Chapter 3
Tasting the Tea Leaves
If Kuwait had felt hot to my unconditioned skin, Ceylon was like stepping into a steam bath. As we got off the aircraft I said jokingly to the captain, "Well, there won't be any shakedowns or ups here!"
He was not amused. His face remained set in a rigid mask of superiority. I watched his tall figure in the neat black uniform, the four gold bars on the sleeves shining brightly in the sunshine as he walked across to the shack that served as the airport terminal. He certainly was a fine figure of a man! I wondered briefly if anything could crack that icy exterior...
My first impressions of Sri Lanka-as Ceylon is now known-will stay with me forever. I was overjoyed at the lustiness of the masses of green vegetation and at the rivers jam-packed with naked babies laughing and kneeling women doing their weekly wash. As we drew nearer to Colombo, the loveliness of the countryside was desecrated by the squalor of the filthy little huts which served as houses. My heart and soul were horrified by the abject poverty and misery of thousands upon thousands of Sinhalese. At night every step, ledge, and conceivable flat surface served as a bed for the homeless. In the daytime they squatted on the pavements of the filthy streets or in the doorways of their dingy hovels.
People with mutilated arms and deformed legs hobbled along the streets. Nothing was bandaged or camouflaged. You could see the begging children walking on the knotted stumps which had once been legs. I was told that a lot of parents maimed their children at birth so they could go out into the world in the lucrative profession of begging. There was also a good trade in the hiring of dead babies. Women would hire a dead baby and go around begging for money. They'd shove the dead baby in your face and say, "My baby's dead." These poor little creatures were passed from greedy hand to greedy hand until the dreadful stench became too much for even them to bear. The filth, dirt, and poverty really depressed me, but sad to say, after several visits to Sri Lanka, one gets used to it, stench and all.
The hotel we put up at was an hour's perilous drive from the airport. How countless crews hadn't been lost on this journey. I'll never know. It was certainly more hazardous than flying! The crew transport consisted of a ramshackle old bus which made its way along the road in a procession of geriatric vehicles-pre-war London buses, trucks, taxicabs, van, and bicycles. The driver of our crock wrapped his dhoti around his knees and placed his large black bare feet on the pedals and plowed on regardless. He traveled the tortuous road at immense speed while bull shit, carts, dogs, and people fled out of the roadway. It was either that or be mowed down on the spot! After several of these trips I learned to lie down on the back seat of the bus, close my eyes, and pray that we would reach our destination in one piece.
The hotel was slap-bang in the middle of scurrying scurvy-smelling Colombo. The entrance hall was a huge marble affair. The ice-cold air gave me the same welcome as my cunt would give a stiff cock-it was sheer heaven! The only furniture in the massive entrance hall were two gigantic peacock wicker chairs. Reception was very polite and formal, and we were quickly allocated accommodations. The room numbers were chalked up on our suitcases, and the bearers hurried them off to our rooms, which were as tacky as the lobby was lovely. There were just the bare necessities, plus a shower and a view out over ratty buildings and the occasional palm tree. My room had the added luxury of a rattrap, complete with dead rat! The shivers ran up and down my spine as I screamed at the bearer to remove both the rat and the trap!
On a subsequent sexually less active trip to Colombo, I came into very close contact with a rat, the four-legged variety and by no means my favorite animal! I was fast asleep on my little narrow bed when I suddenly awoke to see something with two piercing eyes, a large fat body, and a long tail wandering nonchalantly up and down the coffee table which was adjacent to the bed. I sat bolt upright and screamed my head off when I realized my night visitor was the biggest, most vicious-looking rat I'd ever seen! The rat was advancing along the table top toward me when my unearthly shrieking stopped it dead in its tracks. It scrambled off the bed, across the floor, and ran up the wall behind the curtain. I was still screaming when a bearer ran into the room wagging his head.
"What's the matter, missy?" he asked.
"There's a rat in my room!" I screamed.
He searched everywhere. The vermin had vanished. The bearer's brown face broke out in a huge grin.
"Oh, no, missy! No rat here!"
Then he left me, still wagging his head. I turned the coffee table upside down, armed myself with books and shoes, left the light on (precautions I always took after that incident), and eventually fell into a fitful sleep. When I awoke in the morning I found that all that remained of a bag of apples I'd brought off the aircraft were four cores. My rat had at least been well fed before he'd left. That was the last time I left any food lying around in the hotel, but I was to encounter many more rats.
At the airport we had had to fill in currency forms, stating exactly how much and what type of currency we had. Hilary had warned me in advance not to declare all the sterling I had, as the black market rate for the pound was three times that of the official rate. So I had stuffed twenty quid in the sole of my shoe, in order to purchase the already bargain-priced goods at even lower prices. (I actually bought a python handbag for four pounds!) Money changing on the black market could prove to be a very dangerous pastime, as the engineer on our crew found out. He'd flashed his fivers in front of the hotel, and was taken by a wizened Sinhalese in a filthy dhoti down alleyways that became progressively narrower and darker. He woke up sitting in the gutter with an egg-shaped bruise on his head, stripped of all his cash and valuables. I was more cautious for once and got one of the hotel bearers to change money for me. That way I got slightly under the black market rate, but didn't put myself in any danger. Every time you change money officially, the authorities stamp your currency form. Obviously you had to change some money officially, because the authorities wouldn't expect you to live for days in a country without spending a penny.
We were invited along to the captain's room for the inevitable crew party I described in a previous chapter. The atmosphere was getting icier as the countries got hotter. Hilary and I knocked back a swift drink and pleading exhaustion, beat a hasty retreat to "The Tatty Cat," which was the crew's nickname for the nightclub in the basement of the hotel. This was a notable pick-up place for the young "tea leaves" of Sri Lanka. At least, that's what the majority of the jealous middle-aged flight crew called them. "Tea leaves" were young, good-looking, and nearly always spoiled young men who worked for big tea companies as tasters; they were all English.
Hilary and I sat down and ordered two crab au gratins and surveyed the very promising scene. The place was packed with diners and dancers, the latter of whom were stuck body to body on a dance floor about the size of a large dinner plate. A dusky sari-clad girl was doing her very best to sing to the diabolically bad local band. We were soon joined by some crews from other aircraft, and eventually the "tea leaves" muscled in.
The atmosphere was hot and heavy, and Hilary and I were in the mood for a little romance. I was asked to dance by a big, frightfully English ex-public-school-boy type of "tea leaf." He had a mass of unruly hair and a very pleasant manner. I knew the male members of the crew were watching as we glued our bodies together and undulated to the slow tempo of the music. I liked the frank, open manner of Peter.
"How do you like meeting your first 'tea leaf'? " he asked laughingly.
"Why are you called that?" I questioned him.
He replied, "I suppose because we drift from one stew to the next!" he joked. But it was no joke. "As you must have realized," he continued, "there aren't very many white women around, so we make hay while the sun shines. There's a never-ending flow of airline girls in and out of Colombo, each eager to see the sights and romance a little to the sound of the Indian Ocean."
He was playing the same game as I and enjoying every fresh, fragrant fuck that came his way. Take a good-looking chick, the torrid tropical air, white thighs spread open in abandon, and Peter was in as quick as a flash. He only provided what was wanted. However, some girls, although willing to get laid, wanted these guys to stay as pure as the driven snow until their next visit, which could be anything from two weeks to two years-the price of opening their legs. No way! These fellows really had to keep on the ball and work to an incredible schedule so they wouldn't get a convergence of five randy stews at one time. Peter told me he got into a terrific rumpus one night in "The Tatty Cat" when two of his regular screws-sorry, stews-flew in simultaneously, one westbound, the other eastbound. They'd actually come to blows over his favors, and fought on the ground like a pair of no-holds-barred wrestlers.
Hilary had by now picked her man and was smooching along beside us. Her fella was very dark with a terrific tan, but slightly smaller and stumpier than my Peter. They were roommates, and the two of them had a quick confab. We were all obviously content with our partners. The boys suggested a moonlight flit and a midnight feast. Hilary and I were both dying to get out of the club, which was beginning to smell of sweat and stale pussy.
We walked up the staircase past the stuffed and mounted leopard from which the club got its real name, The Blue Leopard. I of course noted immediately it had no genitalia and commented on this fact. Hilary told me that one of our engineers had thought it a huge joke to cut them off and put them in the unwitting navigator's suitcase. So, when clearing customs out of Sri Lanka, the poor nav was horror-stricken to find those ghastly goulies in his case. He had had a hard time explaining to customs exactly what they were and how they had come to be in his suitcase! The rest of the crew who had been let in on the secret shook with mirth behind the red-faced nav.
Peter was just about to open the door at the top of the stairs when it sprang open, and Captain Frozen Knackers' classic face appeared.
"Tired, eh?" his voice rang down the hollow stairway. Then he added sarcastically, "You must be on your way to bed, girls?" looking mockingly at Hilary and me.
"Of course," I replied, "there wasn't enough room back there to have it away on top of the dinner table, so we thought we'd go somewhere more comfortable."
Peter and his friend Stuart raised an eyebrow inquiringly at me while Hilary, much to their delight, began to shake those massive knockers. Underneath my apparently cool exterior I was seething with rage. At the precise moment I would have liked to have done to the captain what the engineer had done to the leopard! Frozen Knackers was always cropping up where he wasn't wanted. He swept imperiously past us.
"Who the hell was that?" Stuart asked.
"Our illustrious captain, the sperm head," I replied.
"Is he always that charming?" Peter asked.
"Without exception. I think he's taken a strong dislike to me after I lost a baby on his aircraft," I replied.
Peter swept his lips across my forehead and traced down my nose with his finger. "How could anyone not like a delicious creature like you?" he asked.
"Flatterer," I said, but was nonetheless very pleased.
The boys told us they had the use of a beach house about fifty miles along the coast and asked if we would like to go there for a barbecue. While we went upstairs to get our bikinis they dashed back to their apartment to get some food and drink for the feast. Hilary and I pushed our way through the beggars who were permanently installed outside the hotel and quickly got into the waiting car, winding up the windows so they couldn't continue clawing at us. I sat in the front with Peter. He had a new car which was quite a strange sight in Colombo. He'd waited three years to have it imported.
We traveled along the road, past the legendary Gaw Face Green where the locals, the women in colorful saris of soft flowing silks and the men in white dhotis, promenade along the shores of the Indian Ocean. In the daytime it's a favorite spot for children to fly their strangely decorated kites. We were progressing at a modest speed along Colombo's only motorway at the time-which consisted of a few hundred yards of dual carriageway-when we met a bullock and cart and then a car coming down the fast lane toward us. Peter skillfully avoided a head-on collision while I covered my face with my hands. Cars would wait until you were approaching and then shoot out of the side road, right in front of you, almost as if the sight of an approaching car were the signal for them to proceed. I was thankful that Peter was quite used to these motor maniacs.
We continued along the road until we turned off in the direction of Mount Lavinia, which must be one of the top beauty spots in the world. The Mount Lavinia Hotel is perched on the rocks above a bay scattered with palm trees-surrounded by sands of pure silver, whispering soft air, and the gentle wash of water on the beach. We sat and sipped our cocktails on the terrace looking out across the magical Indian Ocean. It was hard to believe that the horrors and seediness of Colombo were just a few miles away, disguised by a blanket of twinkling lights. Reluctantly, we left this precious pearl and sped on to our destination.
The beach bungalow was on a little island in the river which ran out to the sea. We climbed into a small boat and pushed off from the shore. Peter and Stuart each took an oar and we were across the small stretch of water in a flash. The bungalow was big and almost luxurious by Sri Lanka standards. We walked into a large living room which was furnished with rush mats and wicker furniture. A large, well-equipped bar stood in the corner. Peter opened the french windows on the far side of the room.
They opened out onto one of the most glorious stretches of beach I'd ever seen.
The boys hurried to light the bonfire while Hilary and I changed out of our evening dresses and into our bikinis. We rushed to cleanse our sticky bodies in the silken surf. Looking back, we saw the glow from the bonfire lighting up the sky. We ran along the beach and found Peter and Stuart roasting our supper of wild boar and baked potatoes. Dessert was grapefruit, freshly plucked from one of the trees behind the bungalow. The boys, too, had changed and had wrapped towels around their waists. We ate ravenously. I looked at the bodies of the boys, both firm and brown. The flickering light from the fire shed an unreal luster on our naked flesh. Our faces were glowing with health and heat from the flames of the fire which were shooting high into the tropical star-spangled sky. Peter looked more like an athlete than a timorous tea-taster. Glistening droplets of water were running and dancing on Hilary's body and mine.
We finished the meal, and Peter grabbed my hand and sped toward the ever inviting water. He dropped his towel at the water's edge and ran on ahead of me. I got a glimpse of his firm white buttocks before he plunged into the foaming sea and was lost to view. I tumbled in beside him, and we chased each other around in the water, splashing and shouting like kids in a wading pool. I could hear shrieks of pleasure coming from a little farther up the beach and could see Hilary and Stuart similarly engaged. Hilary had lost her bikini top and her large white water wings were bobbing up and down like two fluorescent buoys in the ghostly light. Stuart was trying hard to submerge her, but her titties remained pointing skyward! Peter lunged at me, pulling my bikini bottom off and knocking me down in the shallow water. He fell on top of me. Salty lips encompassed mine, and his wet hair fell all over my face. We kissed as the gentle surf slapped around us. He was very modest, for I'd hardly had a glimpse of what was very shortly going to penetrate my salty pussy. His hands pushed up my bikini top roughly and sought out my boobs. His mouth bit each nipple hard. The more I cried out, the more he bit into my flesh. He suddenly stood up over me. In the moonlight all I could see was this huge figure, legs astride, and the outline of his balls and penis dangling between his legs.
"Fiona," he said, "you look just like an exotic mermaid washed up from the mysterious unknown depths of the sea."
Fine grains of shingle were clinging to my body. My hair was spread over the sand, and wave after gentle wave buffeted my body. The sensation of the water swishing between my legs and playfully plucking my pussy was increasing my need for Peter's dong, which was ding-a-linging in the breeze above me. He stooped down and, as though I were weightless, lifted me high in his arms and made to carry me off to the bungalow.
"Put me down," I said softly, "and kneel in the water."
He did as I requested, kneeling facing the sea. I knelt opposite him and very tenderly caught his penis in my hand. As the waves approached, I cupped water in my other hand and carefully wiped his weapon and balls free of every particle of sand. (This romantic gesture was in fact a precautionary measure against getting a pussy full of sand!) I felt as though I should warn Hilary, but decided that, as a fully trained stewardess, she should have enough sense to care for her own cunt. Apart from getting rid of the sand, I was giving Peter a soft caress, stretching and squeezing his weapon until it was almost ready for action. Luckily he had no foreskin, as we would have been in the water the best part of an hour, rolling it back and forth trying to relieve it of sand. I anticipating eating it later, and there was no way I wanted sand in my sandwiches on the bed! When I'd finished with him I lathered my pussy with the bubbling foam, scrubbed my tangled bush and washed around all the secret folds of flesh that lay between my thighs. Peter was itching to help. In fact he was getting quite agitated, so I held his hand in mine and guided it around my honey-pot.
I think he would have stayed on his knees glued to me forever if I hadn't suggested we move up to the beach and back to the bonfire. Grabbing my bikini, we ran hand in hand back to our barbecue blanket to find that Hilary and Stuart had beaten us to it. They were firmly installed upon the blanket and each other, judging from the white and brown thighs thrashing and the brown hands juggling with the monstrous milky white breasts. Peter and I stood back a little and watched Hilary and Stuart. She was really giving him a good seeing to, and he was having the time of his life. He was without a doubt a boob man and couldn't believe his luck at the handfuls Hilary had to offer. She lay back with her legs spread apart. She was a very big girl, but not fat-just very well covered and shapely. I noticed that, although her hair looked naturally blonde, her bush was almost black. It was a neat little triangle that looked as though it was kept in trim by a weekly visit to the barber's. While Stuart fought manfully with her breasts she grabbed and pulled on his penis. It was on the small side, but very thick. Stuart decided he needed two hands and a mouth to cope adequately with one large tit. The areas surrounding her nipple were the size of saucers while the nipples themselves could have been two small cocks.
I've always preferred to be a participant rather than a voyeuse, but I had to admit that I was very turned on by watching the pair of them. Peter left my side and walked over to where Hil's free booby was bouncing. He crouched over her and started touching and stroking it. She moaned with pleasure. Then she suddenly opened her eyes. Four hands were manhandling her breasts. She started in horror and pushed Peter away and buried herself into Stuart. I laughed as Peter returned sheepishly to me. I told him he shouldn't butt in where he wasn't wanted and that he would soon find out he had more than enough on his plate when he got down to me.
There was no way we could share their blanket or get it away from under them so Peter raced into the house and fetched another big peach-colored blanket. He spread it out on the other side of the bonfire so the dying embers of the once formidable fire were between us and the other two. Their sighs and squeals, moans and groans were audible in the still hushed air.
We lay close to the glow, huddled together, our dripping wet bodies sliding and slapping around like wet fish at the fishmonger's. We were soon dry with the combined heat of the fire and the warm air. Peter pinioned my arms to the ground and lay on top of me. His bulky frame crushed me into the sand. His kisses still tasted of salt water. He started very, gently licking the remaining trickles of water off my body. He lowered his head and sucked all the moisture from my unruly wet pubes. With his fingers he twisted the tuft around, remarking how like a cockscomb it was. He pulled it upward until it bore a resemblance to the fanned-out top of a palm tree-minus coconuts. The only nuts near me were soft human ones. Having finished with my cockscomb, he stealthily slid his way up and back on top of me. I felt a rod of steel slip between my hot receptive legs. He didn't try to ram it straight in, but let it lie and acquaint itself with its new surroundings. It did a quick reconnaissance of the outer portals, then drew back slightly and cocked its revolver ready to fire. He could have been a doctor with a syringe, so quick and painless was his entry.
Once inside me, Peter's cock didn't move at all. I thought for one horrified moment that we had fitted together so well that we'd got stuck and would need someone to come and throw a bucket full of cold water over us or pour a pint of oil into my pussy to lubricate his barrel into working order! But this was Peter's own special method of making sure he didn't come off too soon, leaving me high and dry, frustrated and unfulfilled. While his cock remained static, his fingers manipulated the lips of my cunt seeking out all the points of pleasure, and depending upon my silence or moans of delight he soon found out all my weak spots and worked on them until I was shaking as though the ground below me was caving in. His tongue rasped around my breasts and nipples. Suddenly he shouted, "Hold tight!"
I gripped him. He rolled over and pushed me up, all in one swift movement. The length of steel hadn't budged an inch, and now I was kneeling astride him! He placed his two strong hands around my waist, and, raising himself slightly off the blanket, he lifted me up so his pole sidled out an inch or two. He then let me drop so that I crashed right down onto his upright stalk. No sooner was I nicely settled on it than he lifted me up again. I don't know whether he was trying to impress me with his strength, but he certainly impressed me with the permanent rigidity of his cock. There must have been a steel girder inside the fleshy exterior of his member. Although he repeated this procedure over and over again, never once did it falter, tilt, or show any signs of flagging. I was quite exhausted by being thrown up and down in the air like a jack-in-the-box. I was very happy with the jack that was inside my precious box, but desperately wanted more than the occasional feel of that granite strength against my moist rubbery insides.
There's not an awful lot of difference between pain and pleasure. I could bear it no longer. The pleasure was becoming painful.
"Fuck me!" I whispered in his ear, not quite out of breath. After all, I could have done just as well with a vibrator buried in the sand beneath me.
"Fuck me!" I whispered again. "Fuck me!" I repeated over and over again.
With the same neat, swift movement as before, he reversed our positions and once again he did it without removing his prick from my pussy. I was now lying on my back, Peter between my legs fucking me with long rhythmic strokes which were steady, strong, and sure. Much to my surprise, the pleasure was becoming more-not less painful, and eventually I slipped into unconsciousness while Peter banged away at me to his heart's content. I don't know how long I was "out," but when I regained consciousness I saw that Peter's face was contorted with ecstasy as he exploded into joyous orgasm.
Without a murmur or caress of consolation for my much-mutilated minge Peter fell fast asleep. I got up. My annoyance vanished as I became once more enraptured with the utter beauty of that night sky, the sweet smells that wafted on the breeze, and the sound of the surf. I made sure Peter was well wrapped up in the blanket and took myself off to the bungalow and bed.
Sometime during the night while I slept soundly someone entered my room. The blinds were drawn, and it was pitch black. My most comfortable sleeping position is like a fetus. I rolled over in my sleep and encountered a cock pushing its way between my parted lips. Not sure if I were awake or dreaming, I sucked away contentedly as a baby would suck its thumb in sleep. I curled my hands around this cold weapon so that it could share my warmth. I pulled it further into my mouth. It gave me comfort, but felt as though it belonged between my legs. When I was done I drifted back into the land of dreams.
When I awoke in the morning, I suddenly remembered having had a cock in my mouth in the dead of night. I sat up in bed. Whose was it, I wondered. For I was all alone in bed. An interesting thought crossed my mind. Maybe it hadn't been Peter (whom I had taken it for granted it was), but Stuart. Perhaps they had decided to swap partners in the middle of the night. I went in search of Hilary, who was beaming from ear to ear. We had a quick swim while the boys cooked brunch.
"How did it go?" she asked me, her blue eyes shining.
"So-so," I said.
She had fallen madly in love with Stuart and couldn't stop raving about him. They'd spent a glorious night, hardly sleeping a wink except when Stuart had mysteriously disappeared and then reappeared after ten minutes. So it hadn't been a dream, after all, and now I was certain it was Stuart's sleepwalking cock I had sucked with such fervor! I decided to keep quiet about the incident, although a little later Stuart came up to me and softly congratulated me on my cocksucking.
"Don't worry Hils," I said, "you'll soon get over it. You've just got a bad case of Sri Lanka, sun, sea, surf, and semen!"
Her cheerful face puckered in a frown, and she shrugged her shoulders. "I expect you're right," she said, "but it was still divine. I suppose we'll have to go back to the hotel and the grindstone."
We weren't flying out until the next evening, but we shouldn't have left the hotel for any length of time without telling the captain of our whereabouts. We returned to our rooms to get dressed. We both exited simultaneously from the doorways and exclaimed in unison, "But we've only got evening dresses with us!"
I said, "Well, we can't walk into the hotel lobby stark naked. We'll just have to manage."
We sat outside on the verandah under the shade of the trees to eat our meal of fresh pineapple, mangoes, grapefruit, eggs, toast, and coffee. Peter and Stuart laughed at the sight of us, Hilary in a long-skirted silver two-piece gown and me in a white backless evening dress sitting in the shade digging into an enormous breakfast. We stuffed our bikinis into our small evening bags and, hitching our skirts up, clambered into the boat and headed for the mainland.
We hit Colombo about three in the afternoon; the stench and fiery heat rose to meet us as we approached the hotel. We were all fairly silent on the way back-the way people frequently are after a good fuck, each occupied with his own thoughts. Peter was very keen to see/fuck me again. I'd had a super time. He'd really looked after me well, even if by my standards he hadn't many tricks up his dick. Maybe the poor love was sexually worn out by the continual flow of stews through Colombo. He'd really done his best, I'm sure, but he could have used hours of coaching on the pre-and after-care of lovemaking. I certainly couldn't complain about the length of time he'd kept his pecker up, but I'm not over fond of the main course. It's all those little extras that turn a plain meal into a banquet. They promised to pick us up for dinner later that day and left us standing in our evening dresses amidst the beggars in front of the hotel.
I looked at Hilary and laughed.
"Now, shoulders back, chest out, and walk through the lobby as if you always walk around in mid-afternoon in your evening dress!"
I went first, trying very hard not to laugh at the reaction of the people in the lobby. Hilary strolled nonchalantly beside me. Suddenly we saw the most unbelievable apparition. The elevator doors opened, and out stepped Captain Frozen Knackers and the rest of the crew in full uniform! Hilary and I stood rooted to the spot in absolute panic. This was one mess we wouldn't get out of in a hurry. His face went puce.
"Where the hell have you two been? To a tea dance? I've been trying to contact you since eight a.m. The aircraft is arriving a day early. I've got two other girls from another crew standing by. We leave in fifteen minutes. If you're not down here by then, we'll go without you, and you'll have to find your own fares back to London," he concluded.
"Yes, sir!" we chorused. No smart-ass reply from me this time!
We fled upstairs. I threw everything I had into a suitcase, jammed on my uniform minus all regulation underwear, tore downstairs, paid my bill, and climbed into the crew bus. Hilary arrived two seconds after me. The punishment we were given fitted the crime. Nobody spoke to us except when absolutely necessary. The only worse crime we could have committed was to have got sunburnt, which was classed as a self-inflicted injury, and the punishment for this was as follows: when you were fit enough to travel, you paid your own fare back home, and your employment was terminated. Hilary and I sat in silence on the back seat while the others all ganged together at the front.
While waiting for the incoming aircraft we approached the captain and apologized profusely, adding that we were quite unaware of the possibility of the aircraft coming in early. He just grunted, so we worked like troopers on the next leg of the journey to Singapore, with no further mishaps. I was so excited at the prospect of seeing Singapore for the first time that I completely lost the depression cast upon me by my misdemeanor.