The Night Before

 

On the day that we paid the taxman, I felt it was time to let it be.

I've packed. I think I have.

I just finished loading my backpack and said out loud, "She's so...

"Heavyyyyyyy."

But the thing is I've packed.

In fact, I think I packed yesterday.

Then I unpacked the suitcase. Then I repacked it.

It looked like a chopped-up butcher's market at one point (that one is a stretch but I'm no paperback writer).

But I had to stop torturing myself. 

I could still be packing when I'm 64 and it wouldn't do me any good.

I'm going to England, the home of Penny Lane and Strawberry Fields (forever!), not back in the U.S.S.R or across the universe.

And I'm going with a bunch of guys. Chris and Scott and Mike and Erik and Walker and Anthony. It's not like I need to impress Julia or Michelle or sexy Sadie or lovely Rita (she's the meter maid) or even Eleanor Rigby or Lady Madonna. Even dear Prudence won't be there. Polythene Pam told me that when she came in through the bathroom window.

At least that's what she said she said.

And we're flying (you know, BOAC) although first I have to drive the long and winding road. Admittedly, with the amount of rain we're supposed to get I'd think we could take a...

wait for it...

Yellow submarine.

Still, as I begin to drive my car in the dead of night I doubt I will see a blackbird and definitely not the Sun King.

Fortunately for no one, there isn't a birthday to celebrate in London Town (sorry, that's a Wings reference but let me roll it).

There is only a conference and I shall carry that weight until the end. I will tell the continuing story of Bungalow Bill and Rocky Racoon. After it is over (it won't be long), I'm hoping my voice will still be strong and my feet won't hurt.

I have no desire to visit Doctor Robert though he is a pro when it comes to getting better. He provides a lot of help.

I want to stride confidently and remind everyone that I am the walrus! Goo goo goo joob!

Oh if only the conference was being for the benefit of Mr. Kite but it's not. Hopefully, Mean Mr. Mustard won't show up either.

I almost forgot to mention our hotel. We're staying right around the corner from Her Majesty.

Anyway, I should go. I need some golden slumbers before the magical mystery tour commences. It will be time to get back here before I know it and come back to the squeaky cat. You know, two of us.

By the time you wake up and say, "Here comes the sun," I'll be at the airport or over the Atlantic.

But first, I'm only sleeping.

In my bed. Isn't it good? It's...you know it...Norwegian wood.

OK, OK. I've got a feeling I should stop because I'm so tired.

Good night.

It's been a hard day's night.