I hate having to wear this uniform.

Mostly because it makes me stand out.

Someone to ask things of. Someone expected to be perfect.

Someone to serve.

It’s not practical nor comfortable. It was clearly designed by a man. 50 years ago.

It suits no one and fits no one yet it is featured in fashion magazines and you can find many social posts discussing it, and the people wearing it, in great detail.

Some of my colleagues love it, wearing this uniform is all they ever dreamed of. Not me. I’d much rather finish my masters in international relations and move up the food chain. That would stop these postings.

I hang tomorrow’s skirt over the towel rail in yet another anonymous hotel bathroom to drip dry, and remind myself that it’s worth it. I love my country and this is just service of a different kind.

Tomorrow might be the day that they make contact and the operation will truly begin. If not, it will be day 387 as Janine Wilson, perky air steward and preparer of questionable culinary offerings at 38,000 feet. Provider of blankets, able to survive morning breath in a single bound…

I shake my head, grab my phone and send the code for ‘no status change’ before setting the alarm for 3.30am. Hopefully my skirt will have dripped enough that I can iron it dry…yawn…man I hate having to wear this uniform…