February 6th, 1990
Flight from LHR – YYZ – DTW
Marriott Hotel, Detroit, Michigan
First time in Detroit and based on what I saw tonight, I don’t think I’ve been missing much.
I was absolutely knackered when we finally arrived, after a scheduled stop in Toronto. The flight was much too busy for crew rest and the only reason I agreed to go out tonight was to devour as much yummy American bar food as possible!
Several lovely guys on our crew, as well as Henrietta Winston-Smythe, aka the snobbiest girl on the planet. She squeals, “super,” (sounds like “soup ah”) every three seconds and claps her hands incessantly. She drove us batty at the briefing, on the flight, the crew bus and again tonight when she turned her toffee nose up at everything. Granted, the burger joint with the red and white checkered plastic tables was a bit dodgy, but the potato skins were to die for and according to Adam, the buffalo wings were, “the dog’s bollocks.”
If for no reason other than to piss off Henrietta Winston-Smythe (she insists on using her name in its entirety) we started calling her Henny, which put her in a foul mood but didn’t shut her up. If not for Henny, I expect we would’ve stayed longer, during which time I’d have no doubt consumed more of anything slathered in cheese!
When we got back to the hotel, Adam suggested a nightcap (reminded me of Jean Jacques calling it a “nighttime cap.”) Within minutes of being seated in the revolving bar, on the seventy-third floor, Adam and Jeremy, for some unknown reason, started calling me Lady Caroline, which I found very amusing. Henny, on the other hand, got very huffy. “You shall have to excuse me,” she said in her plummy voice. “I can’t bear to listen to one more ghastly American.”
“I’m sure they feel the same about you, luv,” Adam blurted.
“I bid you all a bon soir,” she said, then took off.
When she was out of earshot, Jeremy shook his head. “What a you know what.”
“Thank God she’s gone,” Adam sighed. “I’m ordering a bottle of champagne to celebrate.”
The chap who delivered the champagne took a shine to Adam and made such a fuss over popping the cork, that it attracted the attention of the people next to us. The huge man, sitting closest to me, leaned over. “What y’all celebrating?”
“Being graced by Lady Caroline’s presence,” Jeremy quipped.
The man looked at me. “You’re Lady Caroline?”
“She most certainly is,” Adam responded, in an accent not his own.
“Well, miss, I mean Lady Caroline,” the man said, holding out his hand. “I’m Boone Bryson from the great state of Texas and it sure is a pleasure to meet y’all.”
“Thank you, kind sir,” I said in my poshest voice, shaking his meaty hand.
We chatted to Boone and his buddies (all here on car business) for ages (they were hysterically funny) and when it came time for us to leave, he insisted on paying our hefty bar bill.
“It ain’t every day we get to meet British royalty,” I heard him say as we got up to leave.
It sure ain’t Boone, it sure ain’t!