Nicola Stow - Cabin fever: the sizzling secrets of a virgin air hostess

Its not often the captain of a Boston-bound 747-400 collapses two hours before landing, but when he does, it causes one hell of a problem, especially when youre trying to serve afternoon tea to the tipsy Gin and Tonic Brigade in Premium Economy and maintain a pristine nothing fazes me cabin crew smile. He went down just outside the flight deck door in full view of passengers sitting in the first few rows clutching his chest, eyes rolling, bald head glazed with sweat as he crumpled to his knees then smashed face-down onto the floor.

Within seconds the cabin erupted into chaos, sparked by a half-cut woman in her thirties sporting cherry-red dyed hair, who started screaming, Oh my God, the pilots dead, before hyperventilating and waking up the man next to her, whod managed to nod off after enduring almost six hours of her repetitive, drunken chat about her fear of flying and a bastard ex-boyfriend called Wayne.

Shed been necking red wine from the moment the seatbelt signs had gone out. Id lost count of the number of times shed come up to the galley asking for just one more Merlot to settle my nerves through magenta-stained lips and teeth. You always get one like her citing nerves as a convenient excuse to get steamed with the free booze on board. The last glass shed asked for was to help with the landing, which was shortly about to happen with or without the captain, who it would appear had just had a heart attack in front of her.

Gasps and shrieks filled the cabin. People were clambering over seats and clogging the aisle, trying to have a good look at the captain, everybody talking over one another in panicked tones, some of them trying to help by suggesting various first-aid procedures that might work miracles and help the poorly pilot back to his feet. There were two of us working on the upper deck me and my friend Felicity and we swung into action at breakneck speed, flashing our bright-red MAC Ruby Woo smiles while assuring passengers, Everythings fine.

On electronic route maps embedded in the backs of 452 passenger seats, blinking red dots edged closer to Boston. Time was of the essence. Felicity was closest to the flight deck, so she rushed to the captains aid while I calmly, but rapidly, wheeled the trolley loaded with sandwiches, scones and rattling pots of tea and coffee back to the galley a manoeuvre that got some passengers backs up. Hey, why are you taking the trolley away? asked one bloke, who had so many miniatures lined up on his fold-down tray, it looked as though he was running a mini off-licence from his seat. Ill have another G & T, please, love.

Im sorry, sir, I said, The bar is now closed. If you wouldnt mind waiting a moment ?

Premium Economy is renowned for its challenging passengers people who cant quite afford Upper Class but feel they can click their fingers and demand the world, simply because theyve paid a few hundred quid more than an Economy passenger for a little extra leg room and a slightly bigger seat. Thats why we nicknamed them the Gin and Tonic Brigade: they believe they deserve as many freebies as they can get their hands on, which most often results in them drinking the complimentary bar service dry.

A gradual dragging sensation indicated that our descent had begun. A patch of turbulence was causing a bit of a bump and a bang, setting the woman with the cherry-red hair off on another breakdown. As Felicity attempted to revive our captain, I stowed the cart in the galley and used the intercom to make an emergency public address, using our special coded message. This signalled to the crew not present on the upper deck that we needed immediate assistance, including our defibrillator unit and emergency medical kits.

Seconds later our flight service manager, Jane, called on my intercom. Defib is on its way to the upper deck, she said. Is there anything else you need?

The pilot has collapsed, I said calmly. Do we have anyone on board who can fly a plane?

Not that we were about to start running Airplane -style up and down the aisles begging passengers to jump into the captains chair, but we did have a list of off-duty crew on board whom we could surreptitiously approach in the hope that one of them might be a pilot. If not, the air hostesses would need to rely on their pilot-incapacitation training and step in to help with the checklists. Technically, the first officer could land the plane on autopilot, on his own. The danger was, however, if he ran into difficulty on approach, he would need another pair of hands at the controls in order to switch to manual operation.

I left the search for back-up to the guys downstairs, because at that moment my assistance was needed on the upper deck. Our captain was now shielded by a curtain so I had no idea how he was doing or how the first officer was coping without him. I straightened my neck scarf and strode confidently, with a slight bum wiggle, back up the aisle. I was fully aware that every single person in the cabin was scrutinising my demeanour with anxious eyes, making sure I was not wearing an expression that screamed, Were going to crash. We know the score: watch the air hostesses, and if were not panicking you know everything is okay. Thats why we look so bloody cheerful all the time. Anyone who thinks being an air hostess is all about serving tea and coffee and looking pretty is kidding themselves. It takes stamina, patience, commitment and a whole load of acting talent.

As I was nearing the end of my aisle strut to assess my passengers reactions, two of our more burly stewards came bounding up the staircase and slipped behind the curtain. At the same time, a sweet elderly woman sitting in one of the aisle seats reached up and lightly tapped my arm. Excuse me, dear, she said. How is that poor captain? Will he be okay? Is there anything we can do to help?

I crouched down to speak to her. She smelled of Murray mints and Palmolive soap and was wearing powder-blue stretchy trousers teamed with a floral top a typical Nan abroad outfit. Her eyes were rheumy and sincere. Thankfully, theyre not all arrogant divas in Premium. Stored in the chair pouch in front of her, next to the laminated 747-400 safety instruction card and token sick bag, was a clear duty-free bag containing a cuddly toy and a giant bar of Toblerone. She was sitting inside an aluminium tube, hurtling towards New England. The plane was descending more rapidly now, bouncing through rainclouds. Very soon the seatbelt sign would illuminate, followed by the double ding bell instructing crew to prepare the cabin for landing. Downstairs, our colleagues were discreetly being asked, Do you know how to fly a plane?