This is a Trip Report from the Upper Class cabin
Ground Staff
Food & Drink
Entertainment
Seat
Cabin Crew
Aircraft Reg: G-VWEB
Trip report style: In the manner of Doctor John Watson
It has been some time since I last recounted the tale of one of my good friend Jonathan Morgan's aviatorial adventures. Not, in fact, since The Dastardly Affair of the Unimpressive Flight Service Manager. Since that time my participation in his escapades has reduced, and so I have crafted this account from his own observations rather than my own.
The events I here recount took place on a Wednesday in mid-February, during a period when Morgan was currently engaged in a protracted investigation in the Colonies, basing himself in the fine city of San Francisco. But unexpected circumstances related to his employment had compelled him to return to Britain for a brief sojourn of no more than forty eight hours. Due to the timing of a crucial interview, he was unable to travel upon the direct return flight, and so was forced to travel via New York and travel onwards with the (rightly) much maligned United Airlines. The omens for this journey, requiring a transfer through Immigration and Customs, and to another of the airport's termini in two hours, were never propitious, and when he awoke on the morning of the flight to see Old London Town enshrouded in fog not unlike that he was used to in San Francisco, he feared the worst.
Arriving at the departing terminal some two hours in advance of his scheduled departure, he was immediately able to perceive a change in the familiar surroundings. Seeing the scene unobstructed by the hoardings which had characterised so many of his previous transits, he deduced that the Virgin Atlantic refurbishments were at last complete, and with uncharacteristic optimism he approached the Upper Class area, where there were a plentiful number of staff to assist him, and no other travellers to monopolise their attention. Alas, his worst fears were realised when he was informed of a one hour delay to the departure, a calamity barely assuaged by the news that he had received what is known in the vernacular as an 'op-up' (Editor's note - YAY!). In truth, he had suspected that such an eventuality might be eventuated (Editor's note - :-) ) owing to his persistent inability to carry out the task of checking in before departing for the airport.
Retiring forthwith via the expeditious means of the priority route to the Virgin Clubhouse, he reflected upon the circumstance that never before had he been disappointed to spend more time in those hallowed halls. Discussing his predicament with one of the Concierge staff, it was established that they would have Virgin's ticketing staff review his travel plans immediately upon his eventual departure, when the real impact would be known.
With no other recourse, he regretfully settled into his traditional seats and was soon contemplating the world over the rim of that most excellent creation of Harry's Bar, a Bellini. Of course, it was not to be supposed that my friend's insatiable appetite for new inputs would be quieted, and roused to the realisation that he had partaken of neither breakfast nor lunch, and aware that the bulk of his departures took place in the morning hours, elected for a first trial of the menu's Shepherd's Pie. Despite many recommendations by his fellow members of the Honourable Society of V-Flyers in the direction of the burger, he was nevertheless full of admiration for the provided viands, and decided then and there to make hearty recommendations of his own in its favour.
In time for the rescheduled departure, he and his fellow travellers in a curiously quiet Clubhouse were summoned to their places, and he was soon settled in his seat. Though all was prepared in time for a departure at 5pm, the airport's authorities, dealing with the effects of a traditional London pea-souper, held them back so that their final time of take off was at half past the hour. My friend's deductive facilities had long previously revealed to him the elementary conclusion that a night in a New York hotel lay in his immediate future.
Resigned to his fate, he commenced his usual observations of those around him, concluding in short order that the couple seated to his right were in the middle of protracted hostility (this observation, dear reader, was confirmed later in the journey when the couple in question engaged in an audible argument at the bar), that the baby several rows behind was able to cry for extended periods without apparent need for the intake of air (he began mentally composing a paper on the subject for presentation to the appropriate audience), and that the kilted gentleman he had observed while boarding was in fact truly a Scotsman (Editor's note - Oh yes!).
In his study of Virgin Atlantic's services, he had long been aware of (and shared) the view among his V-Flyer fellows that the quality of the Flight Service Manager tended to lead the quality and enjoyment of all the service, and while not falling to the depths of some of the individuals had read of in reports and seen with his own eyes, nevertheless, in recounting his tale, he confessed that he was not especially impressed with the performance of his current incumbent. She was observed in the cabin a number of times, but did not actively interact with her passengers, and certainly made no attempt to offer a personal welcome to any of those on board.
Delaying his dinner until several hours into his flight, he was forced to the conclusion that the meal, though an excellent repast of salmon followed by lamb, was not to be compared to one of Mrs Hudson's Sunday roasts. The selection of wines, however, remained more than acceptable, putting him in mind of many a visit we had paid to Simpson's Divan in our younger days.
Contrary to his expectations (based on many recent experiences) he was favoured with the attentions of the in-flight beauty therapist, and aware that like many gentlemen he should take more care of his digits (though not, pray God to facilitate any musical endeavour on his tone deaf part), he selected the Hot Hands treatment, and obtained much useful intelligence for his ongoing study of the effects of different professions on the human hand.
He completed his required work and sought other diversions for his mighty brain. The aircraft's extensive selection of entertainments failed to inspire his interest, and so he committed himself to a thorough perusal of that morning's Manchester Guardian and a Penny Dreadful he had acquired for the dreadful price of six hundred and ninety nine pennies at the airport bookseller.
The flight, so he and his fellow passengers had been informed, would be a long one due to excessive headwinds, and so it proved, with several of his neighbours remarking upon the apparent endlessness of the flight, though the excellent Chianti helped pass the time. Eventually, some ninety minutes in advance of their landing, he partook of a sandwich and some juice before settling down for the final approach.
Even though he had only hand luggage, and so no reason to be delayed in awaiting his belongings, it was past the time that his ongoing flight would have departed when he had safely passed through the surprisingly swift Immigration and Customs processes, and so he took himself off to the Virgin Ticket Desk on the Departures level to discover what arrangements had been made. He found himself waiting while a sizable family were dealt with by the desk staff. Applying his formidable powers to the scene, he was able to deduce that the party were a British group, returning to their home country following a three day shopping expedition, and collectively displaying signs of significant irritation that their journey had been interrupted by the need to wait for a protracted period at this point. Across the desk, it was apparent to the skilled observer that the same lack of drive or wit which he had so often noted himself in the staff at this position was again in evidence, which clearly did the cause of Virgin Atlantic's public perception no favours, even though it appeared that the problem was not of the airline's making.
Eventually he ascertained that his departure from New York would be postponed until ten minutes past six the following morning and so he departed from Virgin's care to place himself in the hands of Mr Marriott and his esteemed collection of hostelries.
At the conclusion of his retelling of the journey's story to me, I asked him what he considered to be the most memorable feature of his transatlantic experience. He fixed me with a mischievous eye. 'Why Watson! Has it been so long since you told one of my tales that you have entirely forgotten all you knew of me? It was the young man in the kilt of course!'
(Editor's note - yes of course I'm happily married, but come on! Who wouldn't remember that?!)
