Why?
Oh, I know what you lot think. A Cocktail Girl's life is all champagne, first-class travel and fur-lined bodysuits … right?
Er…
Wrong!
OK…
Maybe there's some champagne. On special occasions. And weekends. And most weeknights. And yes, there once was a fur-lined bodysuit-related incident … But as for first-class travel – not a bit of it! Economy all the way. Squidged up in row 40-whatever, dissed by the cabin crew and farted on by my fellow travellers … Well! It's not very cocktail, is it?
I suppose not.
I have dreamed of first class, or more specifically, of Upper Class. Virgin is the most cocktail of all the airlines. There's something about Richard Branson that says "Campari Sundowners on the terrace in five" to me (not sure what. His eyes? His… beard?). So when the opportunity to idle away a flight to New York in the bar of Virgin Upper (or Virgin Posh, if you prefer. I know I do!) came my way – why, I nearly exploded with delight.
I'm quite sure you did.
Well, on arriving at Heathrow, I was directed to the Special Rich People Only Lounge (or Clubhouse). You can tell it's good because it's situated up a sweeping flight of stairs, down the side of which water features cascade. (All the other soi-disant "first-class" lounges slum it on the floor below.) Inside it's all James Bond retro luxe. Split-level, thick pile, Eames chairs and dangling white-leather swing things. I loved it. A nice chap called Theodore plied me with cocktails. "It's 7.45am," I said, sipping tentatively on Theodore's signature Poire Passion. "You wouldn't be the first," said Theodore cheerily.
Did you actually make it onto your plane?
Yes. I was borne aloft from the Clubhouse, through the gate, and into my gigantic seat on a fragrant puff of privilege. (I may have actually walked, but I can't remember.) Once seated, I was tended to by a gaggle of extremely solicitous types, who – it turned out – were cabin crew, but who I quickly began referring to as "My Mum, But Better". They just kept bringing me stuff and making sure I was happy. I was! I had a quick scout round for any famouses – they only ever travel Upper; anything else would diminish their magic powers – but there were none. I decided instead to look for potential husbands.
This has air rage written all over it.
Which is why I hit the bar, some four hours into the flight. It's a teeny stretch of leather-clad perfection – a big Mini Bar, if you like – which sits in the divide between Premium Economy and Posho Land, it's almost as wide as it is long (it needs to be, to fit in all the complimentary fizz). Cabin crew (my true mums) were hanging out behind it, having a giggle and pouring champagne. I perched on one of the three stools, alongside the only other customer – a chap called Gregory who was French (good!) and reading Grazia (better still!).
