Galley FM

April 2 nd 2026

Well, happy springtime everyone! And aren’t we all just a tiny bit thrilled to see the back of winter? I know I can’t complain too loudly, I do get the occasional splash of winter sunshine, but honestly even I was starting to wilt. Those long nights and frosty mornings were dragging on like the breakfast service, and don’t get me started on the relentless rain. I was beginning to consider building an ark.

But here we are at last, tiptoeing through the tulips again, with that lovely reawakened spring optimism nudging us forward. There is something about lighter evenings and the faint smell of cut grass that makes everything feel possible again, don’t you think?

For this month’s blog, once again I had to sit down and have a flick through my diary to remind myself what on earth I had actually been up to. The thing is, as crew we tend to treat each trip as its own self-contained universe. We meet our colleagues in the pre-flight briefing, and then we ‘form, storm and norm’, as they say, before stepping on board. We operate out, live a whole miniature lifetime downroute, and then operate back home again.

Back at base it’s the usual dash off the aircraft. Quick goodbyes to some, ‘see you soon’ to others, and occasionally a vague wave to someone whose name you have completely blanked on despite spending 48 hours together. By the time our head hits the pillow for that sacred post flight nap, the entire trip has already started to blur. Where were we? Who were we with? Did that actually happen or did I dream it somewhere over the Bay of Biscay?

And so I have to admit, I do rather enjoy writing this blog. It forces me to wake up the old grey matter and pin down memories that, in a few months’ time, I would probably be trying to place.

And in March, as I now remember, I took Mother away.

After firmly declaring, following last month’s debacle with the kids in South Africa, that I would never take anyone away ever again, along comes Mother’s Day on a weekend I happen to be rostered for a flight. The universe clearly has a sense of humour. Mother, of course, was not remotely discouraged by my hesitation. She has clocked up a respectable number of air miles in retirement and considers herself something of a professional passenger. And seeing as I am an only child with absolutely no siblings to gently pass her towards, I let her talk me into a tagging along on my one night New York. And I have to admit, it was rather lovely.

We strolled along the High Line to get coffee in Chelsea, shopped with the stamina of trained athletes, and wandered through the library and Bryant Park. Mother has been several times before, so there was no need for me to don the tour guide hat and start reeling off facts. We simply pottered at her pace, and it was easy. The only slight drawback was the hotel room, which can best be described as “cosy” if one is feeling generous. Sharing a bed with a seventy-five-year-old who snores with the force of a freight train is, I can confirm, mildly draining. But truly, I cannot complain. I am lucky to still have her. Not everyone gets to roll their eyes at their mother in Times Square when she makes you take the hundredth picture of her for her friends at home, do they? But, for all the sights and the bonding, do you know what her favourite part of the trip was? Meeting the crew in the Irish bar at the end of the day!

She was in her element. Absolute element. Perched there with a glass of wine in hand, soaking up the gossip like it was a West End performance staged purely for her benefit. And the crew did not hold back. Despite my dramatic facial expressions, my wide eyes, my subtle kicks under the table and my repeated reminders that my mother was present, one particular crew member seemed entirely committed to corrupting the old girl.

They launched headfirst into the most outrageous recent Galley FM stories I’ve heard in years, with zero filters applied, and I sat there in mild horror while Mother listened with undisguised delight.

Imagine watching your seventy-five-year-old mother lean in and ask for clarification when the girl explains that a uniformed pilot had been posting pictures of his appendage at various locations on and around the aircraft to an anonymous X account. According to the storyteller, he had been remarkably relaxed about identifying the airline, yet despite a full-scale internal investigation they had so far been unable to work out who he was.

So, apparently he is still out there, and I swear, by the look on Mother’s face, she went straight home and looked him up. Not that she would ever admit it to me. And frankly, I would rather she did not.

And then, somehow, it got worse.

But before I continue, I do need to clarify that Galley FM is not an actual radio station. It is our affectionate name for the rumour mill, or “crewmours” as we call them. It is the frequency we all tune into when the gossip starts flowing on the jumpseat. It is where the juiciest stories are aired and consumed with a very generous pinch of salt, and despite the conviction some story tellers have, nothing is verified. But, the crew member telling these stories apparently has a friend in the office at the other airline, and she was adamant that every word was true, telling them with the confidence of someone who had read the incident report.

And the next one she told went something like this:

At that same airline, which shall very firmly remain nameless, a male captain and a female first officer were allegedly having an affair. They had carefully requested the same flight and, somewhere enroute, decided to make rather enthusiastic use of their time together.

I will admit, at this point I assumed we were heading for a fairly standard “mile high club” revelation. Shocking enough. Awkward enough in front of mother.

But no.

Apparently these two were aiming for something a little more… advanced.

According to Galley FM, at some point an access request was inadvertently granted by the lady in question during what can only be described as a lapse in judgement. An unsuspecting crew member opened the cockpit door to discover the captain completely naked and tied up using the flight deck escape rope.

Yes. That rope. The sixty three foot knotted rope intended for evacuating through the window in an emergency. The rope that features prominently in safety drills and absolutely nowhere in the operations manual under “Recreational Uses.”

And yet there it was, allegedly wrapped around him like a Boa Constrictor. I mean. You truly could not make it up. Is it true? She swore it was. And if it is, I would give anything to have witnessed the management meeting that followed.

“We were just practising evacuation procedures.”

“It was a very hands on safety drill.”

“My shirt fell off.”

“The rope attacked me.”

If ever there were a moment to be a fly on the wall, that would absolutely be it. And Mother? Well, her “Well I never” had a distinctly theatrical quality to it. There was a faraway look in her eye that suggested she wasn’t nearly as scandalised as she was pretending to be. And I have to say, I am slightly concerned for Dad when she gets home. He may find himself subjected to a sudden and entirely unexplained interest in nautical knots.

Well, {hic}, where do I go from there? After all of that, everything else from the month feels rather mundane and frankly unworthy of retelling now. Minor delays. Running out of chicken. The usual airborne dramas. Nothing quite competes with the phantom appendage poster or the rope bound captain.

So, this is probably a good place to end, and I shall leave you with those images, my little gift to you, and hope they have provided at least a smirk, if not a full laugh. As for me, I am now off to take Mother to the garden centre. We will be purchasing a cup of tea, a respectable slice of cake, and discussing nothing more risqué than Mrs Goodwin’s petunias. No doubt she will think this is a little dull after her New York gossip, but I do feel it is important to draw a line occasionally and gently reinstate our roles.

And besides, Galley FM has absolutely no place between the begonias and the bird feeders.

Much Love

Susan