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‘The plane is plugged into the circulation of my blood’
Antoine De Saint-Exupéry
 Kay Martin threw a frilly housecoat over her nightdress, slipped her feet into fluffy pink mules and hurried hopefully downstairs to meet the postman. As she jumped the last few steps, she was just in time to see the long awaited envelope bearing the distinctive purple and gold crest of Celtic Airway drop through the letter box.
With a cry of triumph, Kay darted forward and snatched it off the faded Aubusson rug. Turning, she raced upstairs to read it in the privacy of her bedroom.
‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ her heart sang with delight. Her preliminary interview for the coveted job of air hostess had been successful.
'We have pleasure in informing you that a further interview has been arranged for you at the airport on Thursday 4th October.'
Brilliant! She lowered the sheet of paper to give vent to her feelings.
'We hope you will be able to attend,' she read on when she had calmed down, 'and we would appreciate it if you would please telephone ext. 412 to confirm this appointment.'
With shining eyes Kay thought how she had always wanted to become an air hostess. Ever since she was a little girl and had got her first glimpse of the airline's advert on the airport road. Staring at the cardboard cut out of the glamorous smiling hostess in uniform, she had fervently sworn that the minute she was old enough, she would apply herself.
In August when Celtic Airways ran their recruiting advert, that's exactly what she had done, filling out an application form and posting it off with two photos as requested.
Now her head filled with dreams, her heart high with hope, Kay crossed to her dressing-table to gaze at herself in the mirror, approving (in view of the confirming letter) of the dark, delicately arched brows, the thick cloud of dusky hair falling forward on her forehead, the deep-lashed 'filmstar' eyes of that verdant shade that often goes with dark-haired, fair-complexioned Celtic beauty.
Truly, as had often been remarked, Kay Martin was a very typical Irish beauty, a veritable dark Rosaleen of poetic fancy but - there the resemblance ended, for Kay was very much a girl of the sixties. The look as though butter wouldn't melt in her lovely mouth was totally misleading, as more than one of her suitors had found out to his surprise - and later gratification!
Kay let her long thick eyelashes droop and smiled seductively at herself in the mirror, 'Welcome on board', she tried experimentally in her deepest most alluring voice. It had all the suggestiveness of an invitation to the kasbah. She giggled and dropped the pose, 'Failte,' she cooed with what she imagined was soft Irish charm. 'Heel-lo there,' waggling her fingers close to her cheekbone, intent on knocking them dead.
A heavy hand thumped on her bedroom door bringing her back to reality and her aunt's maid looked in, her long face morose.
'You still here,' she grunted, carelessly dumping the dustpan and brush she was carrying on top of Kay's freshly ironed blouse.
'Peg!' Kay cried in protest, jumping up and rescuing it before she could do it any more damage.
Unmoved, Peg went about scooping up clothes, tissues and pieces of fluff, the accumulated rubbish of weeks, and throwing them on the bed. Her stockings were rolled below her knee and held in place with garters of shredding black elastic. When she bent over, the veined underside of her thighs was visible; irregular purple and red rivers on a white seabed.
Kay tore her eyes away from contemplation of Peg's secret places and stuffed the letter in her bag. She felt a pang of disquiet when she saw the time. Only a miracle could save her now from the supervisor's sarcastic, 'Late again, Miss Martin! Making quite a record for yourself these days.'
But what did she care? Hopefully, she would soon be leaving her typing job far behind. Nevertheless, she rushed to gather stockings and shoes from the growing pile of debris hurling from Peg's undiscerning fingers. She dressed quickly and with an appalled look at the mess on her bed, dashed for the door.
Tripping on a long-handled brush abandoned on the threshold, Kay cursed whatever evil genius had sent Peg to plague them all and flew downstairs. No time for breakfast again! Oh well, it was good for the figure.
'No!' she lied in answer to her aunt's query if the postman had been.
'I could have sworn I heard him.’ With her sleep-crushed gentian curls, the teapot clutched to the bodice of her long nightdress, Molly had the look of a nursery rhyme figure.
'No, you must have imagined it.' Kay struggled into her coat, avoiding Molly's eyes. She felt more than a little guilty at having concealed the whole air hostess thing from her aunt but Molly took her guardianship so seriously, she would have a fit if she knew her niece was applying to the airline. Kay could just hear her, ‘Your poor mother and father would turn in their graves if they knew you were giving up a good pensionable job to go skiting off on planes.'
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