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Boys' Own Club
By Allison McVety
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Sitting in a business class lounge at Heathrow
International Airport is a singular experience for the woman traveling alone. With
a good seat offering a clear view, and nothing else to do, it is possible to see
all manner of men. They all sport their Executive club cards, the blue
bowing down to the silver, as if to say "We are not worthy!" and the
silver card holders docking heads in deference to the gold.
It is rather like being transported back in time where boys, sporting short
flannel grey trousers, a school blazer and leather satchel, hang around on
station platforms. With buff labels marking them out as evacuees, they wait for
something extraordinary to happen.
Though today they may have tailored suits and pc bags, it does not take the
greatest imagination to produce grubby knees fishing around in ponds looking for
sticklebacks; freckled faces, intent upon hunting birds with homemade slings of
rubber band and sticks; or ink- stained fingers soaking conkers in vinegar
before baking them to use in combat. Their hair may be grey, thinning or to
some, lost forever, but they still remain boys at heart.
The young guns sit in Laptop Land pitting Pentium against Centrino technology. Bereft
of BMW and Mercedes key fobs, they display their phones and notebooks in the
battle for superiority. This is the only place where it is perfectly acceptable
to say "Mine is smaller than yours."
All the while head-set man walks around the lounge talking about viable dates,
while availing himself of the complimentary refreshments and stuffing pockets
full of cake and biscuits for a midnight feast upon arrival. It is easy to
picture meetings being arranged and deals brokered, not with some high powered
customer with money to spend before the end of the financial year, but with a
put-upon wife at the other end of the ear piece saying in soothing tones,
"I've ironed your pajamas the way you like them dear, and added an extra pair of socks just in case."
They clutch faxes and notepads to their chests as if afraid that some large
lumbering bully will suddenly appear from nowhere and attempt to steal it from
them. Espionage is always a firm favourite with these boys, who like to act
like corporate James Bonds.
Occasionally, the delightful hierarchical struggle for territory can be seen
acted out when two men, in full musk, attempt to get the seat closest to the
power point, the telephone, or indeed, the last copy of the Financial Times. It
always ends in tears as the lesser of the two retreats to lick his wounds and
fight another day. The winner sits in self-congratulatory pose, mopping his
brow and basking in victory.
Of course, it does not end in the lounge. There is much amusement to be
derived on the aircraft itself as bulging cabin bags are stored overhead in the
game of consuming as much locker space as possible, so that late comers are
punished by having their luggage stowed in the hold. The smarter traveler
will have checked in on-line and nabbed the seats nearest the door so as to be
off as soon as the traps are open.
Then there is the suit jacket to consider: it simply has to be hung by the
steward in the coat locker. As there is a finite amount of space, the
resulting rush can be quite entertaining.
Of course no one watches the security briefing: all being 007s, it is possible
to suppose they have their comprehensive survival kits, masquerading in their
shirt pockets as harmless ball-point pens, to keep them safe.
Once the plane has landed, fingers hover over seatbelt releases for the rush to
be quickest on the draw and up and out of the seat before anyone can pass. Disgorging
the contents of overhead lockers onto seats and in to aisles, whilst the late
boys remain seated and sulking. Phones are switched on and instantly begin
to ring, "I've put your piles ointment in your toilet bag with the
toothpaste dear, don't get them mixed up ."
So, all things considered, there really is a lot of fun to be had if you find
yourself faced with long delays and are lucky enough to gain access to the Boys'
Own Club.
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Two significant events occurred at Allison
McVety's birth - her sister took one look at her and howled for a dog and her
father, not expecting another girl, and having no name prepared, named her after
a horse that promptly fell at the first fence. Add to that a nose that inspired
Concorde engineers, and you will understand why she has sought solace in
laughter and writing.
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