In praise of uniform

One of my first tasks when I joined British Airways — 20 years ago this week — was to report to Uniform Stores, at that time located by the eastern threshold of Heathrow’s southern runway. On a chilly winter morning I negotiated the “magic roundabouts” by Hatton Cross, parked, then got out and leaned against my car for a moment to gaze up at the final approach path of the jets I couldn’t believe I would soon fly.

A few weeks ago, British Airways unveiled its latest uniform, designed by Savile Row tailor Ozwald Boateng and offering many more choices to staff. Female cabin crew, for example, have four different options, including a jumpsuit. I can choose between single- and double-breasted jackets and female pilots may choose between trousers, skirts and culottes. Other options — all blue — include a turban, a trenchcoat and (for those winter trips to Montreal) a knitted cardigan or jumper and gloves that work on touchscreens.

As I await my fitting and consider my selections, I’m reminded that much of what now feels ordinary about my uniformed life once surprised me. Offered both short- and long-sleeved shirts, nearly all pilots choose the former. We’re allocated a certain number per year, but short-haul pilots, who fly on more days than long-haul pilots, are more likely to use these up. Pilot shirts were once most often brought low by ink; these days our paperwork lives on our iPads, and curry is the most common hazard (along with perspiration from external aircraft inspections in Kuwait’s high summer).

Alongside the new range of choices, our uniform policy permits additions such as military decorations and the Queen’s (or King’s) Commendation for Bravery in the Air. Our ties are ordinary or clip-on; I have one of each. Ties must be worn outside the flight deck; caps, too, except when “politeness or safety” demands otherwise. (Though there’s an old joke — “it fits perfectly” — about a pilot collecting a new cap and placing it under their upper arm, rather than on their head.) In my first months as a pilot, I once stood in the cockpit door and bade farewell to our customers with my tie loosened, my shirt’s top button unfastened and my hands in my pockets. The captain advised me to never do so again.

At British Airways we report for our regular flight-simulator training and exams in uniform, but not every airline does so. A pilot’s belts are many-notched; other items are replaced whenever they wear out or their owners change size.

We’re required to return old items, and to immediately report any theft to our security team. Across the world, our crew hotels must provide not only in-room kettles but also ironing boards and irons. I don’t mind ironing; indeed, listening to a podcast as I press the next day’s shirt and fasten my epaulettes and name badge is as constant a part of my pre-flight routine as brushing my teeth. In extremis — perhaps we’re on holiday somewhere and can help a disrupted flight on its way — we may fly in ordinary clothes rather than uniforms, but special authorisation is required.

Pilots write their name codes (a five-letter abbreviation of their surname and given names; mine is VANRM) inside their caps. My burn rate for caps is about one per decade. I lost one in a hotel lobby in San Francisco early on the afternoon of Halloween (one day I’ll write a short story about the night I imagine it went on to have), and another when a boy suffering from cancer — he was perhaps 10 — came to visit the cockpit after a flight to Manchester. He sat at the controls while his parents took photographs, and when I lent him my cap it fell down to his eyes and he laughed so hard that I didn’t have the heart to ask for it back.

At his age I was already in love with aeroplanes, but I was less keen on uniforms. However, I’ve come to enjoy wearing one. Above all, as someone who dislikes shopping and all non-blue colours, a uniform saves me time and money and spares me an entire category of daily decisions. It also stands for what I share with my colleagues: probably a love of flying, and for sure a set of rules and standards that specify exactly what’s expected of me, and what I may expect of others. It’s a most welcome contrast to my brief forays into academia and management consulting, and, indeed, to the blank page that awaits when I sit down to write.

Mark Vanhoenacker is a Boeing 787 pilot for British Airways and the author of ‘Imagine a City’ (Chatto & Windus/Knopf). Follow Mark on Twitter @markv747 or email him at [email protected]

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