Macca forever

Nearly 1 a.m., just back in my little b and b room, my ears ringing with the best rock and roll music in the history of the world. What a band. What a playlist. 20,000 people singing "La la la la, Hey Jude" at the tops of their lungs. Paul going from "Yesterday" to "Helter Skelter" with nary a blink. 71 years old in sexy tight black jeans and Beatle boots with Cuban heels be still my beating heart.

It was not optimal, this concert, me still sick, unable to sing along, just mouthing the words, and in the most godawful place - Kanata, suburban Ottawa, endless lineups to park, to get in. He started an hour late which was just as well because it took so long to arrive. I actually thought, in the mayhem, perhaps I'm getting too old for this. And then he and the band finally came on and started to play and ... well, what do you think?

Though - I did have to pee at one point - a 3 hour concert and we'd had dinner just before. That has never happened before; aging kidneys, sigh. So I sat waiting for a song I didn't like as much so I could dash out. Missed "The long and winding road," could have run out during that one but I missed it, and then one fab song after another, I thought, I'll never be able to leave. Then he sang "One two three four," that cute kiddy type song, and I thought, thank you Paul. Made it back just as he was launching into "Michelle."

My brother, who has played lead guitar in a garage band since his teens and has excellent taste in music - except for a strange fondness for Frank Zappa - and his beautiful wife were there, and they loved it. She didn't stop dancing. He said it was incredible. And it was.

And he was. He is.

Thank you, my Paul.