This happened two weeks ago: I was on a train coming back from London to Hastings, where I live. I’d had a wakeful night with a baby and a long lunch with a television producer – not a good combination for rest – and was groggy. So I slept for the first part of the journey and, when I woke up, Paul McCartney was sitting on the other side of the aisle.
I love the Beatles. Like millions of middle-aged British men, I have all their records in every available format. I’ve also written a book about their White Album and a TV drama, Snodgrass, about John Lennon. I also love Paul McCartney’s music (I was, in fact, waiting to get a copy of his new compilation, Pure McCartney, to review for a rock music monthly). The first single I ever bought was “Mull of Kintyre”. And here I was, on a train and, as I say, tired and groggy – and Paul McCartney was sitting two metres away from me.
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