FRIDAY 8PM – COLIN FOSTERSmoothing out the white paper napkin, I slide it alongside my unopened newspaper so that the edges are almost touching. That's how I like things; neat, tidy, aligned. It annoys me when the stewardess reappears and moves it back to its original place, putting a glass of orange juice on top. The bottom of the glass is wet and causes a yellowy circle to form on the napkin. I look up and my eyes connect with the air hostess just long enough for me to give a knowing look; not resentful, just reproachful.
I wait for her to move along to the row behind me, the rustle of her blue polyester suit irritatingly close. As I glance down, I see that she has shapely legs, but they appear a rather unnatural hue. I've often wondered why airlines insist upon their female members of
