A hands-free masterpiece

Less than an hour prior to our approach into Sydney's Interational Airport, the call light illuminates. I drop my task on hand and peer at the call light indicator. 11A. Mrs. Williams has finally risen after a night of rest. A tall brunette in her late-thirties, she stands with her hands up, her duvet disorderly crumpled along the side of her still-fully-deployed flat bed. Her hands are red, the color of a terrible rash; her seat tinted with a faint crimson against the teal color of the fabric; her face twisted in agony. That cannot be blood... can it? 

"How... may I help you Mrs. Williams?" I ask apprehensively as her previously friendly and courteous disposition seems to have faded in the face of distress. She spins around in her shapeless sweater and unflattering beige track pants. Well, at least they used to be beige.

"Oh..." I murmur as I take in the unsightly view of the derriere, furrowing my brows at the same time. Her whole backside is now smeared and covered in red streaks, strokes, and haphazard blotches.  

- "I woke up and then I noticed this..." still dumbfounded, she shrieks, "there must be a crayon or something in my seat!"

Kids at play in Darling Quarter's new playground

So through the many hours of twists and turns in the warmth of her duvet, a stray red crayon left over by a faceless kid on a previous flight that eschewed the aircraft cleaners has been diligently working a masterpiece right on the contours of her arse.

It reminds me of Charlotte of Sex and the City 2, who melts down after her daughter playfully smacks two huge wet red handprints on her buttocks (a white, probably Valentino, pencil skirt that she sashays in around the kitchen, baking cupcakes). So it's not Valentino that Mrs. Williams is concerned of here. It is the prospects of her humiliation sashaying around the baggage claim area and the city with a red Down Under that appears as though her own child has taken revenge on her in her sleep.

Sure enough, I find chunks of red crayon in the seams of Mrs. Williams' seat. 

- "Do you guys have sleeper suits or something that I can change into?!" She grumbles. We unfortunately do not. Apologies given, we offer to wipe her track pants down with soda water as best as we can while she hides in the lavatory and offer laundry compensation.

Fresh ideas for a kiddie prank anyone?

[Any thought or comments? Share with me!] 

How far can the "extra mile" go?

A decently dressed Caucasian woman stands inside the lavatory with the door wide open, gazing blankly at the toilet bowl. At the busiest peak of our meal service, a colleague of mine nominates me to go check up on her. What can it be, and how is it that a guy assists a woman in the loo? 

- "I... dropped my phone into the toilet," the lady utters. She almost seems too composed for a tragedy of this sort.
-"Oh no," I immediately react empathetically, "I hope it's not an iPhone!" I later thought that was one of the most stupid remarks I have ever made. Any mobile phone dropped in a john deems a tragedy, albeit a comical one.
I peek into the gaping black hole for any signs of her device. Wow... that is a huge serving of urine, lady. A gallon, maybe. But no phone is in sight. Embarrassed, we both stare helplessly at the pool of still liquid, she still in disbelief of her loss and I wondering to what extent "going the extra mile" extends.

Truth is, the phone has already slipped through the throat of abyss, and chances of retrieval is near zero. In situations like this, is my role one to put up a heroic show of rescue, or one to provide emotional support while delivering the bad news? Failing to think of anything more comforting to say, I choose to be the bearer of bad news, like surgeons who could not resuscitate a dying patient. "I'm afraid it's not very likely that we could fish the phone out as it's a huge vaccuum tank underneath..." The lady grimaces at the image of her cellular buried in a pit of feces.

-"Do you think that the phone will still work even if I get it back?" Good call, and we all know the answer. "Is there anything that we can use to see if it's in there? Something... long? " Well, for reassurance purposes it doesn't hurt to at least try. I dash to the galley to fetch a foot-long plastic stick - but here's the catch - will I have to get down and dirty, or is this completely out of my scope of responsibility?

I gingerly hand over the stick, and the lady seems reluctant to take it. Uhh... Just at this state of limbo, my colleague comes into rescue. She passes her a pair of plastic gloves along with the stick, "I'm sorry we can't help you to dig in the toilet as we are handling food." Simple and straightforward, and my colleague rushes off the scene back to her task.

I linger uneasily as the woman pokes at the black hole flooding with her own urine. Learning something new each day, I think to myself, phew. In efforts of not seeming apathetic before disappearing, I add, "I'm really sorry that this happened." And off I go, lamenting over the hundreds of contacts and messages and photos now interred in a pile of inflight crap.

[Any thought or comments? Share with me!]