My life with the Beatles


How can it be Š losing out once was understandable but twice is just plain careless.  Paul McCartney has married for the second time and neither time was to me. When he tied the knot the first time in 1969 I had to accept the inevitable and acknowledge that IÕd never wear the yellow maxi coat of bridal ambition.  After all, I was only 11 at the time.  No matter how you looked at it Š the prospects of marriage were poor. Nevertheless, IÕd been carefully nursing the fantasy that, one day, my prince would comeÉ  Despite living in deepest rural Scotland, IÕd just happen to be walking, unaccompanied, past an unspecified London hotel, singing to myself (as you did before all the lunatics were released to care in the community) and, despite being functionally tone deaf (donÕt laugh Š think of Linda), the lovely Paul would hear me, fall madly in love with me, and whisk me off to a life of Š well who knows.  The sixties might have all been about permissiveness and free love but back then 11 year olds did not long for PVC Jump suits and strut around the house singing ŅsexyÓ.  They read June and School Friend, joined the Girl Guides, and waited sensibly for puberty. Precocious midriff-baring tweenies hadnÕt even been invented. I could lie awake in my bedroom with pictures cut from Jackie curling on the wallpaper, singing ŌBorn too lateÕ until I was a sophisticated sixteen year old, but he was never going to wait for me.  Just as Davy Jones of the Monkees was never going to grow tall enough to look me in the eye, no matter how many times I did the maths, Paul was just too old for me.  Men didnÕt marry girls 15 years younger than them.

Yeah right, so what went wrong with that theory?  Heather Mills Š 34!  Twenty five, I repeat, twenty five years younger than him.  So what happened to me?  While he was happily married, living on the farm, in blow me down with a gale force wind, deepest rural Scotland, being as boring as bedbugs, I had to content myself to bopping through the excruciating years of Wings at assorted school discos.  As baby-faced Paul stopped being cool and began to metamorphosise into someone vaguely resembling my dad singing at weddings cinca 1975, I flirted with Rod Stewart, David Cassidy and Marc Bolan instead.

I grew up and moved on, but who knew that after thirty years, Paul would be back on the market?  And I simply wasnÕt ready.  For goodness sake, these days, it takes me three weeks to put on my make up, never mind lose the middle age spread, and reverse the seven signs of ageing (No 1 Š apparently, is owning Mull of Kintyre).  Hell, all those years, I wasnÕt wearing sun screen.  I wasnÕt cleansing and moisturising.  I didnÕt exfoliate.  I just didnÕt know.

How was I supposed to guess that I had to keep the old bod in match condition?  I thought the game was over.   You would have thought that being 14 years younger would have been enough to tip the scales in your favour, but I didnÕt reckon on Heather Mills muscling in on my pre-pubescent territory.  I mean, why canÕt these younger women settle for someone their own age and leave the big boys for someone who knows all their lyrics?  I wouldnÕt have tossed your engagement ring out of the window.  Ah well, I missed him, and, frankly, I donÕt think third time is going to be lucky.  But you know PaulÉif you ever change your mindÉ  IÕm sure my husband wouldnÕt mind.