Passing Remarks.

None of us like to hear negative things said about us. It's only human - we are living creatures that get emotionally hurt when our pride takes a bashing. Words hurt and cut more deeply that a knife or a thump. Depending on the level of the thumping or the actual size of the knife, obviously.

But what is about wearing a uniform that makes you impervious or even bulletproof to insults?

Out of your uniform, you maybe react a little differently. Or maybe you don't.

Yesterday, I had the privilege of encountering two very different people, who in a matter of seconds, had contrasting passing remarks said to both myself and other colleague.

As we passed through security along with passengers and my friend, we came across an elderly couple - one in a wheelchair. My colleague, who shall remain nameless, had the distinction of nicking her ankle with the footrest of the chair. The gentleman pushing his partner, had moved the chair a little too close to my colleague and caught her on the left ankle.

No blood came forth and he immediately apologised. My work colleague brushed it off and said it was "no problem".
But then the lady in the chair piped up with a remark that near floored my friend with laughter as she passed through the metal detector.

"Jaysus love - I hope I didn't rub me colostomy bag on ya."

Now I don't know if it's - A. Respect for crew that stems from a certain generation of older Irish people or  B. The uniform that compels Irish people to tell us their life story in ten seconds.

The lady meant no offence and the tone was totally friendly. Even her husband laughed heartily.

Walking away and wishing my colleague a good flight to Boston, I walked the short distance to the Chocolate Lounge for T2's best coffee. Standing in line for coffee, I met my second hilarious individual. When it rains, it bloody pours.

I stood next to the takeaway counter and ordered a latte (I'm so posh!). Having just paid the young lady who had hurt two of her fingers just that morning (she had them strapped up and was working the till rather gingerly), I had a mint muffin thrust in front of me. It was as if it had just fallen down directly from the ceiling, right in front of me. Except it arrived with pace and downright disrespect.

Being surprised and somewhat alarmed by the aggression, I stepped back. Did I jump the queue? Did I not see that there was another customer in front of me?

The answer was no - to both. For getting in this rotund American lady's way, I got a look of disdain that would have peeled wallpaper. The young lady behind the counter saw my look of disbelief and smirked a little. The 'lady' ordered the same drink and we stood waiting for the coffee to be brewed.

When my coffee was prepared, it was passed in my direction. My American friend put her hand out to receive it but the young lady behind the counter held on to it and made sure I got the first latte. I thanked her for her courtesy with a simple nod of the head and flicker of the eyes.

Then came her comment "Ah for Gawd's sake!"

I asked simply "Sorry Madam - have I offended you in some way?"

I got no response. I didn't expect one.

Did she - A. See me as a reflection of the entire organisation and just dislike the company or B. Not like men?

In the space of two minutes, I was laughing for two completely different and bizarre reasons.

Gratitude.

It was a simple squeeze of the arm. Then a peck on the cheek to say thank you. And then a grimace and flicker of the eyes. Dark circles underneath those bleak eyes. But some light still emanated from between the pupils, despite the blood shot look.

She walked off the aircraft with a heavy burden on her shoulders. How would she cope without her mother?

I had the pleasure of meeting an absolute lady yesterday.

I got her life story in a matter of thirty seconds.

She was so close to crying when she came onboard. Borderline about to collapse. A cane supported her.

A kind word and eye contact from another human kept her going. Then an empathetic ear helped too.

And simple help with her bag. That is pretty much all I did. I made her flight a little easier on her. Gave her space and assistance. She appreciated it. She didn't watch any movies or TV shows - she was too distracted.

Halfway through the flight I went down to her seat. She was crying. But it wasn't sobbing. She didn't know what to do next.

Her Mum was 90 when she died.

I didn't know how to help her best. But the simple task of making sure a passenger is okay during a flight made the world of difference to her - she truly appreciated the measure of seeing IF she was okay.

That's where I love my job.

The pressure of the simple squeeze.

The intimacy of the peck on the cheek.

The eye contact with another member of the human race that you've known you've made a difference to.

The eyes tell everything.

Job well done.

The Running Poseurs.

Many of you know that I like to run. I was a member of a running club at the age of 14 (Navan AC) and ran competitively until the age of 19. Then I discovered drink and ladies, and well, you know - I got distracted.

I really wasn't that good in competition - I was one of those athletes (and I use that term loosely) who made up the numbers in a race. To be quite honest, both my older brothers were far better runners than me - but I think I stuck with it longer. I kind of enjoyed the solitude of running alone on the open road and well, still do to this day.

I ran a few marathons a number of years ago and wanted to hit the magic number of five achieved in my lifetime. But I got to three and then realised that it took up almost two and a half years of my life. And I wanted to have working joints and knees when I hit 50! So I put that ideal to the back of my mind.

Whilst training for the marathons, I was still playing local soccer with a club in Navan. I was quite fit yet playing football was my main priority. Running was a way of keeping fit if I missed the usual training sessions on a Tuesday and Thursday evenings. But then I got injured playing football - and age and creakiness caught up with me. I wasn't as young as I previously was and my body was starting to show it's age.

Of course, when you have a life-changing event at the same time, you really start to evaluate what is really important.

Football training is not important anymore. For nearly sixteen years, that's where I thought where strength and fitness came from. Now I know that's not true. Now I am stronger and fitter than ever before - and what is that due to? Plain and simple - running. And enjoying every fecking minute of it.

The reason I give you the background is simple - I want to explain my love for the sport. It used to be a means to an end - but now I realise (here comes the sage wisdom) that it has been the steady constant in my life since the age of 13.

Every time I'm in the USA on a one or two night trip with work, I go running. I always bring my running gear with me so I can run every day - even though this is not possible on every trip. I do get distracted easily, I admit, by the prospect of a good night out. Of course, it's only natural that I can't run with a hangover. I have done it, and yes, it isn't fun. More like sticking needles into your eyelids and stomach than sweating it out of your system.

So every time I'm in the USA at the weekend - whether it be New York, Boston, Chicago or Orlando - I hate AND enjoy going running on a Saturday or Sunday morning. I am torn by the mixed emotions I feel as I run. One minute I am laughing my arse off and the next I am bulldozing my way through idiots that block my path as I clearly shout (and enunciate properly!) "Excuse me!"

This sounds like a mixed message - let me explain. I have been a runner for over twenty years and experienced and well trained runners can spot another good runner a mile away. They can also spot runners who are doing all the correct things to improve their craft and passion. They can spot good gait, good pace and good form too.
I know this sounds like complete wallop, but it is true. One good runner will often nod the head to another runner, who they recognise as being experienced as they pass each other going in the opposite direction. It is affirmation of the fact you are doing something correctly and someone recognises your effort.

So when you see the complete opposite of this in a New York or Boston park at the weekends, you either tend to pull your hair out or fall into the pond / river laughing at their stupidity and the matching outfits.
What made me laugh and cry on Saturday morning was the running clubs. They have the elite runners who haven't a pick of a bean on their bodies and run races every week or two (and always look gaunt).
Then we have the intermediate runners - who are experienced but use the training as a means to keeping fit and healthy and look great.

And then we have the POSEURS. The people who I both want to punch and hug - all at the same time.

I want to hug them because some of them are making the effort to learning how to run properly. They are maybe starting late in life, but I applaud that even more. They might plant their foot wrongly or pronate their toes, but I clap the fact they are trying. It's the gobshites I hate.

I'm talking about the men and women who buy all the top quality, proper gear and cannot run to save their life. They walk or make wide angled arm movements to make it look like they are running. In my opinion, most of these men and women are actually just bringing their clothes along for the ride while they chat with their mates. They aren't remotely out of breath! You are fooling no one! They block the lane too!

May I give some simple tips for those aspiring runners out there?

1. Wearing a matching running outfit does not AUTOMATICALLY make you a complete runner.

2. If anything, good runners NEVER wear a matching outfit. Wear contrasting colours to stand out - if you want.

3. Running involves placing your entire foot on the ground to push off and propel you onto the next step - if you are running at the same pace as walking, you are just walking.

4. When someone faster than you is about to pass you by - and they say clearly "excuse me" - move the fuck over.

5. If you say clearly (at least twice) "excuse me" to other patrons who are using the same pathway, and they do not move - you have the right to bulldoze right through them. You have the backup of saying "I did say excuse me twice! Asshole!" (The last word is optional, but I do use it in a more profane manner at times.)

6. Be considerate to other runners running in the same direction to you and coming toward you.

7. Listen to music while running - but keep it at a sound level where you are still aware of your surroundings. Be aware of traffic and passing cyclists. Music moves you faster and motivates you to do better - it also makes the run pass by in a bit of a blur.

8. This is one of the most important aspects - PLEASE buy the correct running gear! It doesn't have to be expensive or high brow - it just has to be comfortable while you run. Whatever you buy that works for you, may not work for everyone else - so buy for you and don't get dictated by price-tags and labels! Let everyone else buy for themselves - no matter if they pay E5 or $555 for a pair of shorts.

9. You can never have too much lube / plasters / Vaseline for those chaffing areas.

10. Invest in a cheap pair of running shades - they may look gank but they achieve a purpose when running.

11. Always pack suncream - even in Ireland.

12. Irish men - NEVER wear black socks while running. Or four year old trainers! Or GAA shorts! We appreciate that you're making the effort but jaysus! Invest some money in new gear!

13. Leave your jewellery behind at home / hotel - your hands and arms sweat and make it easier for you to lose / slip off when you least expect it.

14. Invest in good runners - I buy two or three pairs a year because the treads in mine deteriorate quickly due to the amount of running I do. Change your runners every 300-400 miles if you are serious about running.

15. This is the most important point - enjoy it. Try and run with a smile on your face - let that be the one challenge I set you on your next or first run. Smile while running or do what I do - sing to your music! Yeah, you might look a bit crazy, but heh! You're running! You're stunning! It's allowed! Most people think running is a mad person's sport anyhow.

For all of you out there - give running a try. Give it your all on your own - if you have the time. Run on a bog road or a city street - running knows no boundaries.

There is no finish line.

John - the opinionated self-righteous businessman.

It's 6.08 - I have to get to gate 408. I have thirty-two minutes. These people in front of me are idiots. These security screeners are secondary school dropouts or people who didn't get a proper education. Or couldn't be bothered. And now they've got the power to tell us where to put our shoes and laptops.

I show my online boarding card (that my secretary Evelyn downloaded to my phone) and passport and manage to scoot in front of a slow, weary family. I skip across a pair of old dears and find a space at the top of one of the security queues. I certainly won't hold anyone up like they might.

Swiftly through screening, I spot fellow suited individuals snaking their way over to one corner of the building. I smell coffee. But it's called the Chocolate Lounge - who in their right mind would eat chocolate at this hour of the day?

A quick expresso would perk me up rightly. The takeaway queue moves slowly and I glance at my watch. A young lady of Eastern European extraction asked me in a clipped tone what I want. I manage to snag a pastry too and pay her E6.30. Good job I know how to make my way around this new monstrosity that they call a 'terminal'.

I skirt past the two same old dears and pinch the elevator for myself. I press the close door button just as they come within a few feet and pretend like I tried to open it for them. Some people do really check their brains in with their baggage when they get to an airport.

As I exit the elevator an air hostess in green crosses my path with her wheel bag in tow. Bloody woman never looked where she was going - even after I came around the pillar.

I see signs for the express train into the city at my gate. I have a few minutes to spare as boarding is about to commence. I told Evelyn to download that application too, which I goddamn hope is on my phone like I asked her to do. The woman has to be told to do everything - no initiative.

I sit down for a second and swamp my breakfast, while the rest of the rabble board my flight. I wipe the crumbs from my yellow and pink striped tie and smooth down the front of my power shirt and Kenneth Cole suit.

A child screams in my ear as it's mother pulls it against it's will toward the plane. I think that man O'Leary had it right when he said that some flights should be child and brat free. Like for God's sake - I pay a decent fee for a ticket that gives me great flexibility and I would like to be entertained for my wants and needs.

I get up as the last twenty or so gather at the gate. I hike my suit carrier over one shoulder, laptop bag over the other and grab my cardboard cylinder in my left hand. In my right I display my phone and passport again to the green uniforms and blonde hair. It's a well rehearsed ritual.

When I manage to edge my way down to the plane I see there is no room for my belongings. A familiar face greets me at the door - the same face that near knocked my six foot frame down with her wheel bag and determined stride.

There is no space over row 2. What do I pay extra for? I ask where I should put everything and while expecting a smart answer, I get a calm reply stating that there is room behind me over row 4. She has closed those overhead bins for a reason such as this, she reassures me.

I get everything overhead save for my laptop, which I throw on top of my seat - 2F. Then I have to swim against the tide of oncoming smelly people that are sitting further down the back.

Once in my seat, I notice a big clutch of condensation blurs my view through my window. Do these people ever clean these windows? Taking my hankerchief I wipe but with little success.

The captain does his usual spiel and the ladies in green show us where the exits are and how to use our yellow jackets. As if they'll be of use when you're hurtling toward the water at 500 miles an hour, as Billy Connolly once said.

Once up and on time for a change, I pull out my computer and start filing through flowcharts and schedule for the day. That woman Evelyn has a busy day ahead for me.

My familiar face asks me if I'd like to purchase anything from the SkyDeli. Black coffee, half filled. No cream, no sugar. Then she has the gall to ask me for E2.60! This airline has gone downhill - if you ask me. There was once upon a time when these ladies in green ran around like headless chickens serving hot breakfasts to everyone. And for free too! Mind you - tickets in those days did cost an arm and a leg.

As I sip my self-made expresso, the captain tells us of an impending delay due to ATC. I don't know what airline this ATC crowd are, but they always seem to get in the way of Aer Lingus getting priority into Heathrow. I express my disgust through the medium of vigorous head-shaking to the lady who has become my nemesis.

I ask her what time we are now expected on the ground as I have a very busy day ahead of me - all organised by Evelyn. She tells me we should be "only five minutes late on stand' - I explain to her that time is money, but it seems to go right over her head - as she just nods and smiles.

Near the end of the flight there is a bit of a kerfuffle with some elderly gent who doesn't seem to be well four or five rows behind me. I have to stay concentrated on my timelines and flowcharts. It turns out that the old gent isn't feeling well and the captain tells us we have priority to land so that medical personnel can look after him on the ground.

We get in at the gate and I'm told by my green friend to remain seated until they take him off the plane. Paramedics take him off swiftly and I notice it's the two old dears again. They manage to get to London before me!

As I disembark I state to my efficient green friend that we are now twelve minutes early. We were not due into Heathrow until 8.05 and my train does not depart until 8.33 - what am I supposed to do until then?
Do these people know how to run an airline or what?

Pompous.

I meet all kinds of people every day. From socially inept to technically adept, the vast spectrum of men and women I meet range from opposite ends of the scale. They all have one thing in common though - they all fly for business or leisure.
We become very astute and shrewd, with experience, in how to read people's reactions and body language. If you ask anyone who works outside the aviation industry and has friends in it - they will say that we are "smart cookies." Of course, the stereotype paints us as half-witted, hair-brained idiots.
So yesterday evening, I had the pleasure of meeting one of the most self-obsessed, all-knowing and pompous women I have met in some time.
She was trying to be something she wasn't - she was dressed like a young woman in her late twenties complete with the "now back-in shoulder-pads." But she wasn't far off getting her state pension.
She gave off the air of being very conservative, yet the creaseless forehead and wind tunnel face suggested otherwise. She made a comment about one of my colleagues wearing too much makeup to her friend, yet she herself looked like a blind child had applied hers.
The woman craved attention - no matter where it came from. The poor lady that was sat beside her had no choice but to listen to her - and she glanced my way once or twice to say HELP!
This woman cribbed and cried about having to purchase sandwiches and tea, yet thought nothing about splashing out over E150 for bottles of perfume and bottles of alcohol prior to getting on the plane. She wasted our time looking at items she was never going to buy and then waved us away as if we were the hired help. Reminding her of the proper manners I was brought up with, I reminded her that she was "more than welcome" for our assistance. Of course, it fell on deaf ears.
She looked down her very angled nose at everything we said or did - yet this "woman" couldn't manage to close a toilet door after herself or say a "thank you" for helpful and friendly service.
You can teach manners and common courtesy to children - some adults forget them as they get older.

Thanks.

This is a bit strange - where do you start writing the first sentence of your first ever blog? I suppose you start by making it relevant to the title.

So who did I meet today? Do I begin to talk about the surly receptionist who grunted at me when I asked her how she was at 8am? I got a curt response from someone who really shouldn't greet the public until well after midday. Or without coffee.

The person who I'd like to compliment and thank today is my surgeon.

A little over two years ago that man saved my life by performing an intense operation to fix a congenital hereditary problem with my heart. Today, after numerous consultations, blood tests, echocardiograms, stress tests and other routine checks - he told me that he doesn't need to see me for at least another year.

I have passed all the various tests he has put before me in the interim and is now fairly happy with my progress.

I suppose this is day one of the rest of my life.