In My Life

They say it's your birthday

18 June 1960

"Happy birthday, Macca!"

Paul had barely opened the front door when John cried out his congratulations, pushing through the half-opened door into the hallway of 20 Forthlin Road. Before Paul could respond, he found himself breathing in the scent of leather and cigarettes as John locked him in a tight, bone-crushing hug, ignoring Paul's muffled "gerroff!"

"So, ar kid's finally eighteen, eh? Took ye long enough!" Paul felt the words more than he heard them, John's grip on him so tight it made his ears ring and lights pop in front of his eyes. He pushed hard against his friend's chest, struggling to be released. "Ta' mate, and I'd like to live long enough to enjoy the benefits if it's all the same to you," he gasped, flustered but highly amused by John's rough display of affection.

"Jim and Mike not home, then?" John inquired, crashing down on the empty sofa. He conjured a pack of ciggies from his leather jacket and pulled out two, lighting them both at once and handing one to Paul, who positioned himself sideways in his dad's arm chair, legs dangling lazily over the armrest.

Paul took a long drag from the cigarette John offered him, and shook his head as he slowly exhaled the warm smoke. "Figured you'd be geggin' in, didn't they? Bailed when they had the chance. Should've joined them, I reckon," he quipped in the thickest Scouse accent he could muster.

"Is right, man. The arl fella's right to swerve on a meff like meself!" For a moment, both boys tried to keep a straight face, only to fail miserably when their eyes met. The thought of how Jim and Mimi would react to murdering the Queen's English was enough to send them into a hysterical laughing fit.

When he was able to speak two words without having another fit of laughter, Paul explained: "they're visiting me aunt. Won't be back until tomorrow either, so we've got the house to ourselves." He nudged his foot in the direction of John's guitar case, which he'd casually propped up against the piano. "I see you've come prepared. How about we write a number one hit today, eh Johnny?"

They finished their smokes, and armed with pen and paper, a stack of butties and some bottles of ale, they started bouncing ideas back and forth, guitars at the ready. Time flew by, and even though they spent more time laughing than they actually did writing, they had all but finished writing a song they felt particularly good about when Paul suddenly noticed John had grown silent.

He looked up to find John staring at him intently from behind his specs, the almond shaped eyes dark and unblinking. Paul felt his face grow warm. "Sack it la', yer makin' me blush," he quipped, trying to resume their earlier game and giving John ample opportunity for one of his razor-sharp comebacks. To his bemusement, none came. The way John looked at him made Paul feel very uncomfortable. "What are you looking at me like that for, mate?"

"Was looking at yer eyes," John elaborated in a matter-of-fact tone, "wonderin' how they change colour like that."

Paul knitted his eyebrows together in utter confusion. Was he taking the piss? He blinked several times, not sure how to respond. "Are you havin' me on, mate? 'S not nice to fuck with me like that on me birthday, y'know." He'd meant his last words as a joke, hoping to break the awkward atmosphere that had filled the room.

John shook his head slowly. "No man, 'm serious. They're brown one moment, and green the next. Never really noticed before. Thought I was going barmy at first, but they really do change colour. How do you do that?"

"Well I don't know. 'S not something I can control, y'know." Paul shook his head in disbelief, grinning. "And the thing is, you can't go barmy, 'cause you already are! Seriously John, what's gotten into ye? Come on, ya Nancy. We've got a song to finish!" For a split second, Paul thought he saw something dark and ominous flash in John's eyes, but he wasn't sure if he actually saw it or was simply imagining things. He shook his head and turned his attention to his guitar.