Trepanned Steward

Returning from an important five-day reconnaissance mission to Berlin, I noticed that our air steward had a rather astonishing hole in the side of his head.

The Plain People of Cyberspace: “Berlin? So that’s where you’ve been. We’ve been pickled in brine with concern. How are you anyway?”

Oh you know me. Composed of atoms as usual.

I was seated on the second row from the front of the plane so the steward was quite frequently in my line of vision. And so was the hole in his head.

I was beginning to wish I hadn’t ordered softboiled egg with toasty soldiers for my inflight meal.

The shape and depth of the wound really did suggest that someone had attempted to smash in his skull at some point. Had someone on a previous flight objected to Norbit being an inflight movie and attempted to bludgeon the crew with a duty free crowbar? It would have been an understandable reaction.

I wondered whether the battle scar was the result of his brave intervention in a midair hijacking or whether someone had taken offence to one of his ostentatious waistcoats while he was lording it up around Soho one evening.

He began to demonstrate the safety procedures.

“Look at him,” I thought, “Going about his business as if he doesn’t even have a hole in his head.”

But then the strange behaviour began.

When the pilot had introduced the cabin crew, he had indicated that the steward was called Angus. But Angus’s badge read NEIL: SENIOR CABIN CREW. Was it possible that he had forgotten his identity thanks to the hole in his head?

I let this pass. When it was time for lunch, our trepanned friend (Neil or Angus, take your pick) served the people on the front row before hurrying up the aisle, almost to the passengers seated on the wing. I didn’t worry too much at first: just because this chap has a hole in his head (did I mention that?) didn’t mean he had forgotten the passengers of four or five rows.

But he had! Before I knew it I was being asked, binbag proffered, for my rubbish.

“Where’s my nosh?” someone demanded.

Unfortunately all surplus lunch had been jettisoned over Holland.

Needless to say, I was wraught with hunger and believed that such bizarre behaviour demanded answers. So I asked the question:

“What the hell happened to your head, dude?”

Apparently there is no hole in his head. It’s just a really bad case of body dismorphia.

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