Linda, Wings, 1973. The weather is mild, even at a bus stop in Liverpool. I'm starting to form a picture of what's going on. It's not Africa, so we're earlier in the year. It's not... hell. What a geek. Never mind exactly what month we're in! Backwards traveller I may be, but this is the time to live in the moment. "Pub first though," he says with a grin, in his grittiest Scouse. He takes off, marching down the road in his wide lapel check suit. I march after him, trying my best to keep up. How does he always have so much energy? Skuttling along, I finally manage to make it back to his side. "You've met some of me folks," he says, "so come'n meet some more." After about a block and a half he suddenly swerves into a doorway. It takes a while for my eyes to adjust. "Half?" he asks, making a beeline for the bar. Two lagers and lime and two lagers and lime, I think to myself. "Pint of bitter, thanks," I reply, putting all thoughts of a tiger out of my mind. I don't suppose they have any nice, new-world, hoppy IPA. He whirls round and I get a cheeky wink before he continues to the bar and gets the pints in. He hands me a room-temperature pint glass, the kind with the bump. "Never had you for a girly drinker," he says, demolishing the first inch of his own pint. He nods over to a table and we go and sit down. Looking around, I find myself in a typical English pub (not the theme pub kind, the real kind), with plastic table tops and worn, patterned carpet. The carpet must have soaked up the majority of crimes, since the smell of stale beer subtly pervades the familiar tang of stale cigarette smoke. To make amends for this, Paul lights a fresh one. It's been so long since I saw anybody smoking indoors that I do a double take. Oh yeah. 1973. I try to suppress an involuntary cough by taking another sip of my beer. Warm, flat, creamy, malty, lovely bitter. I find it easy to suck in an inch-worth of my own. Nothing really beats a hand-pulled bitter on a crisp afternoon. He looks over, apparently amused at my enjoyment. I catch his eye and catch another cheeky wink. "Ginny'll be here in a minute. You've met the old man," he says. Right on time, an older lady in dark aqua blue coat and old fashioned hat comes in. The light from the briefly open doorway ruins my pub-vision for a second. "Gin! Grab yerself a half luv," instructs Paul. She heads to the bar and comes back with a dark little beer. Milk stout, I guess from my limited Coro' Street-related experience of old lady drinking. She seems to enjoy it, anyway. Some brief, coded exchanges pass me by as the lad and his aunt greet each other in the local parlance. "Have you met my friend?" he asks, indicating me while I suppress a blush. "She's foreign." "Pleased to meet you," I mumble in my best foreign. I receive a polite smile in return, and Aunty Gin returns to her half of milk stout. We sit in silence for a few minutes, revelling in the beer-o'clock still of the afternoon. I always knew I'd eventually find my place in the world. Suddenly the bright rectangle appears again where the door is. I squint in that direction, to no avail. The door swings closed and the rectangle of purple fades from my vision. In its place stands an older man, his spectacles with a thick rim on top and not much rim around the bottom sit high on his slim nose. I instantly recognise the glint in his eye. "You!" he exclaims with genuine surprise. "Hi Mr McCartney," I reply with a warm smile. If it weren't for the kind acceptance of this man for a young, vagrant stranger in his home nearly fifteen years ago, I don't know where I'd be today. Who am I kidding? I don't know where I am today anyway!
