Fatty O'Leary's Dinner Party Read Free

sorted it out. Somebody else has taken up the offer. Please excuse me.”
    Fatty settled back in his seat.
    â€œI can’t recall when I was last so insulted,” he muttered to Betty. “I’m going to write to the airline about this.”
    â€œYou have every right to do just that,” agreed Betty, reaching across to touch Fatty on his still-offended arm. “Still, let’s not allow it to spoil our holiday. Things will be different in Ireland.”

3
    B ECAUSE OF THE FULLNESS OF the flight and the vagaries of the seat allocation system, Fatty and Betty were separated from one another. Fatty was placed in the front row of the economy cabin, while Betty was seated ten rows behind him, lost in the sea of faces that a large aircraft so quickly becomes. Fatty craned his neck to get a glimpse of his wife, and she waved cheerfully to him before they both settled. Then the procedures of departure began, and they were soon heading north-east, climbing up over Texas, on the very reverse bearing to that pursued by Corny P. O’Leary those many years ago.
    Fatty felt uncomfortable. The seats in the economy class of passenger jets are designed for the average frame, and often badly designed at that. Fatty was far from average, tending, in his words, to the generously proportioned. Although he just managed to squeeze between the armrests of the middle seat in which he was placed, the passengers on either side of him found that their own space was substantially encroached upon by various parts of Fatty. His elbows, which were stout in the extreme, were touching the sides of each neighbour, digging into their chests. His legs, which again were wellcovered, were pressed hard against the thighs of each, and every time that Fatty breathed in, the other passengers felt a great pressure against their own chests, requiring them to exhale as he inspired, and vice versa.
    It was clearly going to be an impossible trip, and it was not long before the two affected passengers were exchanging surreptitious glances.
    â€œGoing to Ireland?” Fatty addressed the man on his right cheerfully.
    â€œWell, that’s where this plane’s going …” began his travelling companion, but then Fatty breathed in and the rest of his sentence was cut short.
    â€œAnd you?” asked Fatty conversationally, turning to the woman on his left. “Have you been to Ireland before?”
    She tried to speak, but failed, being virtually winded. She looked imploringly at the man beyond Fatty who nodded in sympathy and reached for the call button to summon help. When the cabin attendant arrived, Fatty’s neighbour rose from his seat, pushing hard on Fatty’s elbow to allow him to do so, and engaged in an earnest, whispered conversation with the attendant.
    The attendant appreciated the situation and sought to reassure the distressed passenger. Making her way forward, she found the purser, who discreetly peered atthe source of the problem.
    â€œThe only free seat is up in First Class,” the purser said. “We were keeping places for a couple of VIPs who called off at the last moment. Move him up there. That’ll give the others some room.”
    Fatty was delighted. It was a small First Class cabin, with only ten seats, each of which occupied the space of at least two economy seats. In the middle of the cabin was a large, fixed table on which a flower arrangement was secured, along with a row of bottles of wine. Fatty, who had a good eye for these matters, could tell at a glance that while these included the very best California offerings there were also some outstanding French estates and vintages.
    He accepted a glass of champagne and settled into his new seat. It was kind of them to invite him into First Class, he thought; they were probably trying to make amends for the insult which had been offered him before boarding. Well, he was not one to bear a grudge, and he would overlook all that in the