Hello my Chappies! It has been far too long since my last update, so I wanted to pop in to share the latest exploits of yours truly. COVID threw old Henri a curveball. You too? At first I wasn’t sure what to think as Jazz served me the marching papers and told me to cool my heels at home for a year or two; but then I settled in as my Call of Duty scores climbed to the stratosphere, I perfected my home brew recipe for my own version of Labatt 50 and I started to fill out my track pants. The hourly workouts stretched to only twice a day as I lethargically pumped my Thighmaster while laying prone on the couch blasting bad guys. Mr. Stitches and I logged hour after hour staring at old photos of the Mighty 8, me roaring and him meowing with enthusiastic laughter as I regaled him with tales of pre-pandemic flying escapades. The morning lounging became days, the days became weeks, and the once mighty mullet receded into a mess of overall bed-head blending with a ZZ Top style beard that I stroked thoughtfully when pondering my future. I had a walk-in closet full of pyjamas and stretch pants that I would ease into to start my day, and the evening whiskey nightcap became earlier and earlier until I was simply pouring it on my cereal.
My hands—the tools of a craftsman—withered and grew long fingernails no longer suitable for stabbing buttons on the MCP panel like a maestro. My once steely squint faded. The news updates I received served only to remind me that I wouldn’t be able to regain my lofty perch in the clouds anytime soon. Previous left seat warmers would glumly text asking for advice. Other than my lengthy finger-wagging debriefs of their previous flying performances I had nothing to offer them.
I day-traded for a while to pass the time, and successfully turned my already massive stock portfolio into one worth well into the hundreds. I painted glorious masterpieces of me in the cockpit and sketched haunting charcoal images of Mr. Stitches as he vigorously cleaned himself from his lofty perch in the cat tree. I sang freely—ear pleasing renditions of Whitesnake and Def Leppard mainly—and updated my masked Tinder profile pic daily, much to the delight of my numerous female pursuers.
But then: a saviour! A pure-hearted corporation was able to beat the odds, test a vaccine on 7 rodents and announce success. It’s a miracle, gents! My veins are ready, fill me with the unknown glory.
Apart from some impressive chest pain after my booster shot number 13, I call it a win.
The back to work call was pure heaven. The track pants were tossed in the corner. Ab workouts increased, and I crunched on my bosu ball until my obliques screeched in protest. Jumping jacks, pushups and burpees were logged by the hundreds as I gradually sculpted my glutes back to fighting form.
No chances, mates. That’s been my credo since getting the nod to thunder back into the skies. I bask in the tight-lipped nods of respect given to me from the pax as I roll double-masked with a full on drywall suit, shoe covers and two sets of rubber gloves to sail through security without being tackled by that pesky virus.
Shrink-wrapped luggage contains my layover possessions scrubbed raw with bleach and sprayed with disinfectant for good measure. With my double respirator mask swinging from the rolly bag handle I am ready to meet my crew—safely. I look like I just stepped off the set of Breaking Bad as I pull on my mask and elbow-bump the skipper. He is going commando today—no precautions at all. Keep yer distance, Cappy! I give him only a short time before he succumbs. Ah, the uneducated. He’s crazy!
The FA is my type of girl—full face shield, triple masks and a full apron—why didn’t I pack mine? I love her sense of caution, and tuck a strand of stray mullet back into my hazmat hoodie before she gets worked up. Don’t worry doll, I’m fully committed. Stay Safe! I can’t tell what she looks like under that armour, but I think she’s a looker.
On the flight deck is where I really go to work. Spritz that surrounding air with a spray bottle of industrial strength disinfectant and breathe in the cleanliness, mates.
Vigorously scrub that sheepskin seat cover with a solution of tea tree oil and lemon juice, and polish the knobs and levers to a paint-free shine that only pure ammonia can provide.
Put your pen in a condom before laying it on that filthy centre panel, and kick the logbook over the skipper so he takes on all the risk of opening that petri-dish. That’s why he makes the big bucks!
A toilet paper roll between you and the hand-mike makes getting the clearance almost completely safe, gents. I use it like a trumpet and keep my pristine lips away from the contaminated surface. I mash the mic button through my protective latex and scrub exposed buttons and knobs, going through my Costco sized box of wet wipes in a leg and a half.
Some might say I developed a wee touch of the OCD due to the pandemic. That’s crazy talk, mates! Safety is a lifestyle. And sure, the Covidiocy was a couple years ago and I’m still fully masked up and liberally covered in hand sanitizer, but as a pro at my level you can’t be too careful.
Thanks to me and my gloved-up brethren, our precautions scored a huge victory as we batted away monkey pox and the newfangled variants they kept throwing at us like lightning bolts. Let the left seat warmer roll his eyes as I go to full O2 in flight after his little throat clearing event. Not on my watch, Cappy!
Me and the other COVID warriors proudly squint steely eyed towards the next media induced emergency with confidence. You’re welcome, chaps! Stay safe!
