#john lennon looked extra fine that morning

[ringosmistress]

[javelinbk]

fic ask! Perspective flip for Because I Love Paul :)

Honestly took me a moment to remember what Because I Love Paul is, not going to lie.

The first part of that one was slanted to John’s POV, so let’s see if it works from Paul’s POV, and who knows I might even try to add in some semblance of a plot this time!

~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~

Paul walked into EMI with even more swagger than usual, an extra swing in his hips. He knew there wasn’t a single person in this room who didn’t want to either fuck him or be him. Galivanting around town with Robert Fraser had done wonders for his physique lately, and he’d already had to get dressed twice; Jane apparently finding something about the cut of his jacket impossible to resist.  

And then there was the occasion itself. Hot off the success of their Sgt Pepper album, they were now about to represent the entire country, being beamed around the world for a satellite broadcast. Take that, Dad.

Yeah, he was on top of the world alright. So why didn’t he feel like it?

He’d been fine last night – rehearsing with the band, a late dinner with Robert, in bed with Jane. But for some reason he’d woken up this morning feeling as if there was a weight sitting on his chest, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that any moment he was about to get a tap on the shoulder. Sorry, lad. Time’s up. We’ve found you out.

He knew it was ridiculous. He was one of the four most famous and successful men in the world; had been for years. He just got like this sometimes – it would pass.

And so, he did what he always did - he overcompensated. Every smile was broader, every wink bigger, every strut cockier. He knew if he kept it up for long enough, his brain would catch up with his body, and he’d believe the hype as much as anyone else in the room.

He smiled as a young girl came up to him carrying a cardboard box. He recognised her from the office, but fuck knows what her name was – Barbara, or Brenda or something.

“Hello, love,” he said, fixing his gaze on her as if she were the only person in the room.

“Hi,” she said, smiling coyly and blushing as if she was meeting him for the first time. “Brian asked me to hand out these promotional badges, and he wants everyone to wear a One World sticker.”

“Sure,” he said, still keeping his smile in full charm-mode while he reached into the box, pulling out a sticker and a Sgt Pepper badge. “Cheers, love,” he said, throwing in a wink for good measure.

The girl blushed even more, before heading back into the crowd.

I’ve still got it, Paul thought cockily, but as he peeled the backing off his sticker, he noticed that his hand was trembling. That second joint probably hadn’t been a good idea.

He pressed the sticker onto his jacket (it better not leave a fucking mark) before turning his attention to the badge. But the shaking in his hands only got worse, and as he fumbled to try to pin it on he managed to stab himself in the finger once, twice, three times.

”Ah, shitting hell!” he swore as the needle poked into his finger once again.

“What are you doing?” he heard beside him.

“Trying to put this bloody badge on,” he explained to John, still looking down. “But I keep stabbing myself.”

“Give it here, you daft get,” said John, standing closer and holding his hand out. “Can’t have you getting blood all over your jacket, now can we? Not with you looking so handsome.”

Paul smiled, his mood immediately improving. A Lennon compliment was a rarity – he couldn’t be letting the moment be ruined by a few pre-show jitters.

“Oh?” he asked. “Is that so?”

John shrugged casually. “You always looked good in white. Reminds we when we first met. You know, at…”

“Woolton Fete,” interrupted Paul, smiling. “Course I remember.” That was his very first stage outfit, the white sports coat. His first weapon in the Paul McCartney sartorial arsenal. That was the jacket he used to pull birds, to charm mothers, and - apparently – impress future songwriting partners.

“Mind you, you were a little chubby kid back then,” teased John.

Cunt, thought Paul, although he couldn’t find it in himself to be too annoyed with John. And he wasn’t wrong anyway; Paul was chubby back then. Strangely, even that part of the memory made him fond – the reminder that John was one of the few people that knew him before he became Him. He was obviously getting sentimental in his old age.

“Shut up Lennon,” he said in a mock-disgruntled voice. “Or I’ll tell them all the truth about you. Now, are you helping me with this or not?”

“Alright,” chucked John, taking the badge from Paul. “Aw, this is great!” he said, as he looked at the Sgt Pepper logo. “I didn’t know we had these!”

Paul smiled and took the badge back off John. “You have it then,” he said, starting to pin it on the lapel of John’s jacket.

“Aw, no I can’t take it. Pepper was your idea.”

Well, he wasn’t wrong there. But it was only half an idea really – god knows where they would have ended up without John there to fill up the other half of the album.

“And you helped make it happen. I couldn’t have done any of it without you, John. Now stop arguing and stand still. If I hurt you, Brian will kill me.”

Paul began to pin the badge to John’s jacket, and he was halfway through the job before he realised that his hands were no longer shaking. His chest felt less tight as well, as if he could finally take a full breath.

He looked up once he’d finished, and the answer for his sudden calmness became clear as he looked directly into John’s eyes.

John looked at him, or rather he looked in him – that way that only John could do, where he felt like he was looking into his very soul. He’d like to be able to blame it on his new glasses, but they weren’t even that new any more, and actually John seemed to have had that power over him since that first summer day in Woolton. Back then it had felt thrilling, exciting; as if he’d finally met his match. And there were other times when it settled him – like in the touring years, when the whole world had gone crazy around them. In those days, one look from John would be enough to remind him who they were – just two lads from Liverpool who made it very, very big; that’s all.

But recently, he’d found John’s looks unnerving. As if he could see through the smile and the bravado and the white jacket, straight to the truth of Paul. As if John was the one who would find out that it was all a sham.

Not today. Please don’t see me today.

There,” he smiled, looking down and patting the badge in place.

“Ta,” replied John. “Although I should get you one now.”

“Ok,” said Paul, spotting the cardboard box on a nearby table. “Take your pick”.

He handed John the box, watching on fondly as he rummaged around in it like a kid in a toy shop lucky dip.

“Ah, perfect,” John suddenly said, handing Paul the box while he started to pin the badge on him, right at the top of his shirt, so Paul had no way of seeing what it was. He immediately felt his anxiety rising once again.

“Hang on!” he said. “What does it say?”

“It’s a surprise,” said John, finishing up.

Paul craned his neck down, trying to get a look. “It better not say I’m a dickhead or something.”

“Paul, trust me will you - do you really think I’d let you go out in front of the national press with something embarrassing on you?”

“Yes, John - I do,” replied Paul, although it couldn’t be further from the truth. God knows John liked a joke, and Paul knew better than anyone how much John loved to make people feel uncomfortable just to fuck with them – but Paul had never had to worry about it on his part. Whether it was their partnership, or the shared vulnerability of knowing each other as two spotty teenagers, but he’d trusted John implicitly from day one, and he knew he’d never let him down. And he bloody well hoped John thought the same about him.

John gasped, clutching at his chest dramatically. “How could you! After all that I’ve done, letting your chubby little cheeks into my band…”

“Cut it out, will ya,” laughed Paul, swatting him on the chest.

“Boys!” called Brian. “Come on - everyone’s waiting.”

Paul smiled at John, who rolled his eyes. “Yes, sir, sorry sir, on our way, sir!”

The smile didn’t leave his face as they joined George and Ringo for the photo op. But this time the smile was genuine, and thank god, because it was so much easier to just be himself rather than putting on The Paul McCartney Show. That was the great thing about having the others, he supposed – one of them would aways be there to pull each other up, even if putting on a show was the last thing they felt like doing.

Maybe today wouldn’t turn out to be quite so bad after all.

He just had to remember to check what that bloody badge said.

[midsizebook]

Help!

A/N: here’s an overly specific SATELLITE blurb about a situation I’m currently dealing with. Except, despite my best efforts, I don’t currently live with Harry Styles, so my thing in real life has a slightly different ending. Mostly writing this for myself, not gonna lie, lol. But I hope it can bring someone some comfort too.

summary: Alice can’t get her antidepressants and shit happens. This is the unglamorous, unromantic side of mental illness. warnings: mentions of mental illness, prescription meds, Harry being a supportive partner. —

I pushed my bangs off my forehead, dotting moisturizer onto the outlines of my face and rubbing it in. I could hear the faint sound of Harry’s singing, downstairs, in the kitchen. He’d clearly made it to The Beatles playlist, which means he’s making breakfast.

I need somebody (Help!)

not just anybody (Help!)

you know I need someone

heeelppp!

I closed my eyes, smiling, as I listened to him belt out alongside John Lennon on the speakers. He’d been on a Beatles kick lately. He and Mitch were rediscovering the Lennon-McCartney hits, but they got all flustered and weird whenever I said that their partnership was kind of similar, minus the years of toxic rivalry. this new found obsession gave me comfort, thought. It’d become something of a routine for Harry to listen to the same songs every morning. I loved hearing him sing along as I got ready for the day and tracking his activity by the song that he had reached.

I opened the medicine cabinet and reached for my morning meds. The bottle felt light, I was running low, so I made a mental note to call my psychiatrist later today. ———

Help me if you can, I’m feeling dowwwnnn

and I do appreciate you being ‘rounnndd

In the kitchen, Harry hummed to himself, flipping the omelette in the pan, and gyrating his hips the way he usually did onstage. He was still in his sweaty running clothes, but boy did he look good.

I stood in the doorway, watching him, and wondering how I got so lucky. He was perfect. Harry turned around, getting startled when he saw me, but not for long. The surprise immediately gave way to mischief. He smiled, raising an eyebrow and dancing his way towards me. With his body facing mine, he reached a hand behind him, turning the stove off, and then wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me close. “Dance with me.” He demanded.

“W-what?” I laughed, kissing his lips. “You stink” “C’mon, Matilda, dance with me.”

Won’t you please, please help meee?!

—

I wasn’t the kind of person to congratulate herself very often, mostly because I always found faults within even my biggest accomplishments, but I must admit, I was proud of myself this time. for managing to remember the refill I needed, getting over my anxiety long enough to schedule the follow up without any external help, and even making sure it would get refilled while I still had a few pills in my older bottle. In all my years of being on antidepressants, this had never happened. I usually put off making the calls because of how anxious they all made me, waited until the last possible moment, when I was one pill away from running out, and then having to pay a whole lot of extra money for some temporary pills to tide me over. But, it appeared Harry’s encouragement and support were starting to rub off on me. For once, I had my shit together. Or so I thought. "I’m sorry what?! What do you mean you have no record of the prescription? No, it’s fine. I’ll call my doctor. Thank you.”

just my luck. I felt heart racing in my chest. My breath quickened, my hands felt clammy. I can’t do this…

—

“honey, I’m homeeee!” Harry’s voice announced in the distance. As always, he was back from his morning run and would probably want to make breakfast soon. I ran back upstairs and jumped into bed quickly, shutting my eyes and pretending to be asleep. Moments later, Harry walked in. “oh, she’s asleep.” He whispered to himself. He made his way over to my side of the bed, pulling the blankets over me and tucking me in. The scent of his sweaty workout hung in the air as he leaned over and gave my forehead a quick kiss. I’m a horrible person for lying to him…

—

“Babe? Hand me the salt please?” My hands shook as I reached into the spice cabinet and grabbed the salt container. I waited a moment for it to steady before turning towards Harry, but it was too late. He’d noticed. “What was that?” damn him and his attention to detail. “what was what?” Maybe if I pretended not to know what he’s talking about…

“Your hands are shaking. Look! Do you seriously not feel that?” The salt container slipped out of my hand and went crashing into the ground.

“fuck!” I jumped as the shards of glass hit my leg. “you alright?”

“yes, god! I’ll clean it up okay? Let it go already!”

Harry frowned, staring at me, no doubt confused by my overreaction.

I rushed to the broom and began to busy myself with cleanup, trying my best not to focus on the fact that Harry was still fixated on me.

“what’s the matter, Alice? Talk to me.”

shit. Now he wanted to talk.

when I said nothing, Harry walked over to me and grabbed the broom, prying it out of my hands and setting it aside. “Look at me. Why won’t you look at me? Alice! What’s going on with you?”

“nothing.” I whispered, barely loud enough for Harry to hear. “it’s clearly not nothing, baby.” His hand cupped my face, gently tilting it so my eyes would meet his. “Is - is this about the other night? Cuz, if it is…you know, I don’t care about that…it’s no big deal!”

“the other night?” It took me a moment to figure out what he was talking about. “Oh, god, no! Harry, no!” I pushed his hand off my face, turning away from him, and tiptoeing around the glass remains of the salt container to find a seat at the dining table. “so, you couldn’t cum. Big fuckin deal. Happens to the best of us! It’s no reason to be embarrassed, really.”

“Oh my god, shut up, Harry, will you” as soon as the words came out of my mouth, I realized how rude I was being. “Sorry.”

Harry followed me, taking a seat next to me. He had clearly run out of things to say, so he stared at me expectantly, awaiting some kind of explanation.

“I, uh, look,” I cleared my throat. “Headaches, anxiety, dizziness, nausea, uncontrollable shaking, flu-like symptoms including chills and body aches, irritability, difficulty getting and maintaining arousal….” I was out of breath and positively blushing. So, I paused, looking away from Harry’s intense gaze. His brows furrowed, shaking his head in confusion.

“these are all symptoms of withdrawal.” I said matter-of-factly.

“sorry, withdrawal?”

“from my antidepressants.”

“you- you haven’t been taking your meds?” His expression had now changed from confusion to concern.

“I haven’t been able to!” The frustration that I’d been refusing to confront for days now bubbled to the surface. I exhaled loudly, tears forming in the corners of my eyes.

“Why, why not?”

“I’ve run out….and, I don’t know. I called my doctor. She said she sent the prescription over to the pharmacy, but-“ I was full on sobbing now. harry, to his credit, jumped right into action, pulling me out of my chair and onto his lap, rubbing my back. I let myself cry for a second before catching my breath and speaking again “every time I call the pharmacy they say I need to tell her to do it again. And, I- I tried. Her secretary doesn’t- she doesn’t-“

“breathe, baby, breathe.” Harry squeezed my shoulders gently.

“I keep trying to explain to her, but she doesn’t get it. And I’m so bad at this confrontation thing���I get so anxious and….”

I buried my face into Harry chest, sobbing like a child. He sat there, completely still except for the hand that continued to rub my back soothingly.

“honey, why didn’t you say anything?” He finally asked when my cries had died down.

“it’s embarrassing, Harry! It’s, like, so dumb. I should be able to do this one thing by myself. I didn’t know how to tell you that I’d failed to obtain a simple fucking refill.”

“‘S not dumb-“

“oh but it is!! Why would you wanna be with someone who can’t sort out her own problems and cries all over your clothes at the most minor of inconveniences. How exhausting is that?!”

“Baby, this isn’t minor.” The hand that had been rubbing my back suddenly stopped. He used to to pull me away so he could look into my eyes as he spoke. “Alice, you need this medicine to function. How are you supposed to sort it out on your own if literally you can’t function? Hmm? This isn’t like your vitamins or whatever. Miss a day and it’s no big deal…this is like the biggest deal!”

hearing him explain it made everything sound logical, in my head, though, I felt like a helpless idiot who could get dumped for mentioning it out loud. “does that make sense? Plus, it’s what I’m here for. You can tell me these things, baby. I can help. I can call on your behalf and sort it out.”

I nodded, wiping the stray tears in my eyes with the back of my arm. “Guess I just don’t know how to ask for help, sometimes.”

“It’s simple, really, you can just say ‘help! I need somebody…help! Not just any body’” I rolled my eyes, shoving my elbow into his chest.

Harry laughed, continuing to sing. “Help! I need someone. heeeelp!”

“alright, John Lennon. I get it. So, could you please help me?” “it would be my pleasure.”

[mickgaydolenz]

I was wandering through this public vegetable market and super lost, everything was soooo loud it hurt and my vision kept getting blurry and when I stopped people to ask for help my hands went through them, suddenly I was inside a restaurant and laying numb on the floor, but the restaurant was empty and all of the sudden someone stands above me and its Mike, he's wearing a black suit or something and he's just staring at me and goes "we got another one, boys. tie her feet and take her with us." I didn't see it, cause I wouldn't move, but I was dragged by the feet by someone, then I was in the backseat of a dark car and they kept boxes on my lap, and all of the sudden we're at the woods and Mike is leading me to a campfire, and around the camp fire is Micky holding a hot pink classical guitar, Jan Berry picking petals off of a rose, and and davy was in a tree messing around with what looked like a cat toy and john lennon from like, the 80s (or in actuality 1980) was standing staring at mike and I. mike said "I found here on the floor of a denny's, she needs food." then John gestures for Micky to do something so he turns his guitar over and a bowl of soup is revealed and he grins evily and goes "meat soup with extra meat." and I wanted to say that I was a vegetarian but I couldn't speak I didn't talk for this whole dream, but I just shook my head and next thing I know I'm being held down and they're pouring piping hot meat soup in my mouth and Jan Berry afterward offered to sing deadmans curve, because he said he knew it was my favorite song (it wasn't) and then he sang POPSICLE (that's an actual song I recommend you go listen to it right now cus its very weird) and Micky started to throw thing at davy from the ground, then threw his guitar and Davy fell, then the tree he was in opened like a door and in walks yoko ono and peter tork, but peter is dressed like when he was pretending to be Micky's mom, and Yoko looks at me and winks SUPER flirtaciously and comes to sit, she dressed like a literally goddess in some flowy white dress with long sleeves and her every move is effortless, and and Mike goes, "this is gonna be your wife, Yoko. she's one of us." and then I started backing away (as much as I'd like to marry yoko this was very horrifying) and before I can run away John grabbed me and pushed a duck into my arms, then we were watching the rocky horror picture show off of a projector, but its just the part where frank n furter is chasing Janet going "you better WISE UP! Janet WEIS" over and over again and Yoko is sitting next to me with her arm around my shoulders, and she kept taking my hand and kissing it which was really weird, then Jan stood up and threw a stick at the projector screen and declared his love for Davy, then Peter stood up and said that he can't just do that because, and I quote "I bought this projector you can't tell him that normally??" then it was morning and I was forced into this really long white dress and so was Davy, and we both walked down the aisle together, but Davy was walking to Jan and I was walking to Yoko, and Micky was the one marrying the four of us, but in the middle of the reception John just got up and straightened Mick'y tie then sat back down, and then I woke up in a cold flustered sweat.

:)

okay fine raya you win!!! here it is everyone. the best dream to ever have been dreamt. the fucking jackpot of all jackpot dreams. i’m screaming and crying with a jealously so pure i have flames covering my whole body

[mrepstein]

New Musical Express - Friday June 18, 1965

Salute to the MBEatles!

BY THE EDITOR

Dear John, Paul, George and Ringo:

Congratulations from all NME readers on the honour bestowed on you by the Queen, who saw fit to make you Members of the British Empire for your unprecedented achievement in the history of world show business and winning for Britain the interest of millions of teenagers all over the world.

As always, there have been the knockers who say this award to you is ridiculous. A “Daily Mirror” writer attacked the whole thing and others made sarcastic asides about it. On the other hand, the serious-minded “Daily Telegraph,” in its leader, suggested the honour was not sufficient and you should have received a more generous award, such as a Knighthood.

The Prime Minister, the Member of Parliament for Huyton, Liverpool, recommended you for this honour. And as you admitted on television, you were sent the forms to fill in six weeks ago to say if you wanted an honour.

We’re glad you accepted it. This means that your teenage fans, who made you, can share in the honour. And these days, when teenagers seem only to get bad publicity, how pleasant to have something good happen.

Your ladies will be going with you to Buckingham Palace to the investiture - there are two in July, and others later in the year - and let us hope “baby” lets Maureen go. You’ll be decked out in your finest attire and you’ll have a very happy day. Myra Secombe, wife of Harry, recalled that she was “scared stiff” before the investiture, but after it she felt exhilarated, having seen her husband receive his OBE.

You will come away with silver medals on a pink ribbon, each with a pin to attach it to the left side of your dinner jackets on formal occasions. You may have your medals before the premiers of “Help!”

One final suggestion - if the Queen could not make the presentation personally, wouldn’t it be a fine thing for her teenage son or daughter, Prince Charles or Princess Anne, to do it? That would make it a complete teenage triumph.

AND THE DAY OF THE AWARD THRU’ THE EYES OF Mr. Brian Epstein

NMExclusive

By CHRIS HUTCHINS

The news that the Queen had approved Premier Harold Wilson’s selection of the Beatles for MBEs in her Birthday Honours List was supposedly one of the world’s best-kept secrets. But what a pantomime for Fleet Street, which was told a couple of days before so that Saturday's headlines could be polished up in advance!

And what a night of excitement Friday was as last-minute touches were being added to the stories, pictures were being chosen and Donald Zec of the “Daily Mirror” was sitting back waiting for the reaction to his silly piece decrying the awards.

Brian Epstein flew to Blackpool that night to see Billy J. Kramer and to make the last-minute preparations for the fuss that was about to put the Beatles and himself back on the front pages.

I went with him and this was the schedule: 9 pm: Our aircraft touched down virtually a sword’s touch from Blackpool Tower and we drove to the North Pier theatre. Quipped Epstein on the way: “I wonder if somebody will start a group called the MBEs now?”

10:30: With Billy J. and his Dakotas, we took a cab to our seaside hotel. Passing crowds of holidaymakers, Epstein observed: “It’s so exciting nursing a secret they’ll all be talking about tomorrow.” And then he deliberated on what sort of a spread it would make in the morning papers.

At the hotel he took phone call after phone call from newspapers and news agencies and it was soon obvious that the Beatles were THE news of the night.

10:50: Epstein ordered flowers to be delivered to each of the Beatles’ parents first thing in the morning, with congratulatory notes from himself.

11:20: Phone rang again. It was Paul McCartney from a call box at London airport. He had arrived back from Portugal minutes before the news became official and a day earlier than planned (at the request of his manager). The conversation between the two millionaires was brought to an abrupt end when Paul ran out of change!

Released

12:20 AM: The news had been released and the Fleet Street presses were rolling. Another call - this time from the BBC programme “Light Night Extra” whose listeners learned of the MBE awards first. They also heard Brian say: “It is a tremendous thrill to know that the Queen has honoured the Beatles. It is the first official recognition they have had of the nation’s appreciation.”

8:00 AM: We flew back to London. Dark glasses could not conceal the famous manager’s identity as people before and after the flight grabbed Epstein’s arm and asked him to pass on their congratulations.

The Beatles had agreed to meet the world’s press at Twickenham film studios at lunchtime. The conference was arranged for 1:30 - 2½ hours after the start of their first viewing of the “Help!” film. John Lennon missed the screening and arrived 70 minutes late for the conference, after being fetched from home by his manager.

As the crowd of reporters, photographers and TV men waited and waited, one of them called out “MBEs and they still treat US as suckers!”

At the conference itself the Beatles were frequently asked if being honoured would change their way of life. But if Paul’s unshaven arrival wasn’t enough to convince all concerned, he added: “It doesn’t make me feel any more respectable. I’m still a scruff.”

I asked George how they had first learned they were getting the awards: “Paul was looking through the pile of fan mail in our dressing room a few weeks ago when he came across this envelope that said From the Prime Minister on it. It must have been there at least a couple of days. He opened it and the letter said he was being considered for an award and would he sign the enclosed form. We all said ‘wish we had one,’ dived through the rest of the mail and found we did - one each!”

Asked what they would do with the medals, John said: “I think I’ll have mine made into a bell push so that people have to press it when they come to the house.”

Somebody asked if the Beatles thought Cliff Richard should have got a medal, too. “Yes, a leather one with wooden strings,” quipped George.

And as the bright remarks continued to fly as fast as at any Beatle press conference I have witnessed, their manager stood at the back, arms folded, and beamed as Paul said he thought MBE stood for Mr. Brian Epstein.

[andersonswalsh]

Fic: Déjà Vu

Written for @todaydreambelieversfic’s Fic Exchange. My recipient this year is @black-john-lennon. And let me just say every prompt Kay gave was HILARIOUS! But this is what I went with: "Blame It on the Alcohol part 2. One morning Blaine goes to wake up their daughter. She's in the bathroom, there's a boy in her bed who wakes up and says 'where am I'."

Rated T, 3550 words. Link to AO3.

Blaine is suspicious the moment he walks into his house. Usually he arrives home from NYU to plenty of noise courtesy of his eight-year-old twins. But there is no evidence of Caden or Nolan, let alone their older sisters.

“Cade? Nolan?” he calls out as he unwraps his scarf and peels off his coat. “Anyone home?”

It isn’t until he enters the kitchen to get a bottle of water that he hears footsteps bounding down the staircase. “Hi, Daddy!” Sabrina says cheerfully, pecking Blaine on the cheek. “How was your day?”

Blaine eyes her up and down. “It was well until a few moments ago. What are you wanting now?”

Sabrina feigns surprise--her facial expressions have always been a carbon copy of Rachel’s. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Your brothers aren’t down here fighting each other or attempting to kill the other on their Playstation. Either they actually are dead and  you buried their bodies hoping Dad and I wouldn’t find out, or you convinced them to do their homework to get something out of me.”

“Why do you assume it’s me and not Stella?” she asks, taking an apple out of the fruit bowl.

“Because she’s the good child.” As Sabrina takes a bite, Blaine scrunches his nose. “Ew, wash that first.”

Sabrina huffs at his request, but she passes around Blaine to rinse the fruit. “Fine. I convinced them to do their homework before you came home.”

Blaine hops up onto the stool perched in front of the island. “And what exactly are you looking to get out of this?” he asks.

“I was hoping you could extend my curfew tonight?”

He sighs. “Sabrina…”

“Please Daddy? Lily turns sixteen tomorrow and she’s having her party tonight. Her parents are taking her out to the Hamptons in the morning so that’s the only reason why I’m not staying over. Just until 1? I promise I’ll be home then and will do whatever you want me to this weekend.”

He knows why she’s asking him. At sixteen Sabrina is every bit an Anderson, and she’s used it to her advantage from the moment she realized Blaine is her biological father. Except for Rachel’s chocolate eyes and prominent nose, she is the spitting image of him with Cooper’s (and yes, Rachel’s) lust for getting what he wants. If the question was raised to Kurt he would put his foot down and remind her that she’s to be home at 11.

Sabrina then sweetens the deal. “I’ll clean the kitchen for the next week.”

Blaine eyes her warily. “When your brothers are on spring break and prone to make every mess imaginable?”

“And I’ll babysit one night so you and Dad can go out,” she adds.

He finally relents. “Okay, but only until midnight since that’s when the city’s curfew is. And no complaining when I take advantage of the last addendum.”

“That’s fine,” Sabrina says as she pulls Blaine into a hug. “Thanks Daddy!”

It’s an easy evening with Stella and the twins. Blaine decides to order some pizza and put on a couple Disney movies. Stella rolls her eyes but watches along as Moana travels the ocean. He’s so invested in everything that he almost misses Sabrina slipping out the door to the party. “Bye Daddy!” she calls out.

“Bye Sab--wait, come back here.” When Blaine looks up he’s horrified. Sabrina is dressed in the smallest denim shorts she owns, ripped leggings underneath, and a tight black tank top that shows off too much of her belly. “Are you serious with that outfit right now?”

Sabrina rolls her eyes. “What more do you want? I have everything that needs covered up clothed. It’s not like I’m going in just a bra and panties.”

“I know, and I appreciate that. It’s just a little cold for that, isn’t it?”

“I’m walking three blocks. I’m going to have my jacket on for the entire walk. After that I’m pretty sure the Ortiz’s house won’t be set up like the Arctic.” She leans down to put on her Doc Martens that sit in the foyer. “I shouldn’t have to rely on your approval for what I choose to wear when I’m stuck in a uniform five days a week.”

“When you’re under eighteen I think you do…”

“It’s a high school party.  I’m not wearing it to a Broadway show, or to Grandma and Grandpa’s house. You can’t tell me you and Dad--well, Dad alone, I guess,” she smirks, “didn’t wear whatever you wanted that may not have lived up to the elders’ expectations?”

Blaine sighs. “I feel like I should be offended.”

Sabrina reaches up to pat Blaine’s bow tie. “Daddy, you’re forty and you’ve always dressed like you’re seventy-five. But I know that Dad wore a kilt to your first prom. Was Grandpa okay with that?”

“How did…”

“Rachel has pictures of it. Something about savoring a night to remember despite the circumstances?”

Blaine finally relents. “Okay, you’re right. I’m sorry. Have a good night, sweetie.”

She grins and grabs her jacket. “Love you!” she says before she exits through the front door. Blaine pads over to the window to watch her disappear down the street.

He doesn’t think about what happened again until Kurt comes home and accidentally wakes him up. “Oh, sorry,” Kurt whispers.

“S’ok,” Blaine mumbles. “How was it tonight?”

“Pretty good. Audra McDonald and her kids were in the audience tonight.”

“I hate you.”

Kurt kisses him on the forehead. “Hey, you’re the one who gave up theater to be home with Sabrina.”

“Please don’t remind me when you’re meeting Broadway royalty,” Blaine says. He then notices it’s after 12:30. “Shit.”

“What?” Kurt asks.

“Did you notice if Sabrina was home? I gave her an extra hour on her curfew.”

“Why’d you do that?”

“Lily’s sweet sixteen party.” Blaine shifts onto his other side to face Kurt, who is undressing.

“And you weren’t waiting at the door for her?”

“I came to bed after I put the boys down. It was long day at work.”

Kurt pulls a t-shirt and flannel pants out of the dresser. “You poor thing. But to put you out of your misery, she is home. I saw her door was closed.”

Blaine sighs in relief and collapses against the pillow. “Good.”

“I do wish, however, that you had asked me before you agreed. I’m still the kids’ father even if I’m not here as much as you.”

“Sorry,” Blaine says. “It was a last minute thing and I figured at that point you were on your way to the theater.”

“It’s okay.” Kurt climbs into bed and snakes his left arm across Blaine’s midsection. “I probably would have agreed with you if it’s a one-time extension.”

“It was. And I reduced it from her original suggestion of coming home at 1.”

“Father of the year,” Kurt jokes. “Any plans for the morning?”

Blaine snuggles into the warm body of his husband, closing his eyes. “Waffles and bacon?”

“Sounds good,” Kurt says. He sweetly kisses Blaine. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” Blaine replies before he drifts off.

There are few rules in the Anderson-Hummel household. Blaine never wanted the kids to grow up feeling like they had to be “on” every single moment the way he was at home. They have their chores, they have to do their homework, but other than that everything is lax and free.

Except for Saturday morning breakfast.

That’s the time for the family to be together. A good home-cooked breakfast before Kurt heads off to the theater, before soccer games and ballet recitals, and before Blaine loses himself in grading papers or checking his classes’ online discussions gives him a sense of gratitude. Since the Friday night dinners Kurt grew up with wouldn’t work with Broadway, it was a tradition they started the weekend after they brought Sabrina home from the hospital. Even if Kurt has to travel for fashion shows he almost always makes sure he can get a Friday night flight so he can be there.

Blaine finishes setting the butter, syrup, and sugar on the table before glancing into the family room. Caden and Nolan are watching the latest popular cartoon he can’t seem to understand and Stella is playing a game on her iPad. There’s no sign of Sabrina anywhere. “Did you wake Sabrina up?” he asks Kurt.

“I texted her twenty minutes ago,” Kurt replies as he flips the waffle maker over.

“Should I make sure she’s alive?”

“Good idea.”

Blaine shuffles through the kitchen and family room to the stairs, taking them slower than he did when they first moved into the house as age begins to catch up. Even if he’s only just into his forties, Blaine feels it in his knees after chasing four children for the past seventeen years. He’s halfway grateful he didn’t return to the stage after Sabrina was born or he’d probably feel worse.

When he reaches her closed door he gives a swift rap on it. “Sweetheart? Breakfast is almost ready. Dad made waffles.” She doesn’t answer, so he knocks again. “Sabrina, wake up,” he says louder.

Blaine hears nothing. He gives in and turns the door handle, peeking in. The lump under the blankets isn’t stirring. While Sabrina is a typical teenager who prefers to sleep in as much as possible, it isn’t usually this difficult to get her up for Saturday morning breakfast. As long as she makes it downstairs she’s allowed to sleep in on Sundays. He pads over to her bed and shakes her shoulder. “Honey, it’s time to get up,” he pleads.

A low groan meets his ears as the lump stirs. It confuses Blaine. “Are you okay?” he asks.

Hands reach up to the top of the purple comforter to pull it down and Blaine is met with a shock of short, electric blue hair. Green eyes meet his and widen. “Oh my god, where am I?” the owner of said hair and eyes asks in a voice that matches the groan from before.

Blaine’s jaw drops as he realizes--it’s a boy. A boy who, as he cringes while sitting up, is obviously hungover. And this scenario is all too familiar to Blaine as he’s hit with memories. Memories of being this boy, of feeling the after effects of the Rachel Berry House Party Trainwreck Extravaganza, of being woken up by a startled Burt who was expecting Kurt to be in bed.

He backs up and hits something in the doorway, knocking him to the floor. “Daddy, are you okay?” Sabrina asks as she helps Blaine up.

He just looks at her, already showered and dressed. Through clenched teeth he replies, “Breakfast is ready. Your friend can stay to eat, but then he has to leave.” Blaine then walks out, leaving Sabrina’s questions behind.

Blaine is shaking as he makes his way downstairs and back to the kitchen. “Kurtthere’saboy,” he hisses.

Kurt stares at him. “Excuse me?”

He takes a couple breaths to soothe his nerves. “Sabrina has a boy. In her room.”

The spatula falls from Kurt’s hand, clanging on the linoleum. “Excuse me?” Kurt shrieks.

“I know!” Blaine says, bewildered. “And get this--he’s hungover.”

Kurt snickers. “What?” Blaine asks.

“Don’t you think this sounds a little familiar?”

“You don’t think that was my first thought?”

“Hopefully there isn’t a sexual identity crisis involved…” Blaine shoves his husband in response. “Hey, kidding!” Kurt jokes.

They’re interrupted by the clearing of a throat. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Anderson-Hummel,” the boy says, looking marginally better than when Blaine found him. “Sabrina was going to wake me up an hour ago to go home but I didn’t sleep well.”

“It’s fine,” Blaine replies, not wanting to give the boy any feeling of compassion. “We’ve all been there at some point. But I don’t think I remember Sabrina talking about you at all?”

“Oh, sorry. I’m Jack Wyatt.” Jack holds out his hand.

Blaine takes it. “Nice to meet you, Jack. We’re having waffles and bacon if you want to have a seat at the table.”

“Sorry, I can’t have waffles unless they’re gluten free.”

“Will scrambled eggs work?”

Jack nods. “That’s fine.”

As soon as he leaves to sit at the dining room table Kurt glares at Blaine. “He’s staying for breakfast?”

“Did you want me to throw him out right away?” Blaine asks.

“I guess not. I mean, Dad didn’t throw you out when he found you.”

“See? What Would Burt Hummel Do works very well in this situation. Besides, I want to torture Sabrina a little before we ground her.”

Kurt smirks. “What do you mean ‘we’? I have to leave in an hour.”

“I have to do this by myself?” Blaine whines.

“What Would Burt Hummel Do?”

He grabs two plates. “I hate you.”

It turns out Jack is an extremely good kid. He makes an effort to engage all of the kids in conversation (Nolan especially loves his hair and Kurt has to tell him he can’t dye his until he’s in his thirties), he wants to study computer engineering in college, and he’s in a band that does covers of early millennium music, which makes Blaine feel old. Kurt offers to drive him home on his way into the city but Jack refuses, citing that he doesn’t want to take advantage of everything they offer when they weren’t expecting him.

After Blaine convinces Stella to take the twins to the park for a couple hours, Sabrina attempts to hide in her room. “Not so fast,” Blaine stops her.

“Come on, Daddy,” she whines.

“Nope, I said we were going to talk.” He leads her into the living room where she flops onto the couch, crossing her arms across her chest. He sits next on the other end, turned facing her. “Sabrina,” he starts, “in what world did you think it was okay to do what you did?”

She shrugs. “I was being nice. He--”

“I don’t care if you were being nice. You’re too young to have a guy in your room.”

“Seriously? That’s the route you’re taking? You and Dad started dating when you were my age.”

“But we didn’t spend the night.”

“Bullshit,” she spits out.

“Sabrina Ariane!” Blaine barks.

Sabrina curls up tighter. “Sorry.”

“The point I’m making is that Jack shouldn’t have spent the night, especially when we’d never met him before. You’re too young for anything that would necessitate him even seeing your room…”

“Okay, see, I know you’re lying now because Dad told me when we had the sex talk that you two did it when you were a junior--not that I ever wanted to know about your sex life. Besides, we’re just friends. I don’t think he sees me like that.”

“You don’t?”

“His girlfriend dumped him last night,” Sabrina says, staring intently at her chipping nail polish. “And he got a little too into the vodka after that. I wasn’t about to let him drive home, so I brought him here. I figured if the same thing happened to you you’d go out of your way for a friend, right?”

Blaine reluctantly nods. “Can I tell you a story? Without any judgment?”

“Sure.”

“When Jack popped his head out of the covers I actually was hit with a sense of déjà

vu, because I’ve been in the same position before.”

“You mean you brought a guy friend home when he was drunk?”

“Your dad brought a very drunk me home and Grandpa Hummel found me in bed.”

Sabrina’s jaw drops open before she starts laughing. “You have got to be kidding me,” she says through fits. “At least you didn’t get drunk because of a girl though.”

It’s Blaine’s turn to hesitate. “Actually…”

“What?” she screeches.

“Long story short he invited me to my first New Directions party, I had a little too much to drink, and I ended up in a spin the bottle game where I made out with one of his closest female friends.”

“Daddy!”

“I know,” Blaine sighs. “My great questioning phase happened after I came out. I’m an awful gay. And it pissed your dad off so much.”

“How’d you get over it?”

“I kissed her again--sober. And felt nothing.”

Sabrina take Blaine’s hand in hers. “Well I’m glad you straightened yourself out, pun intended.” She squeezes it and drops it to get off the couch. “I’m going to Kylie’s, okay?”

“What? No, not okay.” Blaine runs to the door to block it. “We haven’t discussed your punishment yet.”

“Daddy…”

“You’re grounded for the weekend. I should do longer but it’s spring break. Just promise me no more alcohol and no more boys in your room.”

“Daddy, I didn’t drink last night,” Sabrina protests.

“But you were at a party where it was served,” Blaine says. “And Jack was proof of that.”

Sabrina rolls her eyes. “Fine. No alcohol.”

“And no boys in your room.”

“Even if Jack and I have an English project after the break?”

Blaine nods. “I can’t control what happens up there.”

“Daddy, we’re just friends. We kissed a few times last year and that was it. No feelings.”

The way Sabrina fidgets as she says it makes Blaine know that isn’t the end of her feelings for Jack, and that he’ll likely be in the picture for a while. “Still, any work you do will be down here. Promise?”

She nods. “Promise.”

Blaine kisses her forehead. “Okay. Now go text Kylie before I take your phone.”

She takes her phone out of her pocket to fire the text off, then hands it over.

Blaine isn’t surprised to find Jack sprawled across the carpet when he comes home from work a few weeks later. As soon as spring break ended Sabrina made plans for their project and reiterated them to her dads. “Hey,” Blaine says as he takes her blazer off.

“Hi Daddy,” Sabrina replies, her eyes focused on the English book in her lap.

After checking on the other three and greeting Kurt he finally settles in his office with the door open. Before long there’s a knock on the door. “Excuse me, Mr. Anderson-Hummel?”

Blaine turns around in his chair. “You can call me Blaine, Jack. I know our last names are a bit of a mouthful together.”

Jack grins sheepishly. “My mom would probably disown me if I did that,” he says.

“Country club kid, huh?”

“Upper East Side. Let’s just say when I visit my grandparents I have to wear a wig,” Jack replies, pointing to his now aqua-hued locks. “But I wanted to thank you for your hospitality that morning. I can imagine it was a little awkward finding someone you’ve never met in your kid’s bed, especially after a night of drinking.”

Stifling a laugh, Blaine smiles. “It’s quite an experience.”

“You’re an incredible dad. If mine had found Abby--my ex, that’s her name--or even Sabrina they wouldn’t even have time to grab anything they brought before he threw them out. He thinks because I’m the youngest I need to be more sheltered than my siblings.”

Blaine is floored for a moment. That’s essentially how his own father treated him compared to Cooper, up until he came out. “Thank you, Jack,” he says. “I hate to hear about that though, because from what little I know about you you’re a great kid.”

“I also want to tell you that--well, I like Sabrina.”

Jack stares at Blaine in hopes of a reaction. “Okay?”

“And I would like your permission to take her to the movies on Friday night.”

Blaine inhales deeply. “Didn’t you just get out of a relationship?” he asks.

“We dated for two months,” Jack says. “It wasn’t serious. And I’ve always had a bit of a crush on Sabrina. Or something. It just came full-force after I got home.”

Blaine feels like he’s staring at his own doppelganger in Jack. Granted, it took him slightly longer after the drunken Rachel shenanigans to figure out his feelings for Kurt. “Her curfew is eleven,” he says. “And she’s been talking about going to that reboot of The Breakfast Club.”

“Awesome,” Jack smiles. “Thank you so much!”

“You’re welcome. I trust you with her, you know.”

“I won’t break your trust,” Jack says before he returns to the living room.

Blaine’s barely signed into NYU’s course site when Kurt comes in and leans on the desk. “So when should we start worrying about wedding invitations?”

He groans and drops his head on the desk. “Can we at least get through their inevitable first breakup?”

“As long as it’s only one and they don’t elope.” Kurt rubs his thumb across the back of Blaine’s neck. “I may not have planned our wedding, but I’ll be damned if I’m not allowed creative control over our little girl’s.”

“That may be enough for them to elope,” Blaine jokes.

Kurt huffs. “Fine. God, when did she grow up?”

“Some time in the past seventeen years.” He lifts his head up and stares at his husband. “And it’s only going to get worse with the other three.”

“We’ll make it,” Kurt says. “Just like we make it through everything. Just do me a favor?”

“Hmm?” Blaine hums.

“Don’t tell Jack about your proposal. That cannot be topped.”

[pattie-remembers]

Famous muse Pattie Boyd says she neglected herself in her rock star marriages

10 April 2018 — 10:21am

If you remember the '60s, you weren't there: so it is said of that explosive decade of sex, drugs and rock'n'roll when girls sashayed down the Kings Road in tiny skirts and Biba boots, boys wore ruffled shirts over tight velvet trousers and London was the epicentre of cool.

Oblivion came with the territory: Eric Clapton was supposed to have slept with more than 1000 women but as he told me in an interview for Fairfax Media, "I wouldn't know, I was in a blackout for quite a few of them".

George Harrison and wife Pattie Boyd.

Photo: Keystone Pictures USA / Alamy Stock Photo

Pattie Boyd was both muse and wife to Clapton, to George Harrison before him and no stranger to drug and booze-fuelled partying. But there was little danger of failing memory for her. She kept a record of the wild years – portraits and reportage style snaps taken with a Polaroid and, later, on a Hasselblad.

As fans and paparazzi clamoured at the door, Boyd had the inside track, hanging out with The Beatles and friends, at home with George, on tour with Eric. "I took endless photos," she says. "It was something to do, otherwise you could feel a bit spare."

Pattie Boyd and her then husband George Harrison in England in 1968.

Photo: Pattie Boyd

We are talking in her Kensington flat ahead of an exhibition of her photographs and a series of speaking engagements in Australia in May. I'd spent several minutes on the rather grand doorstep, repeatedly ringing the bell and wondering if I'd got the wrong address. Perhaps she'd been having a nap; she is 74 after all and it is that snoozy, post-lunch time of day when I often feel like one myself. She does seem quite dreamy, half-heartedly remonstrating with a friendly Irish terrier called Freddie who inspects me thoroughly before jumping onto a large pouffe, not quite as pristine white as the matching sofas. "He's allowed on that one," she says.

Boyd is wearing skinny jeans on her long, slim legs and a deep blue mohair jumper; a fall of blonde hair frames what is still recognisably the face that launched, not a thousand ships, but three of the greatest love songs of the 20th century.

George Harrison wrote Something in the first flush of his youthful marriage to Boyd; the soaring guitar chords of Layla expressed Clapton's yearning obsession with his friend's wife. Then, when he had won her, he wrote Wonderful Tonight – and who hasn't danced dreamily to that, wrapped in a lover's arms?

There is a photograph of a 19-year-old Boyd in the flat: blonde fringe, huge blue mascara'd eyes and a tiny Union Jack stuck on the end of her nose. It is from a weighty coffee table book, Birds of Britain, containing portraits of London's posh totty – society girls who roamed the bars and vintage clothes stalls of Chelsea. Boyd's face is on the cover.

George Harrison, 1968

Photo: Pattie Boyd

She was a model then, on the run from her dysfunctional family, broke and living on Birds Eye chicken pies in a shared flat. "You had to go round the photographers persuading them to use you for shoots," she says. "Norman Parkinson said, 'Come back when you've learned to do your hair.' It was all DIY hair and make up back then."

Did photographers hit on her? "Well some might try it on but you didn't submit and say, 'Oh must I?' You'd get out of there and warn the others." So it wasn't a #MeToo scene? "No! I don't know why these women don't just say, 'F--k off, I'm not having a meeting with you in your dressing gown with nothing on underneath.'" Is she a feminist? "Well not in the old 'hate men' way, but I don't like women being treated badly. I think the young generation – what are they called, snowflakes? – don't take responsibility for themselves."

George Harrison and Eric Clapton in England in 1976.

Photo: Pattie Boyd

She met George Harrison on the set of A Hard Day's Night – she played a schoolgirl – and they married when she was 21. They moved into Friar Park, a gothic pile in Hampshire where the Beatles came to record, friends drove from London to stay and she threw herself into decorating, cooking and entertaining. She was, she says, blissfully in love but often lonely: wives and girlfriends were not allowed on tour and Harrison was frequently absent. After the Beatles had discovered the Maharishi Yogi and they all went to India to learn meditation, Harrison returned gripped by eastern mysticism. "He chanted a lot," she recalls, "it's difficult to talk to someone who's chanting."

He had also discovered that he was attractive to women: "He was famous, good-looking, had tonnes of money and flash cars – what a combo. Girls were offering themselves everywhere and he loved it. To come home to old wifey must have been a bit dull."

I took endless photos. It was something to do, otherwise you could feel a bit spare.

Does she think all men would be like that if they could? "Yes I do," she says firmly. What constrains them? She shrugs: "Society, women, family?"

Eric Clapton had been a frequent visitor to Friar Park, laying siege to Boyd and, famously, playing a guitar "duel" with Harrison in the kitchen: she was the putative prize. "It was John Hurt [the actor] who described it as a duel," she says, "and he was so on the button. I sensed it but I hadn't formulated it."

She was attracted to Clapton, by then a rock deity – the legend "Clapton is God" was spray-painted on city walls – but determined to stay in her marriage. Her parents had split up when she was 10, her stepfather was a cruel and unusual man who tyrannised the family and left her mother for another woman: "As a child I always thought I would do anything to avoid divorce."

By the time she left Harrison – "He didn't want us to be together, it was a life of rejection" – Clapton had made good on his threat to take heroin if he couldn't have her. It would be four years before they got together.

Propped on an easel beside the window of Boyd's flat is a rather beautiful black and white photograph of John Lennon. Did she take it? "No, I bought it." Wasn't he the most interesting of the four? "He was, yes, he was. He was quite volatile, you never knew what he would say next. He was a pretty sexy guy actually." Did they have a fling? "No!" she exclaims. I explain I'd seen it suggested somewhere in a newspaper article. "How cheeky," she says comfortably. Later, reading her autobiography published in 2007, I find another reference to the rumoured liaison. True or not, I don't think she minds the idea.

Boyd and Clapton married in 1979: "I was madly passionate about him," she says. "We lived at Hurtwood Edge [Clapton's home for the past 50 years], I was in my 30s and ready to have babies; I used to wander round the house thinking, this will be the baby's room, the nanny can sleep here." But it was not to be: despite visits to a series of doctors and several rounds of IVF, the longed-for baby never arrived.

Clapton, meanwhile, had replaced heroin with alcohol and was drinking heroically. Boyd joined him on tour where he and the band would have girls to their rooms after the show. Cruellest of all, two of his extra-marital relationships produced babies: a daughter Ruth and two years later a son, Conor, who would die, aged four, in a fall from the window of his mother's New York apartment. Boyd and Clapton divorced in 1988.

Asked once who was the great love of her life, Boyd nominated Harrison: "I think he always loved me … Eric loves himself. She admits now: "In both my marriages I had neglected myself, and got lost in a big cloud of fame, I got lost in their lives."

When the music stopped Boyd found herself with a legacy – cardboard boxes full of photographs which she exhibits and sells as prints from her online gallery. They are the archive of an era: here is an angelic George lying in bed in an Indian ashram, Eric in a woodshed leaning on an axe and looking Lawrentian in corduroy trousers, Paul and Linda McCartney at Boyd's wedding to Eric, Anita Pallenberg and Marianne Faithfull at the Brixton Academy. They are candid and intimate: did anyone ever object? "No, not at all," she says, surprised, "I would never show a photo where someone's not looking good."

The collection has been a useful earner for the girl who left school with three O levels and had no need to work while married to rich men. She has continued to take photographs – portraits of actors for their books and pictures from her travels. Does the contemporary work sell? "No one's really interested," she says without rancour.

Freddie needs a walk so we put on coats and set off for Holland Park where the trees are still leafless but there are daffodils and a hint of spring. Boyd has been with her partner, property developer Rod Weston, for 20 years – "we are old friends" – and they wed in 2015. They share the Kensington flat and a cottage in Sussex bought for her by Clapton. Why did they decide to marry? "We have lots of nieces and nephews between us," she says, "we wanted to put everything in order so there wouldn't be any tears." We walk on a few paces: "It's funny," she says, "Rod has been much nicer since we married and I am happier and less selfish. I didn't anticipate that."

She remained friends with Harrison until his death from cancer in 2001 and has stayed in touch with Clapton, many years sober and married with three more children. Last year she accompanied him to the launch of a documentary about him, A Life in 12 Bars, in which she features, naturally. "He rang me and said, 'It's a bit raw Pattie, I hope you'll be OK.' I said, 'I'll be fine Eric. I'm a grown-up now."

George Harrison, Eric Clapton and Me: An Evening with Pattie Boyd will be held at Sydney's Four Seasons Hotel on May 15. Boyd's work will be shown at the Blender Gallery in Paddington from May 5 to June 2 as part of the Head On Photo Festival.

Morning & Afternoon Newsletter

Delivered Mon–Fri.

https://www.smh.com.au/entertainment/music/famous-muse-pattie-boyd-says-she-neglected-herself-in-her-rock-star-marriage-20180409-h0yi6e.html

[mamasgonewalkabout-blog]

The Good, The Bad and The Fugly

Friday Apr 6, 2018

Good Morning to you from soon-to-be-sunny-but-it’s-ridiculously-early Downtown Brisbane!

Now, I know what you’re thinking... Brisbane? They’re in Brisbane? What happened to the sand & surf? Jungle views & hammocks? And...it’s Friday. What happened to Thursday? As I had hinted, there were indeed a series of events that had us changing gears (Was it John Lennon who said ‘Life is what happens while you’re making other plans’?) BUT, all turned out spectacularly well (pretty sure my mom would say “Meant To Be”) So, stay with me til the end. It’s a happy one :)

I’ve entitled this blog ‘The Good, The Bad, and the Fugly’ but I’d like to work backwards, if I may. It works better that way!

THE FUGLY: So, while we are here on vacation, John is staying in touch with work. Daily. Staying on top of projects back home, conference calls.... um.... BUT NOT TECHNICALLY WORKING (did you hear that Dept of Immigration? NO Aussie jobs will be lost or found on our account!) And his laptop is his lifeline. You see where I’m going, don’t you?

Won’t turn on. Not a peep. Something about stuff being ‘fried’. What you are looking at is a giant paper weight. Now, in that moment, I have never been so quiet. Not. A. Peep. 🔇 See, I can be smart when I have to be! I just watched John, waiting to see how he was going to react. I’m not working and I’d be devastated if my laptop crapped out, so.....

But he took it surprisingly well. It was an old machine. Not all that surprising. “We’ll just use yours”, he says. We’ll install some stuff, load up the back up drive and VOILA! back in business. Open up the backup....

Most Recent Back Up Date: December 2014. <----- 2014!!! 😱 You wanna know what I DIDN’T say? ... “I thought you’re this super smart tech guy? How is it that your back ups aren’t there?” Oh no, friends, I did not say that. Hence my being alive to blog today. Here’s me, getting smarter by the minute.

*SLIGHT SEGUE into THE BAD - At the same time all this is transpiring, the weather has turned. Which is fine. Whatever. We can handle a little rain. However, our plan is to keep heading North towards the Great Barrier Reef. Carl pipes up “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. There’s a Cyclone off the coast. Roads are washed out. Pretty nasty stuff. I’d go South”. Dead Lap Top + Cyclone = Rethink Your Next Move.

And RETHINK we did. *Here’s where NOT having things pre-booked comes in handy (yes, I’m talking to you Miss G.M.) 

Yes, he will need a new computer (he can ask colleagues for the info he’s missing). Yes, we should head south until the weather clears. Why not go back to Brisbane, buy a laptop and regroup?  DON’T WORRY - I’M ON IT!!! 

What’s this? A one bedroom suite, right DOWNTOWN  (just blocks from that park/beach/boardwalk I missed going back to) with kitchenette, huge balcony & in-suite laundry, free parking & wifi for just over $100 a night?? SOLD! 🙆‍♀️

So, we said good-bye to Carl & Bindi (had a lovely homemade baked bean breakfast too - thanks Carl!) and off we went. *See the video of Carl giving us a free concert Wednesday night. It’s bit dark... but you get the picture!) 

Back down we went. Mystery of the missing Thursday solved :)

THE GOOD: Had amazing coffee & Banana Bread at The Drunk Bean (in Childers) on our travels (OMG - they fry the banana bread in butter, cinnamon & sugar before they put it in your to-go bag!! Heavenly!)

Got to the hotel last night, went for seafood dinner (which was delicious, but I paid for it later! Hello 🖤burn) 

and discovered that there’s a FREE FESTIVAL going on. The event calendar looks AMAZING. Music, theatre, comedy, art displays. I’ve downloaded the calendar so we can see as much as we can before we head further South to Byron Bay on Sunday.

Everything is OUTDOORS & FREE! Check this link out if you’re curious:

FESTIVAL 2018 QUEENSLAND AUSTRALIA

Heck, they even set up filtered drinking water stations. I don’t think I’ve seen these at home?

THE EXTRA GOOD NEWS... I get to take more pics (for you, of course)of my favourite places in this beautiful city AND will get to surf school sooner than anticipated (next week!) And who knows, we still might make it back up North! STAY TUNED!

[mclennunf]

In My Life - Part Two

Dr. Lennon.

Ah, hour 14 of my work day. Long hours weren't the worst part of the job. In fact, I preferred to stay at the hospital. I liked to be there so that I was aware of what was going on all the time, and to scare the interns and residents into being half-decent doctors. Plus, I liked to be with my patients.

"Good morning Mr. Kite. How're we doing?" I greeted one of my favourite patients. "I thought I told you I didn't want to see you back in here." I said as I grabbed his chart. Mr. Kite tried to smile, obviously in pain. Mr. Kite had a very low immune system and always had something wrong with him. "Ah, Lennon you're happy to see me. Even if you can't admit it." Mr. Kite tried to joke. I raised my eyebrow and allowed a smile to creep out the side of my mouth before looking at his chart.

"Some severe abdominal discomfort, eh?" I asked a I read the symptoms on his chart - which were barely legibly written by an intern. "I know, same issue as before. But I swear, it's worse this time Dr. Lennon." He told me. "I am on the case." I said, smiling as I pointed at him and walked out of the room.

"Sadie?" I said, trying to gain her attention in order to find out who the intern on call was. Sadie turned around and rolled her eyes when she realized it was me calling her. "What is it now, John?" She said, almost flirtatiously. Almost. "Tell me, love. Who is the intern on call that decided it was a great idea to make it extremely difficult for me to read my patient's chart?" I asked with a fake smile, leaning against the counter of the nurses station. "John, you've gotta lose the tough guy act. It's getting old." Sadie told me as she shook her head and snatched the chart out of my hand and looked at it. "Wow, that is hard to read." Sadie observed as she giggled and looked back up at me. "George Harrison is the intern on call. He's the cute one over with Mrs. Henderson at the moment. Be easy on him, he's younger." Sadie ordered. "Ah, aren't they all though, love? Not everybody can be as old and wise as the great Dr. John Lennon." I winked at her. "26 is not old, John." She said as I walked away toward Mrs. Henderson's room.

As I approached Mrs. Henderson's room, I saw what could only be described as a child wearing scrubs and holding her clipboard. "Ah, ha. You must be the toddler who just barely graduated preschool. How did you convince them to give you a pair of scrubs and a stethoscope? I'm just curious." I asked as I crossed my arms, staring the kid in the eye. He looked absolutely petrified. Oh, how I loved these moments. "I'm not sure I'm understanding th-the joke, sir." The kid mustered up the courage to reply. "Next time you're on call and you have been assigned to one of my patients, make sure you take the extra three seconds to make your writing is legible or you can bet your ass you won't be going near another one of my patients. Are we clear?" I ranted sternly, not resting my hands on the top of my head.

"Y-yes, sir." Harrison nodded and fast-walked away from me. I loved picking out the weak ones. "You think that was necessary, John?" I heard Sadie say from behind me. "Hell Sade, what d'ye want from me? I've been here for 5 years. You know how I work. These kids will never survive if they can't handle a tough attending doctor." I told her smugly as I walked next to her back toward the nurses station.

"John, you can't keep this tough guy act up forever. Hell, when was the last time you went on a date?" Sadie rudely pointed out. "Ah, probably 5 years ago when I started here with you!" I winked and walked away toward the resident that had been driving me crazy. Not because he was a bad resident, but because he was good. And he knew it.

"McCartney. On call are we?" I said as I came up behind him. The young man turned around, flashing his big doe eyes at me. "Yes sir, just starting me shift now." He said smugly as he examined his chart. "Oh, it's looks as though we'll be working together today." He said as he looked up at me, fluttering his eyelashes not-so-subtly. "Don't get excited yet, kid." I said sternly, trying to put my mean-tough-guy facade back on. "Heal, boy." I snarled as I began to walk over to Mr. Kites room, McCartney was close behind me. "This is Mr. Kite, Mr. Kite this is the resident that will be working with me today. Don't worry, I won't let him kill you." I joked, Mr. Kite laughed as McCartney shot me a death stare. We walked back out into the hall.

"I've already checked out Mr. Kite's chart, and I think we should order an endoscopy for the abdominal pain." McCartney told me as he leaned against  the nurses station. What an attitude this kid had. "Listen, kid. You're book smart, I can tell. But this is your first patient, MY patient, and you are just going to stay behind me and take notes. If I ask you to do something, you do it. Speaking of, why don't you go grab me a coffee." I said as I rolled my eyes and flipped through Mr. Kite's chart. "I'm not your assistant, I'm your student. I'm just saying I think it would be best to get the endoscopy, just to rule out stomach cancer and whatnot." He said back. I narrowed my eyebrows, putting the chart down and resting my hands on the top of my head. "Did you not hear me, McCartney? This is my patient. He has the same symptoms as the last bloody time he was admitted. I'm not going to push this guy into a very painful, invasive procedure based on the hopeful opinion of a resident." I said, hoping to scare him at least a little.

"Your wish is my command, your highness." McCartney smirked as he walked on by me. I heard a giggle and spun to see Sadie with her hand on her mouth. "What are you laughing at, then?" I asked, annoyed. "I just think that little bugger is absolutely adorable, and it makes it so much better to see him talk back to the all-mighty John Lennon!" Sadie was laughing out loud now as she handed me a coffee. "And here's your coffee. I told you we've got a machine back here about six times now." Sadie said as she sat back down. "That's Dr. John Lennon to you, sweet cheeks. But thank ye for the coffee. I can only remember so many things that come out of your god forsaken mouth, Sadie." I replied, winking at her as I sipped at the hot, black coffee.

"Really though, John. That boy is a very good looking doctor. You've finally got some competition." Sadie smirked as I walked around the counter and sat down beside her. "You know that's not true. Bloody slow today, isn't it?" I complained. "John, it's finally slowing down up here, why don't you go to the on call room and get some sleep? Or even better, go the hell home!" Sadie suggested. "Ah, can't very well go home now can I? I've got McCartney here thinkin' he can order procedures that he knows nothing about, I've got the three year old scribbler running around, God only knows what the other interns are on about." I rolled my eyes. I loved being in control of my patients and my students. I didn't want to admit that I was exhausted because the truth was, I didn't want to go home.

"Cut McCartney some slack, he's a resident after all. He's got experience, you can't treat him like a new intern." Sadie told me as she raised an eyebrow at me. "He's good, Sadie you're right. But I can't tell him that, now can I? He already has an ego. Bugger flutters his long fuckin' eyelashes at me one more time I may have a heart attack." I rolled my eyes as I stood up to poor another cup off coffee. "What did you just say? It sounds like maybe he's got a little crush on you, Lennon." Sadie began to giggle again as I sat back down. "Not the case at all, sweet cheeks. He's just trying to grind me damn gears. Y'know, he can be a sassy little prick but if he flutters his eyelashes he gets what he wants. No, no. Not on my watch." I said as I crossed my legs.

"That could be true. He is cute though, Lennon. " Sadie laughed as she stood up and nudged my shoulder. "Maybe you should get his number then, Sade." I chuckled as I took the last sip of my coffee. "I'll take my chances with the intern you yelled at with the sloppy writing. He's a cute one." Sadie turned around and said to me as she walked away. I shook my head, smiling, as I went to check on Mr. Kite. Who was not in his bed.

"Where in the hell is Mr. Kite?!" I yelled, looking around the hallway and back to the nurses station. "An orderly took Mr. Kite down for an endoscopy about a half an hour ago, Dr. Lennon." An older nurse told me. I felt my face turn to a burning red colour.

"Where in the HELL is McCartney!" I almost screamed down the hallway. I needed some air because I knew if I had found him in the next few seconds, I would hit him square in those fluttery eyes of his. Instead of finding my way outside, I ran into Sadie again. "Woah woah woah, John! What's going on? You're about as red as a strawberry, mate." Sadie said as she grabbed me by my biceps. I clenched my jaw repeatedly. "I am so bloody mad Sadie, I may kill someone." I said, obviously exaggerating. "Alright, on call room. Now." Sadie said as she shoved me toward the on call room.

She sat down on the bed as I paced back and forth, rubbing my temples. "That bloody McCartney, Sadie. I told him I wasn't going to order the damn endoscopy because it wasn't necessary, and he goes and does it behind me back? That soddin' git is going to get thrown out on his ass." I nearly tripped over my words. "John. It's fine, talk to him. He's probably just trying to prove to you that he's not afraid and he's a strong doctor." Sadie's words always calmed me down and brought me back to Earth. I took a deep breath. "Fine, c'mon. I need to find him." I said, extending my hand out, pulled her up and kissed her cheek. We walked back out and, low-and-behold, Mr. Kite was back in his bed and McCartney was standing at the nurses station.

"Dr. McCartney?" I began as I approached him. "Can I call you a doctor? Or just a guy who likes to put patients in unnecessary pain and disobey their attending's orders?" I said, trying to keep my cool as I got close to him, crossing my arms. "Listen," McCartney began before being interrupted by another nurse. "Dr. McCartney? Mr. Kite's test results." She said as she handed him the folder. He opened it up and examined it, I noticed his eyes widen a little bit and his eyebrows raise. I could tell he was trying to keep his cool. He lifted his head, and looked me dead in the eye.

"Mr. Kite has stomach cancer, Dr. Lennon."