It is not often that I set my heart on something but the stewardesses on the Aerolineas Argentinas flight had the nicest uniforms I had ever seen. I could not take my eyes off them. I wonder, I thought.
The outfits occupied that tiny overlap where seaside landlady and convent girl collide. I could be that person, I murmured. I thought of the tragic Pansy Osmond in Henry James’ The Portrait of a Lady, squirrelled away by nuns when her father’s hopes for a grand marriage fall through. I thought of Andy Capp’s wife, the redoubtable Flo. These are not characters I have ever yoked before — it would be innocence and experience in one immaculate blue-striped cotton tabard. There was a white shirt with a small collar underneath and over the whole a curt little navy cardigan, bringing it all together. This may not sound much to you but the proportions, the quality of the fabrics, the finishes, the just perceptible white zigzag stitching really took it to the higher echelons of chic.
Crisp and breezy, I thought, equals spring.
What was it I had most liked about Buenos Aires? The way that the tremendous sophistication of the place had a sort of looseness to it. Its high standards were delivered in such a light and carefree way. Lavish and informal used to be the style of things I liked most. Sophisticated and loose, is coming close second.
(I also quite like lazy grace, a description that best fits the scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz, one of the world’s most underrated characters.)
Anyway, I wanted one of the aprons very much. Now that spring is here it is clear my wardrobe is in need of an overhaul. All my clothes feel stuffy and wrong. I tend to wear the same things in summer as in winter and freeze or boil by turns, and I do this out of some kind of fidelity to I know not what. It makes me feel I am taking a stand. (I have a feeling that I’m not meant to let external things like health or the weather or how much money affect how I live. Something like that.)
Yet I have had my eyes out for a white lace dress lately, a little bit Picnic at Hanging Rock, a little bit Texan cowgirl, a little bit trembly and radiant first holy communicant. It would be worn as casually as a white lace dress could be worn, boyfriend-style, in the modern parlance. But I had not found it yet and I suspect I’ve missed my chance. This apron would be much more useful, the most perfect sundress over a T-shirt. Being helpful of bearing, no matter what I wear on trains and planes people always give me their rubbish or ask me how to charge their appliances anyway, so there would be no change there.
I sidled over to the back of the plane where the stewardesses were busying about. They chatted in Spanish as they readied their trolleys for the next snack run and I hung out with them for a bit. I smiled (in Spanish). I nodded (in Spanish). I even sneezed. They were very accepting.
“Can I ask you something?” I said.
They raised their chins as one.
“Yes?”
There was a certain amount of embarrassment suddenly. Two lines from a Patrick Kavanagh poem somersaulted in my head:
I stammered vainly for the right word, I said: ‘I mean to say/
I’m not trying to get off with you Or anything in that way.’
Well, that would hardly do.
“I love your uniforms. They are just so stylish. I would really like one of the aprons. Do you think I could buy one somehow? In London they would be thought very fashionable.”
“We don’t like them,” one of the women said with a giggle. “They make me feel like a schoolteacher.”
“They make me feel like a nurse.”
“They make me feel like a grandmother.”
“Perhaps if you write in,” one suggested.
“They would let me buy one?”
“I don’t think so, but maybe they would let you have one.”
“You can always try.”
It was that, or undertake the Aerolineas cabin crew training programme, it seemed. As we landed, I illegally googled the requirements for entry.
Age, 19 to 30: well I suppose I could always . . . perhaps not.
Nationality: Argentine only. Can one convert?
Languages: diploma in English (oral). I knew those two English degrees would stand me in good stead.
Initial company medical: required for insurance. Shouldn’t be a problem.
Swim: pass company swimming test. I still have my elementary survival certificate somewhere that proves I can swim in pyjamas.
Domicile: within 25km of Buenos Aires International.
Oh. I picked up my pen. Dear Sir or Madam, I began . . .
— Financial Times
