GOLDEN SLUMBERS

"Did I ever tell you about the time I met Paul McCartney?"

"You met a Beatle? When?"  

"On the 18:15 train home from Paddington."

George didn't believe his father (a compulsive teller of tall tales) so probed him further.

"Why would a famous person, and a Beatle at that, be on a train with the rest of the general public?"

Leaning back to consider his young son's question, Michael blew on his mug of hot cocoa, creating ripples across the milky surface.

"Why wouldn't they? It surely can't be much fun being so famous and travelling alone all the time can it? I often see famous people in the city and on public transport. Of course, they're typically almost always wearing a disguise."

"What was McCartney's disguise, then?"

Michael stroked his salt and pepper stubbled chin and rested his flat cap on his knee.

"Let me see. He had a wig on with hair that looked like an old tramp in the park, all grey and greasy plus wet with sweat at the thin, straggly ends at the back of his neck. Oh yeah, he was also wearing giant coke bottle glasses that made his eyes look like they were under a magnifying glass."

"Oh c'mon dad!"

"It's true! I swear on my Great Aunt Nelly's life."

"But dad, you told me Aunt Nelly already died!"

"Oh. So I did. We'll swear on the dog's life instead."

George looked down at the floor where Barney was sleeping soundly. Not wanting his father to tempt fate, he spoke up on behalf of the family dog.

"How about you don't swear on anything. It'll be better for everyone. Especially Barney."

Michael smirked and put his cup down on the small wooden table next to Michael's bed.

"Shall I continue?"

George nodded emphatically.

"Well, anyway, I sit directly opposite him and he tries to avoid eye contact with me,  clearly trying to remain as anonymous as possible. It isn't easy being that famous you know."

Clutching onto his well worn teddy bear, George pressed his father further on the subject of this unlikely encounter.

"So how did you know it was him, then?"

"I noticed him humming to himself. It was almost as if he was teasing the rest of us with his soft murmurings."

"What was he humming?"

"Yesterday."

George rolled his eyes.

"That's so obvious though!"

"I know! I'm glad you feel the same way. So then I picked up when he stopped and began to sing - why she had to go? I don't know, she wouldn't say, I said something wrong now I long for yesterday.

George's eyes had grown wider as his father sang the familar song. He had been a fan of the Beatles since as long as he could remember; nights when he couldn't sleep were spent with his father singing the entire songbook to him on the end of his bed.

"What did he do then?"

"Then he got up and moved to another seat."

"He did? Why?"

"I think he thought I was onto him."

George noticed his father scratching his beard, which was a sure sign he wasn't telling the truth.

"Itchy beard!"

He stabbed a pointy finger at his dad who took his son's accusation in his stride.

"Actually, it really is itchy. So no it's not what you think. I'm not lying."

Unsure about his father's sincerity, George gave him the benefit of the doubt.

"So go on then. What did you do next?"

"I followed him, of course."

"You sat down next to him again?"

"No. I leaned over him and whispered - 'I'm onto you, Paul. Your secret's safe with me, pal.'"

Michael looked at his son to see if his suspension of disbelief was still intact. It appeared to be. For now at least.

"What did he say?"

"Nothing. He nodded and gave me a quick thumbs up."

George frowned. The ending of the story didn't quite have the excitement the rest of the tale had promised.

"Is that it?"

"No, as it happens. I slipped him my business card and asked him if he would be good enough to call you before bedtime."

George blew a raspberry at his dad to indicate his complete incredulity at his silly story.

"Now I know you're lying!"

And then, right on the hour, the home telephone started ringing. George nearly fainted hearing the shrill rings from across the hallway.

"I'll get it," said Michael who went and grabbed the phone and made sure to not trip over the long cable as he brought it to his son.

"Go on. Answer it."

Now George really did believe his dad, genuinely petrified at answering the phone so much did he love the Beatles and all their songs.

"Go on, George. It's for you."

George stared at the phone and his arm went limp. He couldn't seem to get his arm to pick the thing up.

"Don't leave it too late! He won't stick around forever."

And with that warning, George just picked the receiver up and answered the call with a trembling voice.

"Hello?"

Watching his son's face turn from fear to pure joy made Michael feel like the greatest dad in the world.

He left his son alone to talk to his hero as he stood outside in the hallway listening to George's side of the conversation.

Ten minutes later, Michael returned to his son's bedroom to find out how the call had gone with Paul McCartney.

"What did he say, then?"

"He sang me a song. Actually he sang two."

It was now Michael's turn to be disbelieving of his young son.

"Two songs?! That's just greedy. What did he sing?"

"He sang The Frog Song and Golden Slumbers."

Michael shook his head, envious of George's phone call with the Beatle.

"I'm actually jealous. I love Golden Slumbers."

Grinning, George replied "I know you do. I told him he sang it almost as well as you."