tongue.

'Sorry David, I think you'll find that she fell BEFORE her massage.'

He assures Julia that she must be wrong.

Julia sits forward in her seat, facing David. She is ready to explode.

I too am ready to speak-up.

All I need to say is: 'Julia is not wrong.'

David changes tact. He now knows two crew members have reiterated that Wendy's story is not correct.

Julia leans in close to David to whisper 'I wouldn't feel too sorry for Wendy if I were you. She couldn't have been badly injured as Wendy slipped as soon as she went into the massage place - AND THEN HAD A MASSAGE. That was just after ten o'clock this morning. I saw her at around three in the afternoon; that's five hours later. She must have shopped for at least two hours before coming back to the hotel and reporting to you. Sorry David, she plays the sympathy card - give me a break.'

With that Wendy appears in the pool area - in a wheelchair. She is being pushed in by the same poor girl who carried her shopping bags. Wendy has come to the pool bar for two reasons: to have a drink and to get sympathy. Drinks she may have, but sympathy...?

I have learned over the years only one negative or self-indulgent person can often spoil the mood of a whole group. The mood changes considerably after Wendy's arrival. Any (great) conversation we were having is put on hold. Wendy takes center stage - it is all about her. I'm not jealous, just disappointed. We had the best discussions the previous evening and I was really looking forward to continuing. The mood is completely different tonight.

One of the guys suggests going to a local restaurant. I've actually been to it before and it is great. Wendy is the first to say 'let's go'. I could not tolerate it. It is not just Wendy; she I could ignore, but she brings down everyone around her. Julia quickly confesses she is tired and won't be going out. I know she's not tired, neither am I, but I too follow Julia's lead.

I'm sure the boys don't want Wendy to come. One suggests that as Wendy is now in a wheelchair there may not be wheelchair access at the restaurant.

Wendy insists 'I can walk if I really have to - just as long as there are no steps to climb. You'll help me, won't you?'

That's enough for Julia and myself. We pull the pin.

I go to my room and order room service. It is not the desired outcome, but sometimes this happens.

My lifestyle can be incredibly social and, at other times, really lonely.

I know many crew who struggle with that social side. There are times when even the most social crew have no one to hang-out with. I'm sociable with most, yet even I have trips where I spend most of the time away on my own - and, from my perspective, it is no fun.

I was recently away on a seven-day trip and although the crew were nice, they all had their own plans. I had a total of four nights in hotels with not seeing a sole. Someone like my friend Helen would relish the opportunity to have some time on her own, away from the family, away from the mundane chores, but when you spend so much time away like I do, being on your own is not always a good thing. Given the choice, I would much prefer the company of someone intelligent and fun, than being on my own. Sometimes I have no choice.

Trying to make the effort to get out and about on your own in a foreign city is not that easy. Most countries have security and safety issues, so being on your own is not ideal. In a city like Jakarta it is less than ideal - it is unwise.

For tonight, I eat my room service Nasi Goreng, sip wine, and watch TV to contemplate what might have been.

in the eye of the storm

Sitting in a hotel room eating room service in an exotic destination is not why I became an international jetsetter. It is a harsh reality that not every trip or every day is going to be an exciting adventure. Often it is what you make of it, but when you have been living a lifestyle for as long as I have, one can get apathetic. Some crew seldom leave their rooms by choice. Eating alone in a hotel room is rare for me, yet for some it is a daily event. To me, enjoying life is about embracing the positive side of events and tolerating the negative. If the negatives outweigh the positives, then it is time to change your lifestyle - or attitude.

No matter the occupation or lifestyle, everybody copes differently. I know of several fellow flyers who struggle with the lifestyle, some to the point of being on medication, including antidepressants. I'm not saying all blame rests with the job. What I can confidently say is: being an international flight attendant is a difficult lifestyle and often a lonely one. Some cope, some don't.

As I eat the last of my delicious Nasi Goreng while watching a funny American sitcom within a beautiful five star hotel room, I think to myself: This is not so bad.

If this is the worst of my layover stays, then I do indeed live a great life.

I had a passenger recently who muttered that they were having the worst day of their life. It was all to do with a late departure (all 20 minutes of it) and not being able to secure an aisle seat on a full flight.

I thought to myself: If this is the worst day of your life, then what a fantastic life you have.

A friend jokes that the worst days for him are when he tells the voices in his head to be quiet - and they answer back.

I laughed.

Most things in life are about perspective. What should be minor to some becomes major - and vice versa. I'd like to think there are bigger issues in the world than letting the fact you are not sitting in an aisle seat ruin your life - or even your day.

In saying that, I will be working a tad harder tomorrow because of one crew member's silliness. I won't let it ruin my day. I'll go to work with a positive approach.

After a good night's sleep, thanks to the earlier massage bliss, I wake up refreshed. My call time is not until mid-afternoon. It is an awkward time to go to work; not enough hours in the day to do much, yet late enough to require some sort of rest prior to working what will be a long day and night. It is times like this that I try to do as much as I can before popping a sleeping pill to get four hours sleep before work.

As I am clock-watching, I dare not venture too far from the hotel's vicinity, especially in a volatile traffic city like Jakarta. I venture to a nearby shopping center to discover it has a massage place. It slipped my mind to have another massage. I reassess my options: shopping or a massage? I check my watch. If I limit myself to an hour massage, then I can do both.

I'm excited.

This massage place is not as large or elaborate as yesterdays, but it is cheap and I am here and ready-to-go. What other justifications do I need?

There are no body scrub options here; it is a room with reclining seats. You stay fully clothed with the massage through clothing. It is not the best massage I've ever had, but even an ordinary massage is still pretty damn good, I say.

I do my best thinking while being massaged. An hour of relaxation refreshes the mind as well as the body. If I ever go into politics (which I won't) and they asked me my response to an extremely important issue, I'd say 'I'm off for a massage, I'll give you my answer in an hour.'

I don't solve any global crises in my hour of 'think time', yet I use the time well to evaluate recent events and assess my attitude. I think of Wendy. I wish I didn't. It doesn't matter what positives I try to see in someone like Wendy, I can't. I am disappointed I feel that way, but I must learn to accept it and move on.

Those I admire the most are those who have every reason to complain, yet don't. These are the people I'll spend more time thinking about.

I return to the hotel and take my sleeping tablet. I doze off for four hours - no weird dreams, no false evacuation alarms, just four hours of forced sleep so I can function on the aircraft.

The flight is full and of course and we are now operating one crew member short.

'Think positive' I said to myself even when I have to carry one of Wendy's (many) bags. In an ironic yet predictable twist, she has the biggest and heaviest bags of all the crew. She is taken to the aircraft by ground staff in a wheelchair, dramatically standing up from the chair using all her weight on her 'good' leg. She makes sure all the crew see how distressed she is, then hops down the aisle muttering something about not wanting any assistance to her seat because she doesn't wish to be a burden. It must be noted that one of the crew carried Wendy's in-cabin bag to the seat, placing it in the overhead locker for her.

The weather forecast for Jakarta is not good. Afternoon storms are predicted. We can see them rolling in, the sky in the distance jet-black. The captain tells the crew that if we get away on-time, we might avoid the storm, but it will be touch and go.

It is not meant to be.

A passenger has failed to board and their luggage is in the hold. The procedure in these instances is to remove their bags. That is easier said than done with a cargo hold full of bags. The storm gets closer.

We finally push back from the gate, although we have missed our allotted slot to takeoff and now must queue behind several other aircraft on the runway. Then the storm hits.

I've seen some amazing tropical thunderstorms, but this one takes the cake.

All planes are grounded. The captain makes an announcement stating the obvious. How long we will be sitting on the runway is dependent on the weather gods. I look out the window. It doesn't look good, if anything it is getting worse.

We are going nowhere, stuck on the runway as lightning flashes and sideways rain pelts the airport. The plane rocks. You wouldn't think it possible wind could affect an aircraft weighing over 240,000 kg (530,000 lb). Although we are stationary, the aircraft moves with the gusts. It is not as bad as some inflight turbulence, nonetheless you can feel the aircraft swaying.

Gee it looks bad out there, I say to myself. We are not going anywhere for a while.

I am sitting on my jump seat at the back of the plane - on my own, not facing any passengers. The rain is so strong that the window looks like it is underwater. Flashes of lightning interrupt the blackness - and it is supposedly daylight outside.

I'd hate to be out there.

We spend over three hours on the ground. That's three hours stuck in my seat, just sitting there. The passengers watch movies, read books, or close their eyes. I can do nothing except look out the window, wondering when we will be going.

As the aircraft is rocking with the wind, I contemplate just how powerful the gusts outside must be - and how tough aircrafts are. The wind is exceptionally strong, yet compared to some of the gusts up in the air, it is relatively a puff. Some of the wind-speeds at over 30,000 feet are astonishing. I've heard pilots talk of high altitude winds in excess of 200 knots; that's over 370 kph or 230 mph. A captain told me that at 35,000 feet there is a jet stream likened to a fast flowing river of air, with the speeds increasing as altitude increases. This jet stream blows in the same general direction (east-to-west), yet it can vary in intensity.

Sometimes you fly with it, sometimes against it. That is why some flights are quicker than others. Traveling west is faster than going east. I did a recent flight, flying west-east, which took five hours, yet the return journey, being east-west, took seven hours - two hours longer. It is all to do with the jet stream. I am not an astrophysicist, but from my understanding, the jet stream is resultant from the Earth's rotation along with other factors, such as the sun's illumination.

There are jet stream patterns, yet little consistency. The captain told me it is a complicated affair, whispering to me that he didn't really understand it - relying on aviation weather briefings preflight and inflight.

Flying an aircraft is complex. I marvel at the mechanics of planes. We are in a massive aluminum tube full of heavy fixtures and fittings; there are over 250 passengers onboard, each with bags bulging at the seams; the plane is full of fuel; there is enough water onboard to flush toilets thousands of times as well as provide tea and coffee for the masses; the hold is jam-packed with commercial cargo and luggage; and enough drinks and food onboard to feed hundreds of people - twice. Airplanes are marvelous machines.

The weather has cleared a little. From my seat I can see the tip of one of the wings. I can't see the engines, yet know there are only two engines on this aircraft. When you look at the size of the fuselage, the engines don't look that big, yet they can power this lumbering beast along a runway and drive it into the air at speed. It is impressive how much power these aircrafts have.

The black clouds finally lift and the torrential rain subsides to a drizzle. We taxi to the end of the runway in preparation to takeoff.

The sky still looks menacing as the plane powers along the runway, taking off to rise toward the foreboding heavens. I notice the pitch (the angle) of the aircraft is not as steep as usual. The pilots obviously need to keep the plane under the threatening clouds above. We bank several times, still at low altitude. I can only imagine how hard the pilots must be working.

I look out my window to see lightning flashes and stormy clouds. The aircraft is shaking, although not as much as I would expect, given the wild conditions outside. We turn again and again, with flashes of lightning all around us. The pilots are doing an amazing job of keeping the plane relatively smooth.

The captain makes a P.A. Due to the weather and the possibility of turbulence, he informs that the seatbelt sign will be kept on for some time. I know how busy the pilots must be, so it is impressive he has taken the time to keep the passengers and crew up-to-date. We continue climbing while twisting and turning around massive cloud banks.

Some passengers watch movies, some sleep, others look out the window to see nature's light-show. There is no sound from any passengers. All I can hear are the aircraft noises; the usual rushing of air through the air-conditioning systems, the vibration of the bulkheads and internal structures, and the sounds of air running over the outside tail, wings, and fuselage. As the pilots have the aircraft working overtime to get around and though this storm cell, I can also hear the sounds of the onboard hydraulic systems.

I am used to aircraft sounds. When there are atypical variances in pressure and speed, I can tell. Most passengers would have no idea of subtle changes in speed and elevation, however most experienced crew would. When the aircraft speeds up or slows down, it is barely noticeable within the cabin. I tend to know by sounds more than anything else, caused by changes in pressure outside the aircraft. It is more noticeable when the plane starts decent for landing. The pressurization in the cabin at this point can be detected, not just by sounds, but often discomfort in the ears. When the landing gear comes down, the sounds and vibrations of the aircraft are far more evident.

The lightning continues to flash and the skies still look threatening. I can only imagine how difficult it must be for the pilots to find smooth air. They have all sorts of restrictions and considerations. We are not the only aircraft in the sky. The storm is massive and it is also moving. Other planes too must be trying to avoid the dangerous clouds and not every plane can fit (safely) into the same airspace. It must be an airport controller's nightmare with weather like this.

Most of the passengers are oblivious to what is going on. We have turned at least 20 times - accelerating - decelerating - for over 30 minutes, yet we still haven't reached our cruising altitude. Even crew sometimes overlook that we are in a piece of machinery moving at great speed up in the sky - and sometimes that sky is not so friendly.

I've spent over 20 years working in this environment. Even if I cannot hear the landing gear come down, I can feel the vibrations; if I cannot see the runway, I can still recognize that moment just before touchdown. I guess when you have done as many takeoffs and landings as I have, you become accustomed to how the aircraft responds.

If anything out-of-the-ordinary occurs, especially noises, crew are generally the first to identify. The pilots have all the instrumentations, however we are the eyes and ears within the cabin. I was recently on a flight which had quite a hard landing. While taxiing on the runway I could hear what I presumed to be cargo rolling around in the hold. I waited until stopping at the aerobridge and the engines were turned off before calling the flight deck.

In this instance some of the cargo, which had been strapped in, had obviously become unsecured. There was no real threat to the aircraft structure, as they are extremely tough, but there may be an issue for the baggage handlers when opening up the cargo doors. The captain had no idea of the loose cargo. He was appreciative of my actions and let the ground staff know.

I've heard no cargo hold noises on this flight, thank goodness. Although the seatbelt sign has been on for what feels like an eternity, the aircraft is traveling relatively smoothly. The poor passengers have had nearly four hours in their seats now without food or drink. With one flight attendant down, we are going to be run of our feet.

The seatbelt sign turns off.

Let the mayhem begin...

sometimes you are too busy to contemplate just how busy you really are

There are so many adjectives to describe how busy we are, yet frantic is the first which comes to mind. The crew work at feverish pace to give each passenger dinner and a stiff drink. Most want more than one drink. Crew often use the phrase responsible service of alcohol in instances like this, but who can blame the passengers - they are all tired and hungry - so too the crew. It will be some time before we can eat and get a drink for ourselves.

What I'd give right now for a glass of wine and some cheese and crackers.

In an ironic twist, that is just what Wendy is doing while we run around at super-hero speed.

I haven't even had time to go to the toilet - and I'm bursting. Bladder-control is another hostie skill I've developed over the years. A toilet every four paces is a low priority for airlines. Seats occupied by paying customers is what pays the airline's bills. Toilets, from the airline company's perspective, are an evil necessity. I've even heard of one low-cost carrier contemplating charging for toilet usage with a coin-in-the-slot entry system. The airline may have implemented the scheme already, but imagine telling a passenger that unless they have a coin in their hand, then they can't go to the toilet?

That's one flight I would not like to be on.

On our flight, toiletry sanity prevails, however I still don't have time to use one of our onboard toilets. Crew don't have a separate toilet, so we too need to queue with the masses. We often don't have time to queue. The only real time there are no queues is during a meal service - and we can't very well leave a cart in the middle of the aisle to go pee. I hold on.

Some of the passengers use the meal service to access the now-vacant toilets. Often that means passing us in the aisle while working on a cart. Aisles are skinny, there are no overtaking lanes. A cart is almost the width of an aisle, so unless someone has the hips of Popeye's girlfriend Olive Oil, then either 'Olive Oil' will be stuck on that side of the cart, or the crew and the cart need to move. Every time we move it delays the service, meaning those who have yet to be served need to wait even longer.

'We will let you pass shortly' often falls on deaf ears, with the passengers feeling this inherent need to jam up as close as they can to us - even when the whole aisle behind them is free. You have no idea how irritating it is to feel a knee in your butt every time you bend over to grab a tray from a cart. I realize that a plane is akin to a sardine tin, however spatial awareness does not exist for some.

In these instances I push the cart a row or two forward, yet nine times out of ten the passenger moves the exact same distance forward. I am guilty, at times, of turning my head to give a look conveying: Are you kidding me or what? How would you like it if I crept up behind you and started breathing on the back of your neck while you were trying to work?

It is not just about the crew's feelings. I am concerned for passengers who either miss out on things or are kept waiting because of the selfishness of some fellow passengers. When there are over 200 mouths in my zone alone and, in this case, only five crew to feed them all, then any disruption by one person comes at the expense of the rest of the passengers.

We've had one woman on this flight who has paid for her seat, yet prefers to live in the aisle. She is constantly fidgeting around - opening lockers and placing her bag, not on the lap like most, but in the aisle. Of course the bag is huge and heavy. I can attest to the fact because she insisted I put it in the locker when she came onboard. She even has the nerve to ask me, while I am on a cart, to take her bag down from the locker for her. This means delaying the service so this woman can access her bag. She would no doubt place the bag in the aisle again, thus blocking our access to the galley.

I tell her I will return to help her after the meal service, meaning later. That advice falls on deaf ears. As soon as we have pushed the cart past her, she gets out of her seat to remove the bag herself. Guess where she puts it? In the aisle.

She is continually in our way. When two people are on a cart, one is always walking backwards. Today that is me. Crew have exceptional peripheral vision skills.

I joke that even though I can't see things in the future, I can often see them off to the side.

Walking backwards, I keep my peripheral vision trained on where the cart is heading. We've had to shuffle the crew around to accommodate the loss of Wendy. I'm now working with Julia. Although Julia has little to do with the woman in the aisle, Julia has instantly identified her as pest, even before the woman began rummaging through her bag in the aisle.

Every time Julia needs to go back to the galley, which is often, she has to pass the woman - stepping over her bag and contorting her body to slither by. This also occurs when returning with armfuls of drinks, or bread rolls, or whatever Julia is required to carry. To Julia's credit, her verbal encounters with the woman are pleasant enough, using the words please, excuse me, thank you, and can I please get past. Julia's expressions, however, are becoming increasingly animated. Everyone in her viewpoint can see how frustrated she is; everyone except the woman who is the source of the hindrance.

Julia's patience is at breaking point. We need to return the now-empty cart to galley. As I push the cart towards the galley I can see the woman continuing her residence in the aisle. I am sure Julia already knows the woman is still there, yet I inform her anyway.

Julia cannot hold her tongue anymore.

'Of course she is still there - but not for long' Julia says with anger.

Julia turns around, but just as she is about to unleash a verbal tirade, the arrogant woman grabs her dirty tray from her tray table to then shove in front of Julia face.

'Oh hell' I think to myself.

I can see steam blowing from Julia's ears.

I hope she doesn't say something she will regret later. Fortunately she is in shock as the dirty tray is so close to Julia's face she is forced to back away.

I think quickly.

'Julia, we've still another 30-or-so passengers who haven't had a meal yet and the meals will be getting cold if we don't serve them soon. Please get the lady to hold onto her tray and we will collect it when we have finished attending to those who have yet to be served.'

The serial pest finally decides to get out of our way. The immediate problem is averted - for the short term anyway. The woman will take up residence again in the aisle - it is a given.

Wendy hasn't left her seat since boarding. She had two glasses of wine and went to sleep. It is good for some. It is over six hours since we stepped on the aircraft and we are still collecting trays. We have not stopped. None of the crew has eaten. I haven't even had time to take a sip of water, with racing to the toilet the only break of any description. As soon as the last tray is collected we close the galley curtains in preparation to eat any morsel of food not nailed down.

'The call-lights can wait for five minutes' says Julia stuffing a bread roll into her mouth.

Aircrafts are not the only things needing fuel.

hop to it

After a quick bite to eat, answering all the call-bells, and then clearing the cabin of rubbish, we turn the lights in the cabin down. Hopefully the passengers will get some sleep. Our 'resident aisle woman' doesn't look the least bit tired. She is still in the aisle, being in ours and everyone else's way. We still have work to do: call-lights to attend, toilets to clean, rubbish to collect, drinks to serve, and general hostie business to attend to. Every time I step outside the galley I run into the woman, having to maneuver my way around her to get past, with the added inconvenience of walking in a dark cabin. On one occasion Julia bumps forcibly into the woman. I can't be sure if it was on purpose, but I suspect it was.

While I am out in the cabin I see the silhouette of Wendy getting up from her seat to walk to the toilets. She has her back to me, thus does not know I am watching. Wendy made the presumption none of the crew would notice her, however she presumed wrong. She still has a limp, but only a slight one. The way she carried on earlier, when she stood up from the wheelchair, you would have sworn she had a broken leg. A few hours later and Wendy is scooting down the aircraft aisle quicker than my 76 year-old aunty.

Predictably, Wendy's 'bad leg' must have worsened during the flight as when the plane lands she hops to the waiting wheelchair, grimacing in pain as she sits in the chair. Wendy looks refreshed. The rest of the crew look like we've stepped out of a train wreck, having the night from hell. When flights are full it is often a struggle to keep pace with the demands. Take away a crew member and it can be mayhem.

Most airlines and flights disembark wheelchair passengers last, as is the case, in theory, today. Wendy is not the last passenger off the plane. By the way, we are only paid until the plane pulls up at the aerobridge. Should we spend extra time on the plane, as we do, it is on our own time. The job is not about money, but most passengers don't realize that many of the delays and extra duties we do, particularly after we have landed, are considered 'after work duties'.

Regardless, crew are obliging with special-needs passengers, particularly those requiring wheelchairs, the elderly, and mothers with babies. What makes our blood boil is waiting for someone so oblivious to the world around them that they hold up the entire crew. That person today is none other than our 'resident aisle woman'.

Let me also point out that it is not just the current crew impacted by this woman's actions - or lack of actions - there is a flow-on effect. This aircraft is being turned around to operate to the next destination. We are already late - the clock is ticking - cleaners, caterers, and an engineer are all waiting to come onboard before the new crew and then ultimately the new passengers can start boarding. Now everyone is waiting on one person - and that one person is no hurry at all.

She waited until last so the crew could get her bag down from the overhead locker. This is the same bag she took down herself - at least a dozen times. When the crew member did get it down for her, with that person being me, she insists on checking everything in her bag is in place. She then starts checking the seat pocket in front of her.

Julia walks up the aisle... if looks could kill, this woman's funeral would be in three days' time.

Julia cannot hold her tongue, yet uses humor to mask her absolute distain for this woman:

'Did you know that the last person left on the plane has to clean it?'

It is water off a duck's back.

Julia's patience is exhausted - no more humor - no more compassion. Just as Julia is ready to put a bomb under this woman, I step in.

'Ma'am, the crew cannot leave the aircraft until everyone is off. To assist you I will take your bag to the front door. If you require further assistance, the ground-staff will help you there.'

I take a deep breath and count. Another 22 seconds elapse before she finally moves. Twenty two seconds is not a long time, but when she has been dawdling for at least five minutes more than any other passenger, it is excruciatingly lengthy.

Cleaning staff line the aerobridge in readiness. A millisecond after the woman leaves, the ground staff swoop. When the crew finally take our first step from aircraft, we let out a collective sigh of relief. I've said my goodbyes to the rest of the crew, except Wendy. I'm normally the first to offer help with crew who might need a hand, but not this time. Wendy is out of sight and out of mind. I scurry away from the plane with nothing but thoughts of getting home.

Arriving at my apartment, I feel a wave of calmness wash over me. Outside of other flyers, I spend less time at home than anyone else I know. That's why I appreciate it so much. When tired and worn-out, nothing is more soothing than a long shower in my own home. There are not many jobs where you work such long days to then shower, dry off, and then jump straight into bed. Add jetlag, oxygen deprivation, and working in a pressurized tube racing across the skies at speed and it's understandable why sometimes my head hits the pillow with the force of a sledgehammer.

The next day Dean and I meet for lunch. I rarely talk about the intricacies of my work, however the last time I went to Jakarta Dean came with me. Being familiar with the trip and destination, he wants to know what I did there. He can see I've had a haircut and presumes (correctly) that I had a massage (or two). I tell of Wendy's fall at the massage place, forcing us to work home with one less crew. Dean has watched me work, knowing how demanding the job can be; there is no need to elaborate.

Having a supportive partner is essential in my occupation. I guess it is the same with any job - with any couple, although my lifestyle is a little different than most. I am away so much; sometimes I can barely function when I return home. Dean has seen firsthand the demands of my vocation. He does not profess to fully understand, nor should he, but he is empathetic.

I give Dean the small gifts bought in Jakarta - three pairs of Ray-ban sunglasses, two Hugo Boss, a Burberry, and Lacoste polo shirts. The time consumed buying them and the amount of money spent is embarrassingly miniscule compared to Dean's appreciation. I love to shop, it is my pleasure, I tell him.

I also bought a few other items for friends and family. Again, the cost was little. I found the cutest clutch-bag for Helen. She did not ask for anything; good friends rarely do. I'll give it to her later in the day when we meet for coffee.

I only have less than 48 hours at home before my next trip. Unpacking becomes repacking. I take out my Jakarta clothes to replace with a new wardrobe for my next trip, being to South Africa. I place the dirty clothes in my washing machine, changing thoughts from the trip just done, to pack clean clothes with thoughts of the trip I'm about to do. After so long in this job, one trip tends to run into the next. The dramas and hard work of the last trip are quickly forgotten. A new adventure beckons.

I meet with Helen for our obligatory coffee and a chat. She loves the clutch-bag. I knew she would. I tell her my 'Wendy story'. She has heard many Wendy stories. The great thing about having a true friend like Helen is she not only listens, she sympathizes. It works both ways as Helen shares the trials and tribulations of her family life. Mine is not the only life being a rollercoaster of events and emotions. It is easy to become overly self-indulged. Thanks to family and friends like Helen, I'd like to think I stay grounded - if you will excuse the grounded pun.

Helen would love to come away on another trip with me, but her eldest child is a bit of a handful at the moment. Helen recognizes she needs to spend more time with him, being in the fortunate position that she can.

I often think that flight attendants with families live a strange life. It must be difficult juggling a family while spending more than half their life away. I've talked with Dean's brother Danny about his life with a wife and children. He admits the lifestyle is hard on his family. It is equally as hard on himself. He has missed birthdays, Christmases, Easters, the children's first days at school, concert recitals, sporting events, when the kids have been sick, parent-teacher nights, and, as he says 'the list goes on and on'.

A redeeming feature of our job and our airline is we have a seniority driven bidding system for our rosters, our trips. The longer we've been flying, the more likely we are to get specific days off. Danny's been flying a tad less than me, yet even though he is approaching 20 years flying there are no guarantees. I'm the same. I do get the occasional Christmas off these days, whereas for the first dozen or so years of flying I was either in a different country or in the air for Christmas.

Our rosters and trips are bid for in advance. Days off, like Christmas, can be planned for, but when last-minute or short-notice events come up, it's a lottery. Usually those odds aren't good.

For someone with a family, like Danny, the days at home are most important. He prioritizes his family time first. We have the ability, at times, to swap trips. I've told Danny I will swap at any time to accommodate being home with his family for important events. He is appreciative, but has yet to take up the offer.

Flight attendants generally have more sick days allocated than the average occupation; that's because we get genuinely physically fatigued and sick more than most jobs. We are in foreign countries, often third-world, staying in large, polluted cities in hotels with sometimes no way to open a window. We deal with thousands of people weekly in a sealed aluminum tube with recycled bugs floating around everywhere. You can see why we get sick more often than most.

There is always going to be those who abuse the system, to take days off work when it suits, although it is not an easy thing to do. We need to provide a medical certificate to prove our illness. That is fair enough.

I'm a goody-two-shoes. I won't wrought the system. The closest I've ever been to taking days off without a legitimate reason was when my aunty passed away and I wanted to go to the funeral. My company has compassionate leave days available for immediate family, but did not classify my aunt as immediate family. I had just come back from a long trip, feeling jetlagged and tired anyway.

I visited my local doctor. Without prompting, the doctor discovered I had blocked ears and a throat infection (severe upper respiratory tract infection), insisting I take four days off work. To be honest, I was shocked. Needless to say, I went to the funeral.

Another hostie I know had felt unwell for some time. She thought she may have had a mild cold, not feeling good, yet being well enough to go to work. She explained that she wasn't coughing or sneezing, being confident she was not contagious. Her doctor agreed.

She did three or four long trips, not being able to shake the persistent and niggling cold. She visited the doctor again with the same diagnosis, so she thought she would do one more trip. If she did not feel better after this trip she would insist on having some time off work to fully recover. While away, in Bangkok, she fell in a heap. It turned out she had fluid on her lungs - and a lot. She ended up hospitalized, spending over three weeks grounded in Thailand as doctors would not allow her to fly.

She had no medical history or preexisting ailment. It was purely a case of being slightly unwell, not having the chance to recover, and continuing to place her body under stress. The accumulative effects of those additional flights caused her body to shut down.

I have talked with numerous flight attendants having similar experiences. Most did not become hospitalized, yet I've heard some harrowing stories. Our bodies are subjected to many stresses and conditions foreign to ground-based workers. It is not always easy to recognize what is wrong, if indeed there is anything. As my experience of going to the doctor to be diagnosed with a severe upper respiratory tract infection when I merely thought I had jetlag showed, we can never be too careful. In saying that, I love my job and lifestyle; I only take days off when I am genuinely feeling unwell and I always make sure I have a doctor's certificate.

Dean is a G.P and also Danny's brother, yet neither Danny nor I, when sick, go to him for medical certificates. It could be seen as a conflict of interest by our airline. It shouldn't, but sometimes it is best to air on the side of caution.

Another flying friend of mine has a brother who is a doctor. She always went to him for medical certificates. One day she was called into our company's office. I remember her telling me how furious she was. The company kept saying that the name on the medical certificate was the same last name as the flight attendants'.

'So what' she said.

'Is it a family member?' they asked.

She would not answer, explaining that the doctor in question was qualified and followed all codes of ethics as set out by the medical association.

'What's the doctor's last name got to do with anything?' she added.

She was livid. Obviously one or more people in the company are employed just to check crew medical certificates, thus she was called in to explain hers. She said that questioning the authenticity of a medical certificate was questioning the authority of a doctor.

'Are you a medical practitioner?' she asked the company investigator.

When the person said 'no', she stood up and walked out.

She never heard another word from the company about it.

Most airlines will deny the crew are subject to excessive health stresses. I've had some great discussions with Dean about this. Our airline, and most airlines, have their own aviation doctors; medical practitioners with additional training in aviation-related illnesses and issues. That is like telling a trapeze artist that it is impossible for them to fall, yet putting a safety net under them anyway. Of course crew suffer unique health issues, thus the specialist doctors.

Very few jobs would have no safety or health concerns, yet flying around the world, closer to the sun, in a pressurized aluminum tube with only about two-thirds the oxygen available, compared to being on the ground, has to create some distinctive physical issues - and it is accumulative.

Most people feel tired after a one hour flight. Cabin crew can spend over one hundred hours a month in the air - month in and month out. I don't care what our airline says, being an international hostie is unique and it is demanding.

I try to overcome the physical pressures of the job with emotional balance. I love my job and the destinations we go to. I'm off to Africa in the morning. I love Africa.

anger can be a cowardly extension of one's own bitterness

I'm packed and ready to go to Johannesburg, South Africa; a city I've been to many times. Joburg, as it is referred locally, is the world's largest city not situated on water (a river, lake, or coastline). I favor cities on or near water. Cape Town is more my preference in South Africa. Even so, there is plenty to do in and around Joburg. Normally I venture away from the city sprawl. I'm a huge lover of animal safaris. I've lost count of how many I've been on. I won't go on safari unless I am with other crew. Playing solo tourist in a country like South Africa is just too risky

On my last visit to Joburg a nice guy from the crew and I went to Sterkfontein Caves about an hour's drive away. Sometimes known as the cradle of mankind, the caves are the site of early hominid fossil discoveries. It was fascinating stuff, however this time I don't plan on leaving the city.

I belong to a charity through work and although this is not an official company charity trip, one of the other flight attendants on my flight, Franco, is also involved. Franco is a lovely man, of Italian heritage, and softly spoken. His partner also flies, although he is not on this trip. I know Franco does his own charity work in Africa, mainly with a kindergarten in Soweto, a massive shanty town in Joburg. Knowing this I have collected toys and clothes also. Helen has come to the party as I have a bag full of her kids' unwanted toys and clothes.

Franco too has goodies for the kids. I've been to a number of different countries with my airline doing charity work, although not as yet in South Africa. I ask Franco if I can join him in delivering the toys and clothes. He is more than happy to have me tag along. We are working at different ends of the aircraft on this trip, so I won't have much of an opportunity to chat throughout the flight, yet it looks like we are set to go to Soweto.

I'm excited, yet a little apprehensive.

I've already been to Soweto as well as a massive shantytown in Cape Town, called Khayelitsha, but only as a part of a tour group. These tours were sanitized and supervised. I've been in slums in the sub-continent, South-East Asia, South America, and other parts of Africa. I am not immune, yet more experienced than most. I am not really sure what to expect in the section of Soweto we'll be going. What I saw as a tourist might be very different to this time round.

I'm working on a cart with a comical fellow, Thomas. The passengers love him. He's married, yet very cheeky, being a bit of a flirt. Even so, I find Thomas harmless. I'd much rather work with someone with oodles of personality than an unobtrusive bore. Thomas tells a few jokes, with political correctness not really his forte. Some of the jokes are about women, but I couldn't care less.

Thomas is the sort of guy who adores women. He tells the jokes to be lighthearted, not to be sexist. I don't take the puns personally. I find most of them quite funny.

In my 20 years of flying I have never had someone offend me with a joke. The skin is the heaviest organ in the body. This is true. I have a thick skin.

Thomas confides that he had an incident recently.

This is his side of the story:

He was working with two gay men and told, what he termed, 'a gay joke'. He said the joke was quite racy. Both men listened to the joke in its entirety and then screwed up their faces, obviously not liking it. They said nothing at the time, but after the trip, some five days after the joke was told, the men wrote a scathing letter to our company accusing Thomas of being homophobic. Thomas was called in to explain. He had an inkling what the complaint was about, being prepared.

I might add at this point that Thomas and I are working with several gay men on this trip and I haven't seen any homophobic behavior from him. Thomas appears to treat everyone equally, telling jokes about all sorts of subjects. He continues to tell the story:

Thomas went into the office, with the accusation sternly read to him.

'We take allegations of homophobic comments and jokes very seriously' said the manager. 'Did you tell a homophobic joke?'

'Most definitely not' said Thomas, 'I told a joke about being gay. How can I be homophobic when I am gay? Surely if I am gay I am allowed to tell a gay joke about myself.'

The manager was taken aback. Thomas appears to be heterosexual.

'Gay? But you are married.'

Thomas told the manager that his sexual preferences while away on trips was of no concern to the company.

'And I would take a very dim view, as well as retribution, should you out me in a public forum.'

The way Thomas tells it, nothing more was said and there were no further repercussions. He continues his justifications to me:

'Can Jerry Seinfeld get in trouble for telling a Jewish joke?'

'Did Joan Rivers face repercussions for joking about facelifts?'

'If I am gay myself, am I not entitled to tell a gay joke?'

He had a big smile on his face when offering his opinions. He is not gay, but then again - you never know.

Who am I or anyone else to make presumptions? That was his point.

I thought Thomas's story to be very funny. I'm not trying to take sides, yet why would these two fellow workers wait until after Thomas had told the joke to backstab him? If they were uncomfortable with a joke being told then surely they would say 'I'd prefer you don't tell gay jokes.' Thomas told me the joke. I can see how it would be offensive to some, but as soon as he started telling the joke, it was obvious where it was heading. The two complainers would have known that. They could have nipped it in the bud right there, instead of going through the company with all the rig moral associated with an official complaint.

I have seen it many times, where something could have been easily avoided with a little common sense.

If someone made me feel uncomfortable or uneasy, I would tell them. If they continued, then that is when I would contemplate the next step. I've never had to do that. If some guy flirted or asked me out on a date and I wasn't interested, even if I was single at the time, I would reply 'Thank you, but I am not available.'

Imagine a world where everyone was too politically correct to ask someone out? Everyone would be single. A little commonsense should prevail.

If someone grabbed me on the backside and said 'nice butt' I would say 'please remove your hand or my knee will connect with such force that you will never have a love life again'.

I've never had to say that, thank goodness, but I am always prepared.

I am constantly grabbed, tugged, yanked, and bumped on the aircraft, but that is either by accident or ignorance. They are not sexual acts or personally aimed at me. If they were I would be the first to put a blunt stop to it. I still get annoyed; everyone does, but I don't take it personally.

I do know of some girls who get very upset when certain comments are made. On a trip last year one of the hosties made a sexual harassment complaint against one of the other crew. I heard some of the man's comments. In my opinion they weren't derogatory or offensive. It was just her interpretation.

If she had just said 'I'd rather you didn't say that', which she didn't, then all the heartache which accompanies a formal complaint would have been avoided. By the way, this girl has a history of such complaints. I stayed well away from her and will continue to do so in the future. I pick my mark in this job. We deal with so many different personality types, not just passengers, but also crew. We become very good at judging people.

As I have said before: I am judgmental. Everybody is.

I've judged Thomas as being harmless. He is a lot of fun to work with. The more jokes he tells, the better, I say. Most of the passengers are fantastic, except one - her name is Mrs. Bacher. During boarding I was at the back of the plane. She was first on plane, with her husband and daughter trailing behind. This woman's screwed up expression would be viewable from the moon. As she stepped onto the aircraft she looked ready to kill someone. I saw her marching her way down the aisle. Even the poorest of personality judges could tell that this woman is not happy.

Rather than hide, which to be honest is what I'd like to do sometimes, I step into the aisle with the biggest smile I can muster.

'Hello there, welcome onboard' I say enthusiastically.

The woman starts ranting and raving. It is not a few words muttered softly, but at least two minutes of yelling and screaming. It is all to do with the position of her seat. She and her family are in the very back row, occupying three of the four seats across the middle of the plane. She obviously already knew this - the expression on her face when boarding was a dead give-away.

By the way, the back row seats are identical to every other seat in the zone, but there is actually a bonus: no one is seated behind. The seats still recline the standard distance, yet no one can kick the back of the seat and the seat can also be fully reclined for the entire flight without fear of squashing someone.

I explain these advantages. I probably shouldn't have as for some reason she yells even louder.

I ask to look at her boarding pass. I see the name Mrs. Bacher. I have heard this name in South Africa before and know it is pronounced Bucker.

There is a number on the boarding pass which indicates where she was in the boarding sequence. In small print it reads: 332. She and her family were one of the last to check in. They are the lowest priority on a flight only a few seats shy of being full. The reality is they are lucky to be seated together. I don't tell her this information. She will only shout and scream more, no matter what justification I give her. I find out this information for my own benefit and then hand back the boarding pass.

I smile, trying not to take her insults personally - and there are insults aplenty. She has criticized the airline repeatedly and she is only a rant or two away from attacking me. I interrupt, telling her I will talk with a manager to see if there are other seats available.

She starts yelling 'There are no other seats available. You know that' as I walk away (quickly).

There may have been more said, yet at the speed I was walking I was out of earshot within seconds.

kill them with kindness

I go to the onboard manager, Rob, to explain the situation with Mrs. Bacher. I've flown with Rob before. He is great, very laidback. He looks up his paperwork. There is no other information about Mrs. Bacher available. She is not a frequent flyer, she is not a commercially important passenger, and she has the cheapest ticket.

I rarely form a firm opinion of a passenger in such a short space of time, however I tell Rob that this woman will be trouble the whole flight.

It doesn't matter what we do - it won't be good enough, I tell him.

'I've flown with you before' Rob says. 'I trust your judgment Danielle. You handle the woman how you see fit. I'll back you.'

I love a manager who doesn't treat you like a child. Not only did his words justify my concerns, he delegated the situation to be handled by me. I am the one who will be dealing with this woman for most of this very long flight anyway. That's very clever. He is busy. He trusts my decisions and ability.

The best leaders are those who get the best out of those under them.

I could ignore Mrs. Bacher, but I decide to go the other way - I will kill her with kindness. I put my psychology skills to the test. I comment to Rob that, in my opinion, it doesn't matter how well I treat her, I am doubtful she will be turned around. Rob tells me the few seats at the back of the plane which will available. None are together.

I know Mrs. Bacher will not move anyway, but I walk to the back of the aircraft armed with a positive attitude and a point to prove.

Mrs. Bacher is in the aisle seat. Her face still looks like she has been sucking lemons. I approach her, squatting down to talk to her at eye level. I make full eye contact to talk in a soft, yet firm voice.

'Mrs. Bacher, I've talked to our manager - his name is Rob. There will be a few seats available. We just need to wait until the last of the passengers board...'

She does not let me finish. She continues yelling and screaming, something about 'You don't expect me to move now do you?'

As she squawks at me, my thoughts are: 'You inconsiderate woman - here I am trying to help you and you are yelling at me?'

Regardless of what I may be thinking, I smile, and then interrupt her rants by saying 'Ok then, it's your choice to stay where you are.'

I stand and walk away.

Thomas heard some of Mrs. Bacher's ranting, as too most of the passengers in her area. He wants to know what's going on. I tell him. His first reaction is to make life as miserable as possible for this woman. I say 'no', telling Thomas what I told the boss.

'Kill her with kindness?' says Thomas 'I like it. Do you think you can turn her around?'

'No.'

'Can I play too?' he says cheekily.

Thomas is treating this as a game. Sometimes it is best to do so.

This is now a challenge. I am confident that even though we will do everything within our power to give this woman a good flight, it will be in vain. Normally crew do not reward bad behavior, but this is different. Angry passengers are generally that way for a reason. Sometimes it is from circumstances beyond anyone's control. I've had passengers who came onboard angry and aggressive, to treat them well, then to later receive an apology; finding out the real reason for their anger. In one instance a man, who was horrible to the crew, was on the flight to attend the funeral of his father. We had no idea at the time until he apologized for his outbursts. We were very sympathetic.

Every passenger has a story. Most passengers have a reason for behaving the way they do. Most, not all.

I could be wrong, but I don't think Mrs. Bacher has such justifications. I think she is just a nasty woman. Her husband seems jovial enough, given the circumstances of who he is married to. You can tell he is scared of his wife. The daughter, in her early twenties, is a carbon copy of the mother, also being sour-faced. I have heard how she talks to her father. I am disgusted. If I talked like that to my father he would have clipped me under the ear - and deservedly so. The father has no respect from his wife or daughter. What a painful life he must live.

Regardless of how spineless the poor husband is, he is trying to be polite to Thomas and me. He appears an open book. If the Bacher family were going through some traumatic experience, he too would be affected. He seems the type of man who would alert the crew of any distress the family may be under. Mrs. Bacher certainly would, particularly if it meant getting preferential treatment. I reassert my belief that Mrs. Bacher has few excuses - and is just a horrid woman.

Thomas is a cheeky boy. As far as Mrs. Bacher is concerned, I don't want to be seen as sarcastic and condescending. I want to genuinely try and turn her around. I tell Thomas this. He agrees. Thomas can be very charming. I have an accomplice.

We are about to serve lunch. We know the Bacher family will be last to be served, so Thomas and I approach them, and those around them, with some snacks and wine. Mrs. Bacher and her daughter refuse the wine, but take the snacks. There is no thank you, no hint of gratitude. The husband takes the wine; who could blame him? He says 'thank you'. Thomas has dealt with the husband previously, yet this is first direct dealing with his wife and daughter. Back in the galley Thomas comments that Mrs. Bacher is more than just angry - she is downright evil.

We finally push the meal cart to the back of the aircraft. The inevitable has occurred - we have run out of meal choices. We only have a chicken meal. Thomas is on the side of the cart facing the Bachers.

'Hello Mrs. Bacher' he says in his most polite voice, 'we have a delicious chicken dish, but...'

Before having the chance to say any more, Mrs. Bacher rants and raves again. Thomas interrupts her vicious onslaught by saying he will make a quick phone call. Only a step away is my crew jump seat which has an interphone. Thomas picks it up.

'Hello, this is Thomas here; that's the first class galley? Look I know you are in the middle of your service, but can I come up soon and get a meal for one or two our passengers? Alright, I'll give it 20 minutes. Thank you, it's much appreciated.'

Thomas talked loud enough that Mrs. Bacher would have clearly heard the whole conversation. He would later tell me that he didn't call the galley at all. He made it all up. I must say he is a good actor. I believed him and Mrs. Bacher would have had no idea it was a ruse.

He put the phone down to face Mrs. Bacher.

Before he has the chance to talk she continues ranting about how long she has had to wait for a meal.

To Thomas's credit, he is very diplomatic.

'Some of the first class passengers have also yet to receive a meal, but I have contacted the first class galley and as soon as they've finished they have promised me access to whatever is available.'

'I'm not going to wait another 20 minutes' she barks.

Her husband is prepared to wait. Even the daughter is prepared to wait.

'I can offer you the chicken now or we can take our chances with the first class cuisine. It may well be chicken also, but it is first class cuisine - it is usually very good. It is your choice' says Thomas.

Mrs. Bacher reluctantly agrees to wait.

From the back galley Thomas rings the front galley - for real this time. By the way, this aircraft does not have first class, although Thomas used the words first class repeatedly. It is actually business class up the front. I could see what Thomas was trying to achieve. He is very convincing.

Business class do have some meals available, but only fish and one steak dish.

Ten minutes later Thomas goes up the front of the plane. He tells the crew to keep the steak for themselves, grabbing one of the fish dishes only. He takes two business class plates, putting vegetables on each. He carries all to the back galley to place the fish in a warm oven and the two plates of vegetables on the bench. He puts two of our leftover meals, being chicken, beside the plates.

He says to me 'You are quite creative Danielle, can you plate these up to look like a first class meal? I'll be back in a minute.'

I know what Thomas is talking about.

He goes to the Bacher family to explain that first class had one fish meal and two chicken meals available. He does not use the word: leftover.

Although Thomas asks the whole family, it is Mrs. Bacher who bellows 'I don't eat fish. Give me the chicken.'

The daughter talks next, taking the other chicken dish, the husband gratefully accepts the fish. Thomas is very happy with the ordering outcome.

I did a fairly good job in glamorizing the chicken meal; the extra vegetables helped. It could have passed for a first class meal, especially to someone who has never traveled first class before. Thomas is impressed. When returning to the galley after delivering the meals, he relays that the father said 'thank you' but the mother and the daughter said nothing. He notes that Mrs. Bacher snatched the meal out of his hand.

Just then, Thomas breaks into song - singing E.L.O's The Evil Woman.

every now and then I wish I was wrong

Apart from dealing with Mrs. Bacher, working on a cart with Thomas is fun. He has a devilish sense of humor. One of the passengers, in the aisle seat in our zone, has the worst comb-over hairstyle I have ever seen - although any comb-over looks pretty bad, I say. As passengers are seated and we are standing, we look straight down on people's heads, particularly those in aisle seats. We see some sights. Every time we approach 'the comb-over man' as we now call him, Thomas can barely hold in his laughter.

His face reddens, his cheeks swell; Thomas is so close to losing self-control. It is not just the eleven strands of hair which are dragged across this man's scalp and plastered down which threaten Thomas to giggle uncontrollably, it is that the comb-over man has something stuck under his hair. It looks like a large crumb of food. What it is and how it got there is the subject of heated (but good-natured) debate.

It is impossible not to stare. While collecting trays, Thomas leans over the man to remove the trays and rubbish from the passengers seated next to the comb-over man. Thomas is tall. He is in the prime position to look at the man's hair - and whatever it is stuck under the strands.

Thomas turns to me with tears in his eyes.

'Muffin or cake' he whispers. 'My money is on muffin. Now the question is: What flavor?'

The passengers would have no idea what we would be talking about, even if they heard the comment.

We collect the used trays from the Bachers. Not a morsel is left on their plates. Only Mr. Bacher says 'thank you.' It is what we expected.

With the cabin cleared, the lights are turned down, allowing the passengers to relax and recline their seats if they wish.

Within minutes of the lights being dimmed, there's a problem:

I mentioned that the back row of seats, where Mrs. Bacher sits, has the benefit of being able to recline the seat without someone accidentally (or deliberately) bumping or kicking the seat. The same can't be said for those in front of that back row. A passenger, a nice girl, has come to the galley to complain that when she reclined her seat the passenger behind started kicking the seat.

Her exact words are: Kicking AND screaming.

We know which passenger it is.

Now it is getting out of hand. It is bad enough that Mrs. Bacher is rude to the crew, but now she is upsetting passengers around her. That is unacceptable. Thomas and I have a point to prove, which will come undone if we read Mrs. Bacher the riot act, however we can't have her terrorizing other passengers. I come up with an alternative.

I talk to Rob. We have several spare seats in business class. Sitting down the back are a family of four, with both parents top-level frequent flyers and their children young adults I suggest we move the valued clientele to business class, freeing a whole row of seats down the back. The girl who had her seat kicked is travelling with two friends. They can move to the newly-vacant row with a seat spare - and, more importantly, be away from Mrs. Bacher. The Bachers are in a row of four, with another girl, travelling on her own, occupying the other aisle seat.

Regardless of my efforts to be nice to Mrs. Bacher, the girl in their row is first to be offered one of the now-vacated seats in the row in front. She gleefully accepts. I then tell the Bachers that they have extra room and if one of them would like to move forward, it is alright to do so. Mrs. Bacher sends her daughter, telling her to move along to the middle seat. This would be so when the seat was reclined it would not affect Mrs. Bacher. She might be evil and totally self-centered, yet she is smart.

Many of the passengers attempt to sleep. Some, including Mrs. Bacher, continue to watch movies. Thankfully nothing goes wrong with her entertainment system. We could only imagine the pandemonium she would inflict on us if she was bored.

Each time Thomas or I walk past the Bachers we ask if there is anything we can get them. Mrs. Bacher grunts and looks away. We gather that means 'no'. The daughter places her hand in the air, also not making eye contact. We gather that too means 'no'. Her husband has a few more glasses of wine. Who could blame him?

On long flights like this, the toilets become an integral component of the flight. They are used continually, so we are regularly checking, cleaning, and restocking. One of the mid-cabin toilets has a problem - appearing to be blocked. It is not flushing properly. We report it to Rob, who in turn informs the pilots. We block the toilet off. This means locking the door, which we are able to do from the outside. We then place an out-of-service tag on the door.

Thomas and I are in galley when a passenger tells us that there is water in the cabin. I race out to see a steady stream of water running from under the blocked-off toilet's door - making its way down the aisle - and already running past four or five rows of seats. Passengers begin standing up, including our comb-over man.

'Call Rob' I instruct Thomas as I unlatch the toilet door.

I discover the toilet overflowing and continuing to flush. The water, thank god, is clear. The toilet appears to be fully blocked and although earlier it would not flush, it now won't stop flushing. The excess water has nowhere to go but up and over the bowl - and then out into the cabin. As the plane flies with the nose slightly raised, this means all the water flows aft. There are no drains or plugs on aircraft toilet floors, so what overflows has to go somewhere.

Rob arrives while Thomas communicates with the captain. This is serious stuff. It might only be water, but we are on an aircraft at nearly 40,000 feet. As I said: Water has to go somewhere. Under us are electrical systems and god knows what else. Rob grabs as many nearby blankets as he can. He throws them on the toilet floor in an effort to soak up the water. With passengers beginning to realize the potential severity of the problem, they too hand over blankets.

'Is there a water shutoff valve?' I yell to Thomas, now communicating directly with the captain.

The best answer he can get is: 'Yes there would be, but we don't know where. It is one of the manuals if you can look it up.'

'Look it up in a manual?' I mutter while I am ankle deep in water, with more spilling over the bowl and onto the floor. 'Is he kidding me?'

I expected the captain would know how to shut off the toilet water. I guess he can't know every functioning apparatus on the aircraft. I've seen the zillion switches on the flight deck, I am amazed he knows what they are all about, but that doesn't help us now.

We haven't time to start reading manuals. I ask Rob to help me. We start ripping off panels from around the toilet, trying to locate a valve. We do; immediately shutting it off. The toilet keeps flushing. As the toilet is already full and there is water everywhere, it is difficult to ascertain if the water has stopped flowing.

We keep searching. Rob reaches behind the toilet to find a small panel. He pulls the panel out. There is a switch of sorts behind it. He flicks it and the toilet stops flushing.

Crisis averted.

I don't know of a plane that has crashed because of water malfunctions, but I do know of several which have had to land at the nearest available airport. In one case, the damage to the aircraft was such that the plane was out of service for over a week. That's big.

With our flight, we are in the middle of nowhere. Had the water problem not been solved, who knows what the outcome may have been. It is fixed, there is no time for what ifs and maybes, now we need to clean up the mess.

It takes some time to mop up all the water; there are no mops or giant sponges onboard. We use at least a dozen blankets, ringing them into the toilet's hand basin the best we can. There is a lot of water.

Over 20 passengers have wet carpet under their feet and now no blankets, although most are understanding, including the comb-over man. There are five spare seats in business class. Rob moves the worst affected passengers to those seats. The only other seats are right down the back - and we know who is sitting down there.

Rob decides to get as many business class blankets, amenity kits, pajamas, and socks as we can muster on the aircraft, handing them out to the most affected passengers. We are a few blankets short. In an ironic twist, I go to get the spare blankets from the vacant seats around Mrs. Bacher. She won't let me take them. I politely explained that we needed to use some passengers' blankets to mop up a spillage and those poor passengers were now without blankets.

'I don't care' was her reply.

I walk away toward the galley to also start singing ELO's The Evil Woman.

When no one is around, Thomas begins calling Mrs. Bacher a similar name beginning with F, understanding that Bacher is pronounced Bucker.

Undeterred, I have tolerated this woman for most of the flight - I won't let her get under my skin now.

I step up my niceness.

We do another full meal service before landing in Joburg. This time we reverse the service. This mean we start at the back; Mrs. Bacher is served first. Thomas is very chatty, explaining in intricate professional detail the full menu options. He receives a one word reply - no eye contact, no acknowledgement.

'There you go Mrs. Bacher. I hope you enjoy your meal. Bon appetit.'

She snaps the tray from Thomas's hands.

This woman has tested our tolerance - and more. To smile at someone we so obviously despise is no easy feat. I've already learned that Thomas is a great actor. Maybe I am too? Even so, our patience is worn thinner than one of the comb-over man's strands of hairs. We can't wait to arrive in Joburg.

It has been an arduous flight. We often work hardest when we are the most tired. With that extra meal service, which we postpone to the last minute so as to let passengers get maximum sleep, we are pushed for time to clear the cabin and prepare it for landing. The passengers are also more active, using toilets and readying themselves for landing. There are passengers in the cabin everywhere. We have difficulty moving around the cabin. In addition, we need to clear the galleys as well as the cabin.

There is one positive: We are kept so busy that Mrs. Bacher's rudeness plays second fiddle to other onboard issues, although every time I looked anywhere near her vicinity, I see her sour face. Her expression is still the same. They say it takes more muscles to frown than to smile. She must be exhausted.

Our comb-over man has slept and is now awake. Thomas points out that the comb-over man left his seat several times to visited the toilets, which have mirrors, and yet he still has the same crumb of muffin or cake under his strands of his hair. We are dumbfounded he cannot see it, but then again, he obviously can't - because if he could see the top of his head he would realize how ridiculous the comb-over looks in the first place.

The wheels touch down. I am seated just behind and off to the side of Mrs. Bacher. She has said nothing to me nor her family. Her expression is predictably the same. When the seatbelt sign is turned off, she gets her bag from the overhead locker in readiness to leave. I go out of my way to get her attention.

'Welcome to Johannesburg Mrs. Bacher. I know it was a long flight, but I trust we made it bearable for you.'

I had not rehearsed what I was going to say, yet I did it in a polite and professional manner. I was not sure if she was going to say anything. What she did say, I must admit, came as a shock:

'I cannot criticize the pilots because they got us here safely' she says loudly in her broad South African accent, 'but what happened in the cabin, well, that was ABSOLUTE NONSENSE.'

They say that 80% of communication is not what you say, it is how you say it. She said the absolute nonsense speech in such a way that would send shivers up the Devil's spine. Regardless of our motivation to treat her well, we did treat her and her family exceptionally well. She truly is an evil woman.

Thomas could hear Mrs. Bacher's loud voice, although all he heard was the absolute nonsense part. He does a much better South African accent than I, so it is he who tells the rest of the crew of her parting shot. Many of the crew dealt with her throughout the flight. She upset everyone; no exceptions. They initially laugh at Thomas's retelling of Mrs. Bacher's words, however that mood is quickly replaced by anger.

Trying to be nice to someone who doesn't deserve it tends to build up much hostility, particularly when we've had to deal with this woman for so many hours. I tell Thomas that a woman like that would have a whole life of 'absolute nonsenses'.

I can't recall not finding something positive in a person before.

Congratulations Mrs. Bacher - you're my first.

breakfast travel stories

Some of the crew, including Thomas and Franco, come to the hotel's bar for a drink. Most of us have just the one drink. We are shattered. As much as I like learning about crew's lives and discussing interesting subjects outside of flying, it is now time to vent. Mrs. Bacher is still the topic of conversation. Rarely does someone get under our skin with such intensity. There were over 400 other passengers on the flight and all, but Mrs. Bacher and her daughter, seemed lovely. It is such a shame the worst passengers take up so much of our time and are the ones we often remember most.

Thomas sings Evil Woman again, this time with an exaggerated South African accent. It must be hard to do, yet he does it so well. We are in giggling fits as we sing along with him. It is the pressure valve release we needed.

Franco confirms our trip to Soweto for the next day. Franco has befriended one of the employees at the hotel; a young man named Patrick. At only 22, Patrick is an African local, and according to Franco, he is a warm-hearted young man with an incredibly mature outlook on life. Although not an official hotel service, the hotel allows Patrick to finish work early so as he can drive Franco (and now me) to Soweto. Thoughts of Mrs. Bacher subside as spending a day in Soweto now occupies my thoughts.

I am the first to leave the bar, although the others insist they won't be far behind me. Thomas is playing golf with one of our pilots early the next morning and Franco, like me, is resigned to waking up in the early hours of the morning. I know I will wake up at 2.15 a.m. I will probably see the boys at breakfast. The buffet opens at 6.30. I have a feeling I'll be there at 06.31.

I sit up with a jolt. The room is pitch-black except for the glow from the bedside clock: 2.17 a.m. I chuckle to myself as I am two minutes out with my waking prediction.

I am constantly baffled that I wake up at (roughly) the same time regardless of what continent I may be in. There are no correlations between African and North or even South American time, yet I wake at the same time. Forget the Bermuda Triangle - this is my mystery.

I have over four hours of contemplation before the breakfast buffet is open. South African television in the early hours of the morning is not exactly must-see TV, so I turn on my computer. People often ask me: When do you get time to write?

Now you know.

My lifestyle and job may appear hectic, it is, but I do get plenty of time to myself. For every hour I spend in the air, I get at least three times as much at the destination. Of course there is jetlag, sleep-time, and general recovery time, but if you look at pure statistics, we flight attendants get far more time to ourselves than the average workers.

Even when I am at work I often get time to write. We do get breaks on the aircraft. The longer the flight, the longer the breaks. I rarely sleep on a plane. That is not by choice, it is just me. If someone could give me a magic trick to sleep, without taking a pill (we are not allowed to take sleeping pills while at work), I would gladly try to put it into practice. Nobody has come forth, so I use my 'awake' time wisely.

During my breaks, I'll often type away if it is practical to do so. I love writing on the plane. It is ironic being on a plane and writing about about incidences which have only just occurred.

I am not a note-taker. These days I can type quicker than I can write, so writing about incidences when they have only just happened is the best way for me. I am fortunate to have a pretty good memory, so it is not always imperative to write immediately. I once joked that when I was a little girl I had a fairy godmother. She granted me one wish: Later in life I could either be extremely wealthy OR I could have a good memory. Sadly I can remember which one I chose.

Not only do I write at work, I am regularly traveling around in my own time - and I always have my computer handy. It has been so long since I watched a movie or read a book while traveling. I find it the perfect time to unwind and type. For me, writing is not a choir.

At work we are often affected by flight delays. It goes hand-in-hand with airline travel. There are so many variables: weather, mechanical hiccups, crewing issues, airport and security matters, computer and airline glitches, air traffic congestion, and the list goes on. Anyone who thinks every airline and flight will achieve 100% on-time departures and arrivals is dreaming.

In my years of flying I've spent countless hours hanging about airport lounges. When a flight is delayed and the rest of the crew are grumbling; I grab a latte, turn on my computer, and type frantically. I love it. There is no such thing as a wasted moment when you are passionate about something.

We travel by bus to and from the crew hotels we stay. Airports are never in the city center. We don't always stay in the prime locations, yet most of the destinations involve sizable travel time, by bus, to and from the airports, often between 30 minutes and an hour - sometimes longer. Most of the cities are large, with traffic congestion and delays. On a recent trip, I was away for a week, worked to three destinations, and I spent eight hours on buses. International airline crew spend more time in buses, yearly, than most would spend in their car.

What did I do in those eight hours?

I typed.

After a long day's work, most of the crew nod off or listen to music on each bus journey to our hotel. I type, finding it the perfect time to reflect on the day's events - or to forget about them (depending on what sort of day it was).

When away on trips, for me, the best time to write is at 2.15 in the morning. I often wonder what other crew do in the early hours of the morning when there is little else to do. I know some go to the gym, some watch TV, and some must stare at the walls. It pays to have a hobby in this job. I have a few, but tapping away at the computer keys is one of my favorites.

Most crew have some sort of hobby or activity they are able to do while away. Some are into photography, some read, others study, and some run businesses. Thomas mentioned he has an investment company, coming from a business background before he joined the airline 16 years ago. He has continued to do both. Many do.

Thomas said something very funny onboard. I told him I do my best thinking in the early hours of the morning. He said he does most of his thinking while waiting at traffic lights.

He said with a smile 'Mostly I think that I really should buy a car.'

I laughed. I love a great sense of humor. I am not the best joke teller, but am not bad at remembering jokes - the good ones.

I keep typing away: 2.17 quickly becomes 6.17.

The breakfast buffet is open. Almost every hotel I've stayed has a buffet breakfast of some description. Most are exceptional. This one in Joburg certainly is. With that said, I try to avoid buffets. I, like most, tend to eat way too much when it is all laid out in front of me. Showing restraint is often difficult.

'I'll go to the gym after breakfast' I justify to myself as I enter the buffet area.

When I see all the lovely food, I mutter 'I'll definitely go to the gym - maybe for an hour.'

Not surprisingly, some of my crew are already seated - and indulging. Franco and Thomas are at a table with one of the pilots, Ian. They wave me over to join them.

I delay the impending food-fest by having a latte. I have the chance to peruse some of the buffet choices by looking at the plates of the three boys. Meat is piled high. From my experience African buffets are a vegetarian's worst nightmare. I must say that the sausages look delicious.

After this impending feasting indulgence, I'll go to the gym for an hour and a half.

Thomas and Ian are playing golf straight after breakfast. I listen as they talk excitedly about how good the golf courses are in South Africa. By the sounds of it, they have played plenty. Mrs. Bacher becomes part of the breakfast conversation. Thomas admits he has a fiery temper on the golf course. Swear words accompany every poor shot - and he confesses there are many.

'Swear words or bad shots?' I ask.

'Both' he reveals. 'But do you know what Danielle, today I won't swear, not once. Instead of the customary profanities, I will replace my favorite swear word with: Bacher.'

He repeats Bacher repeatedly, remembering it is pronounced Bucker in South African. Thomas's accent is perfect. He says it with such anger. Jerry Seinfeld's nemesis was Newman. Every time Jerry saw him, he would grit his teeth to say 'Newman'. Thomas's rendition of 'Bacher' is similar - and the more he says it, the more he likes it.

'Bacher is such a great swear word' he reveals cheekily, 'it is like a cross between bugger and f...'

'Yes, I know what you mean' I interrupt as another latte is delivered.

I have no doubt the word Bacher will become ingrained in his vocabulary.

Franco eats his third sausage; these are not petite hotdogs, each should come with their own postcode. Franco also declares he will be going to the gym. I also grab a sausage - I'll be at the gym for two hours.

We are not leaving for Soweto until almost lunchtime, so we have time to enjoy breakfast, as well as the gym. Franco no longer refers to it as breakfast; he now calls it grazing.

When Thomas and Ian leave to hit golf balls, I chat one-on-one with Franco. He really is an interesting fellow. He and his partner travel extensively in their own time, visiting out-of-the-way destinations like Greenland, the Himalayas, and parts of Africa not on most tourist maps. He shares photos on his computer tablet. I am spellbound by his stories as well as the spectacular photos. Several lattes later - and a whole lot of grazing - I hear all about his last adventure - to Greenland. I am certain Franco has enjoyed reliving his trip as much as I've enjoyed listening.

I thought I was well-travelled, yet my exploits can't compare to Franco's. I listen with fascination, encouraging him to tell more.

You would think most flight attendants would be passionate about travel. It is not necessarily so. The last thing many crew want to do in their spare time is jump on another aircraft. Some, however, love to travel. Franco enjoys going to less populated areas. I am a bit like Franco, with a preference for staying away from big commercial cities. We fly to many anyway. Some have magnificent natural beauty. I love water, so cities like San Francisco, Hong Kong, Vancouver, Venice, Rio, Cape Town, Sydney, and a number of European cities set on iconic rivers are my favorites for landscapes. In my own time I prefer to go to smaller out-of-the-way places. Some are near big cities, so I am often able to visit those while on a layover, but most of my adventures are on holidays or on days off work. Even so, I am envious of Franco's exploits.

It takes a lot of planning, time, and money to travel, particularly getting to hard-to-reach destinations. Franco and his partner are fortunate to have the job they have, with access to cheap travel, as well as no real financial or family burdens. It still takes effort and courage.

Greenland sounds and looks amazing. I encourage Franco to show me more photos.

I expected Greenland, not to be green, like the name suggests, but to be all white. Most of it is in the Arctic Circle. I thought snow would be everywhere, all year round. Franco was there in the summer; from the photos I see he is dressed in standard hiking gear. It doesn't appear to be that cold. Some of the mountain ranges are spectacular - and I even see green (in the photo that is, but I am also green with envy). One photo takes my breath away. Franco and his partner are sitting in a natural pool of water. He tells me it is a natural hot spring, one of many in Greenland.

'It was the perfect bath temperature' Franco relays with a smile.

In the photo, behind the hot spring, is a blue water bay with magnificent mountains in the background. I could not see any snow in the shot, only flowers, green grass, and rocky outcrops; yet in the bay's water are dozens of icebergs. It just goes to show how cold the ocean water must be.

'Did you dip your toes in there?' I ask pointing toward the water near one of the icebergs.

'Not on your life' he replies.

Franco is the sort of guy who is able to talk with most people. He is interesting as well as interested. He is definitely a people-person. His sexual preference is men, yet he likes everyone. Most would not immediately pick him for being gay. I did, but I couldn't care less about his, or anyone else's sexuality for that matter. Franco is a really good guy. He cares about people; that's what our expedition into Soweto is all about. I am looking forward to spending the day with him.

Just as I am finishing my second sausage - while contemplating that two hours in the gym might not be enough - in walks a well-dressed, handsome young black man.

'Patrick' yells Franco beckoning the young man to come over.

Franco knows Patrick well; their familiarity evident. Franco is genuinely excited to introduce Patrick to me, with Franco glowing in his descriptions of me. Although flattered, I am focused on meeting Patrick. What an impressive young man he is; beautifully spoken and attentive. He speaks only when spoken to, with a maturity belying his years. He stays only a short while as he has work to do. We shall see him in a few hours anyhow. I'm looking forward to it.

After Patrick leaves, Franco tells of Patrick's desire to learn - to give back to his community. Patrick is well-educated, yet aware of those less-fortunate than himself. He and Franco have been to Soweto many times. The color of Patrick's skin does not necessarily mean he is accustomed to life in a shanty town. In reality, Franco has spent more time in slums than Patrick. Until recent times Patrick had not been inside a shanty town. He'd heard stories, but was sheltered. Both men do this charity work for the right reasons. I am impressed and humbled.

children's rights

I meet Franco and Patrick in the hotel's foyer at 11:30. Franco and I had a great workout in the gym. I was a little askew with my two hour workout promise. I often am; even so, the one hour spent in the gym was intense. The big breakfast was the ying and the workout the yang. Balance is important in this lifestyle.

We jump in Patrick's modest little car. In the spirit of sharing, Patrick is giving a lift to another coworker, a cleaner, who lives in or near Soweto. She is from a family of eight. I ask questions about her family and home life. She is a lovely young lady, quite shy, yet friendly. She explains that she doesn't actually live in Soweto, referring to her home as 'just outside Soweto.' After we drop her off I note the location. It was a shanty town, not overly far from where we end up driving to. There appears to be no distinct boundaries. I am sure it is part of Soweto. I have the feeling she is embarrassed to acknowledge she actually lived there.

Being self-conscious of the location you live is a common trait. I hear so many people, when asked where they live, mention a nearby, more well-known locality. It is always a better suburb cited, never an inferior one. I guess some traits are consistent around the world, even here in South Africa.

It must be surreal for this young lady to live in such simple accommodation, yet go to work at a five star hotel. She should not be ashamed, yet obviously is. By the way, our hotel is listed as five star - and I know I am going to sound like a snob - but, compared to many other hotels we stay, it is not that luxurious. This is based on my perspective as a global traveler, comparing apples with apples. Running down a five-star hotel when we are about to drive into one of the poorest communities on the planet is probably not wise. The car is getting closer to the heart of Soweto.

We drive into where the kindergarten is. When I say 'drive in', it is more like a cross-country adventure. There are no sealed roads with pristine curbing and channeling, it is a pot-holed dirt laneway only a few paces wide which takes us close to the kindergarten.

There is only one other vehicle in the lane - and I use the word vehicle loosely. It is a van of sorts, held together by rust. Patrick explains the van is like a local taxi, where a dozen or more people pile in and pay a small fee to be dropped off somewhere. The vehicle is not roadworthy and unregistered. My slippers have more tread than the tires; all tires being different, not just brands, but sizes. I am guessing the driver would be unlicensed also. It does not seem to matter here.

Trying to describe a shanty town to someone who hasn't been is not easy. It is a collection of residences made out of whatever they could get their hands on at the time: tin, timber, mud bricks, old tires, chicken wire - anything. They say one man's rubbish is another man's treasure - or in this case: one man's rubbish is another man's home.

There is no power, no running water, and no sewerage. There are communal toilets shared by a group of homes. How do they get rid of the waste, I wonder? I don't ask; it is probably best not to know.

The kindergarten is constructed similarly to the surrounding shanties, featuring several small buildings around a central playground. Again, the word playground might be misleading. The playground area is tiny, each building is tiny - everything is tiny. Around 30 children cram into an area equivalent in size to my apartment's bathroom. The walls are not lined. The building looks ready to fall down. The materials thrown together to make the building are now covered in paint, making the building look better than it actually is. No amount of paint can hide the fact that everything is crooked, uneven, and seemingly just thrown together. The walls lean and the pieces of tin which form the roof are held down by old tires and rubbish. Even so, it appears to be waterproof.

The floors are compacted dirt, but kept clean. The playground is also dirt.

Before I talk about the kids, being the most important thing, I want to share a list displayed prominently on the wall in the main 'classroom'. It is entitled: CHILDREN'S RIGHTS.

I took a photo of the list, having tears in my eyes when I read it. I will repeat that list, although it was handwritten (poorly), inclusive of many spelling and grammatical errors. I've interpreted it as best I could (and spellcheck has fixed many of the errors).

This is what it said:

CHILDREN'S RIGHTS AND RESPONSIBILITIES

1. I have the right to be taken seriously and the responsibility to listen to others.

2. I have the right to privacy and the responsibility to respect others privacy.

3. I have the right to quality medical care and the responsibility to take care of myself.

4. I have the right to a good education and the responsibility to study and respect the teachers

5. I have the right to be loved and protected from harm

6. I have the right to own my own belongings and the responsibility to respect the belongings of others.

7. I have the right to special care for special needs and the responsibility to be the best person I can be.

8. I have the right to have a say in my own care and any changes to my care and must take responsibility for my own actions.

9. I have the right to make mistakes and the responsibility to learn from those mistakes.

10. I have the right to be well fed and the responsibility not to waste food.

11. I have the right to a comfortable home and the responsibility to keep it neat and clean.

12. I have the right to be proud of my heritage and beliefs and the responsibility to respect others.

13. I have the right to be told house rules and the responsibility to keep truthful.

14. I have a right to a lawyer in a courtroom and the responsibility to be truthful.

15. I am a real person and have the right to be treated with respect and dignity and a responsibility to treat others with respect and dignity.

It is my observation that many of the basic human rights these kids have been asked to stand up and demand are taken for granted in most parts of the world.

As for the kids - wow - they are so beautiful. They are happy, outgoing, and respectful. Many have not seen someone like myself. I am a novelty. The children have a sense that their kindergarten is run with funds and assistance from people like myself, yet they are just kids. We may look and dress differently, but they know Franco and I are not threatening. They know we are there to help. The kids are overwhelmingly friendly, wanting to hold my hand, and to be my pal. I am in awe.

Franco is absolutely fantastic with the kids. There is a special warmth he exudes; genuine and enthusiastic. He dances, sings, and interacts with every child. His smile is as infectious as the kids'.

Patrick has stayed outside the kindergarten room. I don't think it because he is shy or doesn't want to interact with children; I think it is because he doesn't want to interfere with Franco and my time with the kids. I see Patrick watching and smiling. I invite him in. He respectfully declines.

The woman who runs the program has a son, around 20 or 21, who has come to meet Franco and myself. Patrick talks with the young man before he enters the crowded kindergarten room. I find the son a little brazen; untrustworthy. He appears more interested in the goods we bought than our intentions of spending time with the children. The young man claims he has met Franco once before, but Franco fails to recall the specifics of the meeting; a fact which concerns Franco.

We spend several hours with the children - singing songs, reading books, and interacting. I've been to countries where the kids suffer malnutrition. That is heartbreaking. These kids all appear healthy. That is something.

The children are mesmerized by the toys we bought. The toys will stay at the kindergarten, we hope. The clothes, including sheets and adults clothing, are given to local tailors. They will use the material to make an array of clothing and bedding items. I am sure some will be sold, but at least the money will come back to the community. When you donate things it is difficult to control what happens with the items after they are dropped off. In this instance we have the opportunity to hand the toys directly to the children. The looks of appreciation on their little faces are priceless.

Voltaire once wrote: Appreciation is a wonderful thing. It makes what is excellent in others belong to us as well.

don't lose sight of the bigger picture

We leave the kindergarten late in the afternoon, after the last of the children have left. Some of the kids are picked up by a parent or a relative, but most walk unaccompanied back to their respective homes. Remember that some of these kids are as young as five. Outside of kindergarten I would imagine they would spend most of their lives unsupervised. I would later see many of the kindergarten children, as well as even other younger kids, playing in the laneway behind the kindergarten. I never saw a toy or even a ball. The kids just played amongst themselves.

Most of the kids I know, back home, can't even keep entertained while their IPad or other electronic gadgets are being recharged.

The son of the kindergarten coordinator tries to convince us to have a beer with him. It is an odd request. We are here to help the children, not to party. He is insistent. Patrick is hesitant, being a non-drinker, but Franco and I finally agree to have one drink with him. The young man's English is not very good, so understanding him is difficult. When he insists on a beer we thought it might be from an outside vendor or even in the young man's home. He takes us to a bar - of sorts.

We are led through a series of internal corridors lined with people drinking. The walls are unpainted tin, timber, and iron - I think. It is so dark that I can barely distinguish anything. I feel very uncomfortable, as too does Patrick. We come to a dead-end. A barred gate is closed and locked. I look through the bars; the lighting so dim it is difficult to ascertain what and who are in the room or rooms behind the bars.

A man comes to the gate, but does not open it. He takes a drink order through the bars from our young man, who turns to ask for money for the beers. I hand over enough Rand to well and truly cover drinks for everyone: three beers and a Coca-Cola for Patrick. The man behind the locked gate returns with the three beers and the change. Although it is almost pitch black dark, I watch the proceedings like a hawk. The young man hands a beer to Franco and then me, before handing me the change. I saw him slip some of the money into his pocket before giving the remainder of the change to me. It is not a lot of money, but it makes me nervous.

'Where's Patrick's Coca-Cola?' asks Franco.

The young man forgot to order it, holding out his hand for more money.

This time Franco hands over the money. When the drink and the change is handed back I again see the young man slip some notes into his pocket. He deliberately didn't order the Coke so he could fleece more money from the change given.

I want to get out of there; so too Franco and Patrick. With the young man stepping away from the barred gate, I take a closer look behind the scenes as my eyes have adjusted somewhat to the darkness. It looks as though people are gambling. As we prepare to step away, a fight breaks out. A body is flung against the bars. With drinks in hand, we run.

I saw no evidence of electricity anywhere in 'the bar' area, yet the drinks were icy cold. Whether they had a generator to run a fridge or somehow bought in ice, I don't know. I was just glad to get the hell out of there.

I did not draw attention to the young man taking some of our change. I would be surprised if Franco or Patrick did not notice what was going on. In the scheme of things the money was barely enough, combined, to buy one cup of coffee. We can only imagine the life this young man has. He sees us, being outrageously wealthy through his eyes, come into the slum for a few hours and think we are going to change the world.

I don't agree with what he did, but can understand his motives.

As we prepare to leave Soweto I notice a man selling carved rock sculptures, being small representations of African animals. He has a tiny foldable card table with only six or seven sculptures. I have seen hundreds, if not thousands, of these type of souvenirs at markets throughout Africa. What makes this different is the vendor tells that these sculptures were hand-carved locally, right here in Soweto.

I ask who the sculpture is. I am told it is a woman who lives only a short walk away. I buy the largest and most intricate piece, a rhino, and insist we meet the sculpture of this artwork. The directions to her home are simple. We can see it down the laneway, almost opposite the kindergarten. Franco, Patrick, and I go to the woman's home. She is very old, only having several teeth, and she cannot speak any English. Patrick cannot understand her either.

I show her the rhino statue I had just bought. She smiles. I slip her some money. She invites us into her home. I thought she might show me the machine or tools she used to sculpt. I could not see anything.

Communication is an issue, but I smile to politely follow her around her dilapidated tiny home. It is more crooked than the kindergarten and much smaller. There is a little paint on the walls, but not much. It is as if whoever started painting it ran out of paint. I cannot see how this shanty is waterproof as I can see daylight through the cracks in the walls. I have seen larger and more comfortable doghouses than this. Even so, she is proud to show us her humble abode.

We thank the lady for showing us around her home, slipping her some more money. I am confident she is not a sculpture artist at all. I think the man who sold me the rhino palmed me off to the first person he could think of. She was probably a relative. Even so, she was generous to allow us into her home and the money I gave her will certainly help her life. I also have a beautiful souvenir - plus a story to tell.

We leave Soweto on sunset. The red hues of the sun glisten off the assorted garbage and rubble holding down many of the roofs. It should not be a pretty sight, yet it is. African sunsets are spectacular no matter where.

Earlier I'd suggested to Franco if we could take Patrick to dinner. Franco thought it a good idea. Patrick devoted most of the day to us, getting nothing financially from the day, although Franco had slipped him some money to pay for the car's fuel. Patrick is not from Soweto, having no family there. Like us, he considers himself fortunate. He is giving something back. He is also a student of life. He knows Franco and I travel the world, often seeing things he could not fathom. He is quiet and respectful, yet asks questions from time to time. They are fantastic questions. I love being asked smart questions. He is a shrewd young man going places. He is happy to come to dinner with us, suggesting going to downtown Joburg.

I have only been to downtown Johannesburg on a tour bus. It has an unsavory reputation, but according to Patrick it is improving. The government is making a concerted effort to encourage businesses and locals back to the area. Patrick tells of a very good steak restaurant. South Africa does brilliant steaks. Franco and I instantly say 'yes'.

The restaurant is buzzing. Franco and I are the only non-Africans. We attract a few glances, but not unwelcoming stares. I feel quite safe and the atmosphere is fantastic.

We are lucky to get seats. The restaurant is similar to an American diner in its setup, with booths as well as tables. We get the last available booth, ordering steaks all round.

I've chatted with Patrick throughout the day, finding him highly intelligent, thoughtful, and astute. I am as keen to learn from him as he is to learn from me. Very few 22 year-olds have impressed me as much as he. Only a few weeks ago I spent time with Helen's niece Holly. She is the same age as Patrick, yet they are worlds apart - and not just geographically. Holly has all the materialistic things the modern world can provide, but lacks awareness of others. Her life stops and finishes within her own little world. Patrick has little material luxuries, yet has his eyes wide open. He searches, he learns, and he grabs life with both hands.

Patrick is destined to be a great man.

chase down your passion like it is the last bus of the night

I sit up with a jolt. The room is pitch-black except for the glow from the bedside clock: 2.15 a.m. I chuckle out loud - this time it is 2.15 exactly. I may have had only four or five hours sleep, yet I feel refreshed, fulfilled. I have achieved something. Yesterday was a huge day, but memorable. Franco and I sat with Patrick for several hours at the restaurant. We were exceptionally tired, yet sometimes exhaustion must take a backseat to great conversation. Patrick talked of his goals, his dreams, his vision was to help others. This was not rhetoric, he was totally selfless in his motivation. I was so impressed. His words will stay with me.

After Patrick dropped Franco and me back to the hotel, I went straight to my room. I fell asleep within seconds of my head hitting the pillow.

2.15 in the morning is a great time to reflect on the day in Soweto. At times it is a surreal life I lead: one day on a beach in Hawaii, a few days later knee deep in snow in northern Europe, and days later waking up in a five star hotel in Africa to travel to one of the poorest shanty towns on the planet. It can be daunting.

I see the best and worst of humanity - and it is not always about money or the lack of it. I've come to realize that attitude is more important. I went into Soweto learning to look beyond the dilapidated shanties - beyond the dirt floors, beyond the poverty. The smiling faces of the children is the most memorable imprint. These kids have next-to-nothing, yet they are happy. They expect little and appreciate everything. I can't help but look at someone like Mrs. Bacher to realize she is the opposite. She expects everything and appreciates little.

It angers me that the likes of Mrs. Bacher would carry on about things so petty. It makes me want to be a better person, to disregard the unimportant. Next time I get agitated because the girl at the coffee shop gave me a cappuccino instead of a latte I'll brush it off as an honest mistake, next time a passenger touches me to get my attention I'll become less distressed, next time I serve the likes of Mrs. Bacher or work with a Wendy I'll stop to take a deep breath and then put things into perspective.

I have a privileged life. Most I know do. I am fortunate to travel extensively, having the opportunities to see the many faces of humanity. The more I see, the more I comprehend.

A day with learning is a day well spent.

Recently I read an article about a supermodel. As I read I thought how lucky she was; perfect skin, perfect body, a perfect smile on a perfect face, but was it a perfect life? In her eyes she did not have a good life at all - and most of her gripes were about her own appearance, lamenting about how many physical faults she had. It came across just how unhappy this girl was. I thought: if a supermodel is not happy with the way she looks, then what hope is there for the rest of us?

There will always be aspects of life we are not content with, yet all of us, even the supermodel, have facets we enjoy and embrace. I, for one, am so happy with my lot in life. Being a hostie doesn't define who I am or how I live my life, but it is a lifestyle enabling opportunities I might never have had the chance to explore. I've also met the most incredible people. That I am grateful for.

Over the years I've had so many people ask for advice on how to become a flight attendant. Rarely am I asked: What is it really like to be a flight attendant? There is a definitive difference. Most want to hear about the cafes in Paris, the bars in New York, or the shopping in Hong Kong. Few wish to hear about cleaning toilets, mopping up vomit, or waking up at 2.15 in the morning so jetlagged and disorientated you have no idea where you are.

I try to paint a balanced insight into the job and lifestyle. It would be dull to write about flights with no incidences or events, although there are plenty of trips where little happens. Not every flight has someone arrested or a medical emergency (thank goodness). I talk with many other flight attendants from an array of airlines. Many have had similar experiences to myself, some have not. Even my friends in my own airline have differing experiences on flights to me. My friend Mary-go-round was on three separate flights where a passenger had passed away. I recently flew with a senior guy who'd had nine deaths onboard during his flying career. I have never had a death onboard (touch wood), although I've been involved in treating several major medical emergencies.

Mary has never had a passenger handcuffed on any of her flights, yet I've had three flights where this has occurred. Just as some flight attendants perceptions of the job may be different to my own, so too is what can, and does, happen onboard.

It is tough giving advice to those wanting to be a flight attendant, especially internationally. Everyone has different expectations, different objectives. What suits one may not be right for another.

What I can say with certainty is: Whatever you want to be, don't choose a profession - choose a passion. Never ever underestimate the value of loving what you do.

If that passion is becoming an international flight attendant, accepting the good with the bad, then 'go for it'. I have no regrets.

I hope Helen's niece Holly one day gets the opportunity to live the hostie lifestyle. I don't think she is ready right now. She would fail to see past the five-star hotels and the glittering signs on the shops near those hotels. She would fail to see the genuinely nice passengers onboard. She would fail to look outside her own little world. Maturity and experience may change her mindset. I hope so.

As I mature I actually appreciate my job and lifestyle more.

There are so many cliques I can think of: You can't put an old head on young shoulders. You can only get experience from experience... you know what I mean. It is true though. I had some of the wildest partying times when I was 22 and, although those days are fewer and further between, I now appreciate the good times so much more.

My recent trip with Kathy, with her 40 years of flying and still-loving-it-attitude, has shown me that the positive aspects of the flight attendant lifestyle far outweigh the negative.

Abraham Lincoln once said: In the end, it's not the years of life that count, but the life in your years.

I love life, I love my job. I have lots of life in my years.

I am just about to press my uniform and apply make-up in readiness for 14 hours inside an aluminum tube. There'll be demanding passengers, screaming babies, those complaining about not getting a meal choice; there might even be a Mrs. Bacher-type onboard. I'll take it all in my stride. For every passenger who upsets all and sundry there'll be dozens of lovely passengers; those who sit there quietly, don't complain without justifiable provocation, smile when spoken to, are attentive to the menu selections or safety instructions, are aware of others around them, and understand the pros and cons of airline travel.

I am sure you are one of those lovely people.

Next time you jump on a plane I hope the friendly face of the flight attendant is mine.

I'll look forward to seeing you onboard.

Safe and happy travels

Danielle Hugh

THE END

DISCLAIMER

The episodes featured in this book describe my experiences working as an international flight attendant. Although the stories are true, to protect confidentiality some events are not in sequence, character names have been changed, and only generic information about airlines and hotels are given. I have avoided revealing any information that could put any colleagues, or myself, at risk. I love my profession, not desiring to jeopardize my job, my friends, my fellow workers, or my employer.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Danielle Hugh has over 20 years of globetrotting around the world as an international flight attendant, with no plans of easing off just yet.

"If you stand still too long you collect dust" said Danielle's grandmother.

Danielle tells of having the most amazing grandmothers: "One of my grandmothers had little education, yet was highly intelligent, compassionate, feisty, and forthright. My other grandmother was university educated, astute, articulate, and loved to travel. In an era where global traveling was expensive and problematic, she did some astonishing trips. I guess I know where my spirit of adventure comes from. Sadly I lost both grandmothers just before joining the airline over 20 years ago, but I carry their memory with me. This book is dedicated to them.

Danielle is a keen observer of people and situations - loving observational humor. A natural progression is to write about her experiences, trying to see the funnier side of life.

She describes writing the 'Confessions of a Flight Attendant' series as "an absolute joy. When a flight is delayed and the rest of the crew are grumbling; I grab a latte, turn on my computer, and type frantically. I love it. There is no such thing as a wasted moment when you are passionate about something."

Danielle's passion for her job, lifestyle, and writing is obvious... a lot more writing is to come...

ALSO AVAILABLE (or coming soon)

The original 'Confessions of a Hostie - True Stories of an International Flight Attendant' and the sequel 'More Confessions of a Hostie - The Second Sector' are offered for download from all the usual eBook retailing outlets.

There is also a quick link (including a short video/trailer) through her webpage: www.confessionsofahostie.com

Also available under the 'Confessions of a Hostie' titles are a range of shorter '99 cent (U.S)' eBooks: 'Airline Travel Tips', 'A Shopper's Guide to the USA', and 'A Shopper's Guide to Asia'.

'Confessions of a Hostie - Airline Travel Tips' is a must guide for all airline travelers, and anyone who likes shopping will gain some handy tips with 'A Shopper's Guide to the USA', and 'A Shopper's Guide to Asia'. Each is an easy breezy read.

Danielle's first foray into fiction novel/romance writing should be available shortly (or now) through most eBook retailers. Entitled 'Love is in the Air - A Romantic Comedy' this book is an amusing tale in the vein of a Julia Roberts-type rom-com. The story is not explicitly about flying or flight attendants, however, one of the lead characters works as a domestic flight attendant. There are some very funny onboard moments shared, yet it is essentially a beautiful love story... with some hilarious twists.

Danielle's newest book should be available through most eBook retailers from early 2015, including Smashwords: www.smashwords.com .

Danielle would love your comments and can be contacted through Facebook: www.facebook.com/Confessionsofahostie or Email: danielleh5678@live.com

Table of Contents

introduction

sleep is at the top of my list of places I'd like to go back to

the party is smokin'

the bigger the fool, the harder they fall

how does the floor taste?

now listen here...

for some, knowledge comes and goes, but wisdom lasts forever

zoo stories

not all alarms are false

changing times

don't expect a gold watch and lavish send off

when you want something bad enough...

knowledge may be having the right answers; but intelligence is asking the right questions

knowledge is knowing tomatoes are a fruit, but wisdom is not putting them in a fruit salad

a positive attitude

those who can laugh at themselves never cease to be amused

sometimes sleep can come at a cost

digging a hole for yourself

some are accidentally more foolish than others

in the eye of the storm

sometimes you are too busy to contemplate just how busy you really are

hop to it

anger can be a cowardly extension of one's own bitterness

kill them with kindness

every now and then I wish I was wrong

breakfast travel stories

children's rights

don't lose sight of the bigger picture

chase down your passion like it is the last bus of the night