Fame came with advantages. One quiet Sunday, the singer songwriter Donovan was sitting in his flat in Maida Vale when the doorbell rang. Paul McCartney had arrived, with his acoustic guitar. They smoked a joint or two. Paul played Donovan two songs he was working on. One of them was about a yellow submarine, and the other went: Ola Na Tungee,
Blowing his mind in the dark with a pipe full of clay – No one can say... In time, Ola Na Tungee would transmute into Eleanor Rigby [...]
I understand a kitchen. I’m not saying Miss Betty can’t cook. But give Jim his gym-boots. She hand nowhere near sweet like mine. Two of us coming home from work, same tired, so I took over the cooking three times for the week. As it’s Sunday I decided to do my nice steamed kingfish, callaloo with salt meat, rice and, just for Solo, a macaroni pie. While the pie was in the oven I went on the porch. Solo was there swinging in the hammock, head in the iPad as usual. Why’s lunch not ready? Excuse me?