Like a few I've posted, it will be a multi-era piece.
"Is there anything you don't like?" George Martin had asked us after what'd seemed like hours of them pushin' us, drivin' us, seein' what a band of northern kids like us were capable of doin'. That had been it, our first proper recording session in a proper recording studio at Parlophone. I'd wiped the sweat ticklin' into the collar of my dress shirt with an old handkerchief I'd bummed off Pete and figurin' it'd be rude to return it drenched in it, I'd tucked in into the pocket of my tweed trousers which I'd realised were too bloody hot for a studio in the middle of summer.
Adjustin' the strap which streched over my shoulder, I'd rested the guitar against my hip while I'd exchanged a brief look with Paul, who'd in turn, shared one with John -- who saint's preserve us, as Auntie Gin would say, hadn't said a word to whatever quiet conversation was goin' on between them two. I'd never thought to see the day that he was a loss for words, but that'd been the day for it, and I'd have gone speechless at it if I wasn't already silent as could be. And he hadn't been the only one, mind. Me own brother who could normally charm him way out of anythin' was also bein' unusually quiet -- our nervousness over what were doin' had been a palpable thing that could've been sliced with a bread knife.
Suddenly out of the corner of my eye, I'd caught the fleetin' smile which'd crossed George's face as he'd answered, "Well yeah, I don't like your tie for one!" Less than a second passed before we were all laughin' like a band of naff idiots.
"I'll make a point of letting my tie maker know," George Martin had replied with a chuckle. I hadn't known whether I'd imagined seein' that small twinkle in his eye.