So, Paul's cozied up in my rocker flipping through US Weekly. John's in the tub, one leg dangling over the edge while bubbles waft through the air. George has just put the tea kettle on, and Ringo's chasing my cat from room to room. The British invasion has happened.
It started with an autobiography purchased months ago finally being picked up. My husband opened the door and the Fab Four just waltzed on in. "Abbey Road" and "The White Album" play on endless loops via vinyl. My kid dances a jig. I smile.
I'm not complaining about my new house mates, just setting up the chain of events. So with the Brits in full swing, David decides to finally fulfill a dream. As a little boy living in the East Bay he longed to someday own a VW — I don't understand this, my dream involves a '55 Chevy. I think the boys from the band played a role in our newfound weekend ride. Thanks, mates.
George is my favorite, he can brew tea in my kitchen anytime.