Waiting for the hotel bus to pick us up in Madrid, we're standing outside the terminal watching Iberia hostesses arriving for work. Most of them are gorgeous, and they all smile and say "Hola" as they see us standing there in the early morning sunshine in our uniforms. Dudley, the flight engineer, is moaning about the transport being late. He moans all the time, and you learn to ignore him. Myself and Oliver, the F/O, are ogling the hosties and arguing about which ones are the most attractive. I like the darker ones, while he goes for the rarer blondes. It's a pleasure we don't have, beautiful girls bringing hot meals and coffee. Dudley is so bad at making coffee we never ask him.

You hear stories about broken marriages caused by bored pilots staying in hotels with single girls in their twenties who don't mind getting intimate with a captain or a dashing young F/O. But the cargo business has its fair share of divorced pilots, too. It's the nature of the job, being away so much that returning home you interrupt the normal routine of domestic life. Suddenly the wife has to wash your shirts and cook you dinner, go drinking with your mates if she wants to see much of you, share the bed with someone else (though some will be doing that while you're at work, anyway). I've always been a bit surprised by how many aircrew are unfaithful. Personally, I'd rather look forward to getting home and cuddling up in bed with a loved one than wondering if she can somehow tell with her female intuition that I picked up some drunken slapper in a Brussels bar two days ago.

Oliver is single, and believes that pilots should take a vow of bachelorhood when given their ATPL. He says it's not fair on the women. My argument is that they know what they're getting into when they marry a pilot. And lets face it, they're usually living a pretty good lifestyle. Loads of money and lots of time to do what they want. The problem is, as I said, that you can grow apart, and there's not a lot you can do about it. The ex RAF guys have the most stable marriages, and I suspect that this is because military wives are a tougher breed.

Another busload of hosties, arrive, and we watch fascinated as nylon-covered legs descend from the bus, the girls chattering away amiably in Spanish as they drag their wheeled suitcases along behind them. They disappear through the doors of the terminal just as the hotel bus pulls up, and I pick up my battered case and flight bag as if waking from a dream. The sun is just starting to warm the air, and I take my jacket off in anticipation of the greenhouse effect of the bus windows. My shirt has black marks on it from the aircraft's shoulder harness and refuses to stay tucked into my trousers. The knot on my tie has been loosened once too often and sits somewhere above my right nipple. It's going to be a nice day, and we'll sleep through most of it.

"Ah, the glamour!", Oliver says as we board the bus.

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