4am

Eventually I managed to spew out most of the semi-digested pie matter into a bucket. Miss Mifflin had seemed unwilling to give me the bucket as they only had one and the regulations insisted it be kept full of sand in case there was a conflagration in the kitchenette. But, having demonstrated that the standard sick bag (even in first class) would be like trying to fit a fully grown Krynoid into a Dalek casing (<g>), she agreed to my spluttered request. I don’t know where she put the sand but the home made biscuits she sent to my home address were a trifle gritty. I speculated that they might contain some first class sand but Ian Devine merely commented that he’d never seen a malnourished cactus and tucked in.

She had emptied my third bucket load of pie studded fluid when the captain announced we would shortly be arriving at the airport in New York City. I felt much better and decided to take a much needed trip to the lavatory. Miss Mifflin had other ideas and strapped me in, telling me I would have to wait until we had landed as otherwise I might injured as the plane descended. She added that if it were up to her she would let me but the regulations were very strict and she could be defrocked for violating them. This gave me a very cunning idea.

With Miss Mifflin’s permission I snuck into the first class lavatory once the plane was on terra firma and quickly changed my smouldering nylon under garments for a fresh pair. I then secreted myself behind the well stocked first class towel rail and waited for the bustle of departing first class passengers to subside. Oh, clever Dennis, oh clever clever Dennis.

“Is anyone in there?” called Miss Mifflin. I said nothing in an effort to make her believe the cubicle was empty. Once she had gone and left the first class section empty I was intending to sneak out and collect up all the discarded complimentary first class gift baskets (or components thereof). That would be one in the portly eye for Ian Devine and his pathetically won pair of matching baskets. What I hadn’t reckoned on was that Miss Mifflin would come into the first class lavatory to do a spot of cleaning.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHH” she screamed as she pulled the towels away and saw my face beaming at her. I had aimed for a look of amiable pleasantness but confess that, with later use of a mirror, it might have looked a tad sinister to one not used to the friendly side of my personality. She instinctively sprayed me in the eyes with a generic brand of aerosol spray polish and accused me of being a peeping tom. I replied that it was lucky that the spray polish hadn’t penetrated my spectacles and anyway I had better things to do than spy on an average looking female in the lavatory.

“Indeed” I added, “the mere idea of a sensible telehistorian doing something like that is not only beyond belief but is actually beneath contempt.” She kicked me in the lower abdomen and, rather than reply with a witty retort, I opted to slump to the floor and curl up into a ball to recover my wits. Between painful gasps I was able to explain that I was not motivated by perversion but by an honest desire to recycle items which had been left behind by my less ecologically sound colleagues.

“It certainly sounds a lucrative idea” said Miss Mifflin. “What a pity for you that someone thought of it earlier.”

If the next words out of her mouth had been “Ian Devine” I would have frothed from the mouth. Literally.

“Meaning?” I asked.

“That Captain Coitus and I collect up all the unwanted complimentary first class gift hampers and sell them to passengers in the economy class lounge. I make more doing that than I do from this crummy job.”

“I assume you won’t be letting me in on this highly imaginative and extremely well thought out scheme?”

“Correct.”

“And that if I threaten to tell the proper authorities I will regret it?”

“Correct.”

“And that if I promise you I won’t tell the proper authorities but then go back on my word and report the matter then I will still regret it?”

“Correct.”

“And that if I send an anonymous note to the president of the airline you will track me down and make me regret it?”

“Correct.”

“And that if I call for help you’ll either kick me in the lower abdomen or spray me in the face?”

“Correct.”

“So it would be best all round, in the absence of a Chris Tarrant offering me a large cash prize for all my correct answers, if I just collect my satchel and go off and enjoy the big apple?”

“Correct.”

“Farewell, Miss Mifflin, you were a pleasure to fly with” I said, turning and walking away. I paused and for a moment and considered turning round to give her a piece of my mind. She obviously read my body language and prepared to attack me once again. Being a woman she became a bit confused and let off a jet of the generic brand aerosol cleaning spray. Unfortunately, at the same time I obeyed my natural male instinct to release a burst of intestinal gas before departing a lavatory (the pies plus recent fear made this easy). My wind propelled the vapour from my recently applied unguent towards Miss Mifflin where it reacted rather potently with the cleaning spray. A chemical cloud formed around her like a mother bear embracing her offspring.

“My apologies” I said as the fog engulfed her and begin chewing at her flesh.