Paul sat up in bed, shocked out of a sound sleep.  What had woken him, he wondered?  He slung his legs over the edge of the mattress and tried to think of where he was.  New York?  San Francisco?  Cleveland?  Or were they in Australia?  He couldn’t remember, they were always somewhere.  The hotel room was anonymous, and the sleeping body in the next bed gave him no clues either.  He couldn’t even tell which mate he was rooming with this time.  Not that it mattered…well, not unless he was rooming with Ritchie, then he’d need the earplugs again.  The snores issuing from the other bed were fairly gentle, so it was probably George or John.

He took a deep breath as he rubbed his eyes, then stumbled to his feet to get a glass of water from the ensuite.  Oh, if he was in America, then he meant “the bathroom.”  Americans were so bloody backwards, a bathroom was a room with a bath, and didn’t necessarily contain a toilet; that was often separate.  Yawning, he stood before the sink in the little room and turned on the taps, wiggling his fingers under the flowing water, vainly waiting for it to get cold.  Sighing again, he finally filled the glass and raised it to drink.

The glass never reached his lips.  His eyes caught sight of his reflection in the mirror and he froze in startled disbelief.  He was…he was…he was...a GIRL!  In a frilly nightgown!  He was a CUTE girl, too!  Oh!  He opened his mouth and watched as the mirror image opened her mouth as well.  He screamed and dropped the glass in the sink.

Then he raised his hands and felt his breasts. Oh, very nice, he thought, lovely!  He froze again when the...errrr...‘lower’ implications occurred to him.  Oh.  He couldn’t breathe.  He’d gone insane, that’s all there was to it.  Or this was a nightmare.  He’d better just go back to sleep.

At that moment, the door to the ensuite opened, and bodies piled into the little room.  Oh God, his mates were girls!  They were good looking girls, too!  Well, maybe not Ritchie, that nose just wasn’t attractive on a bird, but the darkly lashed blue eyes, the urchin cut of silky black hair, the lovely rounded breasts beneath the filmy nightgown . . . Oh, and look at George with those deep brown sleepy eyes and full lashes that fanned his prominent cheekbones whenever he blinked, his hair in...enormous curlers?!?!  And John, with that lovely auburn hair all tousled from sleep!  Oh, gosh, Paul thought frantically, I’ve got to stop thinking like this!  He couldn’t think about his mates as pretty girls!  But they were gorgeous!  He paused while he considered that he was still the prettiest one of the lot.

“What’s wrong, Paula?  Ya woke us out of a dead sleep, gurl, are you all right, love?  Ya even woke Georganne and Rachel.”

“I’m a ... I’m a ... I’m a ...girl!” Paul stuttered in reply to John’s question.  Paula?  Georganne?  Rachel?  Was John ... JoAnne, or maybe Joan?  Oh, God!

“Oh, bloody ‘ell, she’s ‘ad that dream again,” Ringo commented, pulling a cigarette from God knew where.  No, it was Rachel, not Ringo!

“What dream?” George asked, owlishly blinking in the bright light of the ensuite.  Wait, that was Georganne, not George!

“That weird dream, th’ one where she thinks she’s a man!” Rachel replied with a giggle, taking a drag from the ciggie.  “Ya gotta stop eatin’ that caviar so late at night, Paula, love!  Or else give us some o’ what yer trippin’ on!”

Paul (no, Paula!) listened to their laughter wash over him, he must be going mad!  Or else she was going mad!  Looking around at his mates (no, her mates!), he (she!) realized that Georganne was standing in the ensuite stark naked...and...wow!  Oh, God!  Wow!  Wow!!  He turned away with a blush; he saw it in the mirror, a blush on his/her face, unbelievable!

“George...errr...Georganne, put some clothes on, fer God’s sake, man...errr...gurl!”

“What’s th’ matter, Paula, you’ve gone all modest on us?  Ya know I always sleep in th’ raw!  Oh, yer prob’ly just jealous ‘cause me tits are bigger than yers, love.  I get more action from th’ lads than any one o’ ya,” Georganne said smugly, admiring herself in the mirror, cupping her breasts with her hands and checking her profile, ignoring the groans of exasperation from the others.

Paul had to avert his eyes.  Oh, gosh, just stop looking, he thought frantically!  Oh, this was a real nightmare, what on earth could have happened?  He stopped in confusion, thinking that he was even thinking differently!  He wasn’t swearing, even in his own mind.  What, was ‘gosh’ the only swear word he knew?  Oh, this was bloody awful!  Wait, there was a ‘bloody’, maybe all wasn’t lost.  But what the hell was going on here?  Oh, thank God, a ‘hell’, too.  But he couldn’t bring himself to say the ‘f’ word, or even the ‘s’ word, and those words had peppered his thoughts and speech nearly every other word in his other incarnation!  Oh, golly!  Golly?!?!?!?  Oh, crap!

“C’mon, gurls, let’s get back ta sleep, if Paula ‘ere will stop with th’ hysteria.  We got a big shew ta do tomorrow, an’ I need me beauty sleep,” John (JoAnne?) laughed, fluttering her lashes at the three of them.  “Ya all right, then, love?  C’mon back ta bed, ‘ere, lie down with me, that’s th’ gurl, it’s all right, yer jus’ not awake yet,” John (JoAnne? Joan?) said soothingly, pulling Paul down to sit on the bed at her side, her hazel eyes and auburn hair, her straight nose and strangely full lips making her a real knockout to Paul’s eyes. 

No, wait, it was Paula, not Paul, and he (no, SHE!) had to stop thinking about him (wait, it was her!!) like that!  Oh, Christ, this was so confusing!  Oh, there was a ‘Christ’, maybe he’d be able to work his way up to a real swear word eventually!  He really felt like he needed to swear, long and hard.  No, wait, don’t think about ‘long and hard’ either, that was a big mistake!  Hell, stop thinking about anything, every bloody thought was causing a problem now!

“We’re goin’ back ta bed, JoAnne, ‘ope ya can calm th’ bird down a bit, try ta get some sleep, love,” Rachel said, as she and Georganne walked out the door. 

Paul’s eyes followed them from the room, wow, Georganne had a great arse.  Stop it, stop it, stop it, he thought, squeezing his eyes shut in dismay.  He sighed in resignation as he felt himself pulled down to lie outstretched on the bed beside JoAnne, the girl’s arms going around him in a comforting gesture.

“Thur, thur, yer ok, Paula, ya jus’ ‘ad a nightmare, c’mon, let’s go back ta sleep, love,” JoAnne murmured sleepily, snuggling against Paul’s back.

Paul felt the firm swell of breasts pressed tightly against his back, the lithe, slim body curled against his, and he took a deep breath.  It was a long, long, long time before he fell asleep again. 

***

When Paul woke, nothing had changed, he was still a girl, and his mates were all still gorgeous.  Soaping in the shower and then simply looking in the mirror after the shower was a total shock, and the visual confirmation that a certain something was…missing...had nearly caused a repeat of his earlier screaming fit.  Not to mention how upset he’d been at almost falling into the bloody toilet when he sat down because some bloody cleaning person had left the bloody seat up!

Now it was time to get dressed, and it was proving…difficult.  Paul decided he’d had no idea how much was involved in getting ready.  The bra confounded him, and he struggled with it for what felt like hours until he’d finally got the damned thing hooked.  Oh, goody, he’d thought ‘damn.’  Oh, damn, he’d thought ‘goody.’  Argh!  He finally struggled his way into garters and stockings, and pulled some clothes from the closet, grimacing at how tight a fit they were, didn’t he wear anything but tight fitting tops and ultra short skirts?

When he walked out into the living room, his mates stopped what they were doing and simply looked at him.

“What?” Paul asked, perplexed at the unexpected attention.

“Paula, love, ya look like a bloody man dressed ya, dear, that nightmare must ‘ave really made ya woozy or somethin’.  D’ya feel faint, love?” JoAnne asked gently, and Paul could see that she was trying to hide a smile.  “C’me ‘ere, love, let’s get ya put ta rights.”

Paul found himself at the receiving end of lots of female attention as they straightened and prodded and unzipped and re-tucked and fixed.  Rachel tsk, tsk’d as she walked around him, and Paul was nearly sweating with nerves; he felt so naked since JoAnne had taken his shirt off!

“Paula, yer bra’s all twisted ‘round, love, it looks like ya ‘ad a fight gettin’ inta th’ damned thing, ‘ere, slip outta it, right?” Rachel said gently, unhooking the bra and tugging on it.

Paul grimaced; the damned thing was always easy to get off a bird, who knew how hard it would be for a bird to put one on?  He closed his eyes, trying to think of other things as his mates finished their work, their soft hands and sweet smell enveloping him and making his mind wander in a distressing manner.  When he opened his eyes, he realized that they’d done a good job, the difference was amazing.  But the stiletto heels would have to go!  Paul thought he’d never worn anything more uncomfortable in his life, and he wondered how women wore them with any degree of success.  He just kept tripping and nearly falling down whilst in them.  Unfortunately it didn’t appear that he owned anything except the damned stiletto-type shoes.

“So what are we doin’?” he asked timidly, nearly his first words since waking.

Rachel looked up from the makeup table.  She had one eye completely made up, with long false eyelashes and all, but the other eye was still naked.  Stop it, Paul thought, don’t even think about naked.

“Yer still a bit loopy, Paula, that nightmare really threw ya into a tail spin, dear!  We’ve got th’ show ta do, it’s closin’ night, with a big party afterwards, remember?  Oh, think of all th’ lovely lads that’ll be there, an’ we’ll be able ta ‘ave our pick!  I’m pickin’ a blond tonight, I fancy th’ thought of that Greg character who was backstage last night,” Rachel said, with a sweet smile and a lustful glint in her eyes.

Georganne smiled smugly as she straightened the seams on her stockings.  “You’ll like ‘im, love, ‘e was good.”

“You bitch!  You already ‘ad ‘im?” Rachel fumed.  She turned back to the makeup table and frowned at the mirror.  “I don’ fancy takin’ leftovers from anyone, let alone you, Georganne.”  She grumbled as she worked on her other eye, fluttering her lashes as Paul watched in fascination.  “C’mon, Paula, ya better get yer makeup done, or are ya gonna need some ‘elp with that, too?  C’mon, girls, makeup time, let’s turn Paula into a beauty!” she sang.

Paul found himself sitting quietly on the narrow bench, the lithe and sensual girl bodies swarming over him as his mates did mysterious things with makeup.  Paul closed his eyes for a moment, trying to avoid looking at the full breasts and graceful necks, the flawless skin and long lashed eyes, the everything that came into his view.  He finally sighed and opened his eyes at their request, trying to keep his eyes on the mirror only, and thus avoid staring at some female body part.  Oh, so that’s what that weird contraption was for, it was used on a bird’s eyelashes, some sort of fiendish curler thingie!  He’d always thought it was for something dirty, or some sort of torture device.  A mystery solved!

Paul continued watching as his mates turned him from cute into stunning.  Wow.  Wow!  He was the prettiest one of the bunch, he thought in shock.  Although why he should feel shocked, he didn’t know.  He was the cutest of the bunch as a man, why wouldn’t he be the prettiest as a woman?  He fluttered his lashes at his reflection and smiled a practice smile.  Oh, yeah!  If he was a man, he’d jump the bird in the mirror in a flat second!  Wow!

He looked around at his mates, they were all stunning!  Ritchie, no Rachel, was wearing a very short black leather miniskirt and a very tight leather jacket...and very little else besides stockings and stiletto heels!  JoAnne looked simply ravishing (don’t think that word, Paul reminded himself) with that full hair teased and sprayed into a flip, her eyes enhanced with the makeup she’d put on, a body like original sin in her black leather skirt.  Oh, don’t look at her like that, Paul thought as his heart pounded uncomfortably in his chest.  But Georganne ... oh, who knew what a gorgeous bird George would make?  Wow, a stunner, a real knockout, with those full breasts showing to advantage in a low cut blouse, the long legs and black fishnet stockings beneath the obligatory black leather miniskirt, her long dark hair curling nearly to her waist.  Oh, my!  Paul glanced back in the mirror and realized he could hold his own amongst these gorgeous birds, they were quite a stunning quad!

His mates hurried him from the makeup table, but sudden terror overcame Paul as they walked towards the door of the suite.  Or rather, they all walked, their hips swinging easily in some intoxicating rhythm that he didn’t seem to know.  He stumbled his way to the door, the heels were already killing his feet.  Maybe, if he ever got to be a man again, he wouldn’t insist that his dates wear heels like this, they were bloody awful!  But the terror that overcame him had nothing to do with shoes or the God-awful short skirt that barely covered anything.  They were to do a show, what if he couldn’t play?  And what would he sing?  Were the songs the ones he remembered?  Oh, God!

Getting into the car was an experience.  How did birds do this, Paul wondered, and still remain decent?  He finally scrambled in however he could, blushing at the barely voiced whistle from the doorman who’d held the car door.  Hell!  He shivered, the way he’d looked at him, it almost made him feel...undressed!  Did he look at birds that way, when he was a man?  Oh, this was so confusing.  His thoughts kept him occupied during the drive and on the way into the theatre.  The screams from all their fans barely registered, at least there wasn’t anything different about that, although the noise seemed to be in a lower register than he was accustomed to hearing, with more whistles.

Sitting backstage and waiting for their turn on stage, Paul realized that he had to pee, desperately, and he stood up to leave the room.

“Where ya goin’, love?” Georganne asked.

“Errr, gotta take a whiz,” Paul replied.

“Oh, I’ll go with,” Georganne said brightly.

“Me, too,” Rachel echoed.

“Oh, support group,” JoAnne giggled as she, too, stood up.

Well, Paul thought, it was a lucky thing they’d come along, he’d almost turned into the gent’s by mistake!  Whilst the girls giggled over the error (with Georganne saying to wait until later, there’d be plenty of that at the party), they’d steered him correctly and he’d found herself in the ladies room.  So this was what one looked like, he thought, oh, they even had a nice little sitting room!  But there obviously weren’t enough stalls, there was a line!  He fumed while he thought that public toilets were designed poorly; men didn’t need as many stalls as birds did and urinals took up less room, so why were the gents and ladies allowed the same amount of room?  He patiently waited his turn and listened to the chatter from the many female voices around him.  So that’s what birds talked about when they went to the toilet en masse!  It was about what he’d suspected.

“Did you see Billie Kramer?  Can you believe what that slut was wearing?  I swear, you’d think she’d know better!!  I would never ....”

“I rather fancied that tall chap in the front row ....”

“And then I told him, I sez ....”

“You simply must be exaggerating, that big?  Impossible!”

“I told the hussy to back off, he’d already caught me eye for the night ....”

“Oh, and he sent flowers the next day, it was lovely ....”

Paul sighed, fidgeting as he waited, finally taking an empty stall and struggling with his skirt and knickers.  This wasn’t very bloody easy when fully dressed, he thought.  No wonder it took a bird so long to make a trip to the loo!   Guys had it dead easy, all they had to do was step up, unzip and let it hang, birds had to nearly undress to take care of the job!

Paul decided that his nervousness must have had an effect on his digestion, because he farted noisily, and the sound echoed in the little stall. The uproar that caused, well!  You’d think a bird never broke a little wind, Paul thought in a huff as he struggled back into his clothes, quickly washed his hands and escaped back to the dressing room.

When it was The Beatles’ turn on stage, he tried to stride confidently to his place, tried not to trip.  He smiled at the crowd and caught his breath at seeing the hundreds and hundreds of male faces that were greedily staring at the four of them, the din of their voices nearly making him cower in fear.  The roar was lower, more primal than what he was used to, and it made him shiver with a somewhat uncomfortable, twitchy feeling in his lower abdomen. 

He picked up his bass and immediately felt a little better, as if the instrument was something he could hide behind.  He spared a thought for Rachel, it must be bloody difficult to play drums in that tight miniskirt, she must be grateful for the big bass drum hiding most everything.  Paul turned around to look and saw that Rachel didn’t appear to mind the exhibitionism, because her skirt was hiked up nearly to her waist, showing off her long, firm legs and garters, her lacy knickers....  Paul quickly turned away and fiddled with the tuning knobs on the bass.  He’d better stay back from the edge of the stage, he thought, or the blokes in the front row would be looking right up his skirt!

“Ya ready?” JoAnne asked, coming over to rest her hand lightly on Paul’s shoulder.  The hazel eyes with their full lashes, the lush auburn hair falling to her shoulders, the exotic scent and the tight clothes she wore, her whole persona screamed ‘sex’ and Paul felt suddenly uncomfortable.  This wasn’t his mate, was it?

“Errr, ready fer what?” Paul asked nervously, and JoAnne frowned.

“Yer such a ditz, c’mon, let’s get started!  Count off, th’ set list’s at th’ foot of th’ microphone stand, in case ya ferget,” she said sarcastically

“Oh, right, sorry,” Paul breathed, inching away from the sheer sensuality of his mate.  The sarcasm had helped, thank God, that was more like John.  Paul looked down at the set list.  Hmmmm, maybe this wouldn’t be too hard after all.  “Ready!”

He took a breath.  “One ... two ... three ... FAW!”

“Well, he was just seventeen, and you know what I mean,
and the way he looked was way beyond compare.
I’ll never dance with another, since I saw him standing there ....”

Paul kept his eyes focused on the audience and tried to avoid looking at his mates on stage.  The way JoAnne moved as she sang at the microphone, legs apart and bouncing slightly on bent knees, just like John did, but in a leather miniskirt ... ohhhhh!  And the way Georganne strutted during a solo, the slinky way she moved, oh, my, it was all too much.  No wonder the audience full of male fans was screaming and nearly drooling.  He paused to think that his mates looked damn good on stage, and he stopped slouching as he realized he looked pretty damned good as well.

The song ended, and Paul glanced at the set list.  He stumbled only a few times during the course of the set, songs like “Another Boy” and “Thank You Boy” weren’t too bad.  But “Boy” was another matter.  Thank God, JoAnne took most of that, and he only had to do backing vocals.

“Is there anybody gone to listen to my story ,
all about the boy who came to stay?
He’s the kind of boy you want so much
it makes you sorry.
Still you don’t regret a single day.
Ah, boy .... Boy ....”

Rachel nearly stole the show with her version of “Boys,” and Paul had to pause to think that there was no change in that song.  He’d never thought about the incongruity of Ringo singing “Well, I talk about boys, now, what a bundle of joy!”  How strange.

He glanced at the set list again, what was this one?  “Michel?”  He suddenly realized that his mates were leaving the stage.  JoAnne went up to the microphone and shouted something, what?

“An’ now, ‘ere’s our own Paula McCartney, singing our latest single, ‘Michel!’”

JoAnne strutted over to Paul and handed him an acoustic guitar before sauntering off the stage, hips swinging, long legs flashing.  Whistles and catcalls and screams followed her departure, and then the noise died down somewhat.  Paul cleared his throat nervously.

“Errr ... thank you,” he whispered into the microphone, and a swell of a nearly soundless growl greeted the breathy utterance.  He had to swallow his fear; the show must go on, he resolutely told himself.

Sweating with nerves and with his feet aching from the torture devices on his feet, Paul checked the tuning on the guitar and then began singing, slowly gaining confidence as the song progressed.

“Michel, ma belle, these are words that go together well, ma Michel ....”

Flushed with success and applause, he bowed to the ecstatic crowd and smiled as his mates came back on stage.  He got through the remainder of the show without any further mishap, except for nearly falling down as he left the stage after their final song.  He tried to swing his hips and forgot to keep his mind on his feet and the resulting clash of concentration nearly brought him to his knees.  Georganne caught him and hugged him tight, giggling, their breasts mashing together, ooohhhh, she did indeed have bigger ones, Paul thought in a daze as they finally exited stage left.

The party at the hotel was quite interesting.  Lots and lots and lots of boys, all with a drink or a light for a fag, all fawning on each of them, hoping they’d be the chosen one for the night.  Paul stood in a corner and sipped his drink, arms crossed over his chest and trying to avoid eye contact with anyone.  He wanted this to be over, wanted to be alone in his room, the idea of companionship this evening was too frightening to think about.  And yet....

Paul watched as Georganne left the room with a blond and wondered idly if that was the ‘Greg’ she’d been talking about earlier.  She returned half an hour later, a bit disheveled, and with a different fellow.  She quickly picked another and took off with him, back in another half an hour with her stockings no longer straight on her long legs, and her blouse unbuttoned even lower than how she’d worn it on stage.  Paul watched in astonishment as his mate went through a succession of men, always returning for more.  And more!  The bloody nympho, what a slut, Paul thought.  And then there was JoAnne!  She’d been flirting with a group of blokes and had walked out of the suite with three of them!  Bloody hell!  Paul didn’t even want to think of the implications of his mate’s actions!

“It was a lovely show, Paula, and a good week of shows, but you don’t seem to be enjoying the party much, is there a problem, love?”

It was Brigette, their manager.  Paul felt a little uncomfortable with her, she seemed to be a bit ... too ... interested.  He mumbled a reply and went to the bar to refill his drink.  As pretty as Brigette was, Paul thought if she was anything like her counterpart, Brian, he’d be safer keeping his distance.

A handsome redhead approached the bar, lighting his cigarette, and Paul thought he looked somehow familiar.

“James Asher,” he said, holding out his hand to take Paul’s and kiss it. 

Paul fell under the spell of those deep, dark eyes and the touch of soft lips against his wrist, the thumb gently rubbing his hand.  The handsome stranger’s eyes asked a question.

Oh.  Oh, my...  Paul took a deep breath and led the redhead to his fortuitously empty bedroom, hanging a stocking over the doorknob to ensure some privacy, before shutting and locking the door.

Oh ... oh, my ... oh, WOW!!!!

***

He sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes.  What the hell had caused him to wake?  He yawned and stretched, then wandered into the ensuite for a glass of water.  Raising his eyes to the mirror, he froze.  He was ... he was a MAN!  He yelled and dropped the glass in the sink, staring at his reflection, reaching up to feel a flat chest, and reaching down to discover...oh, thank God, thank God, thank God!

The door opened and male bodies piled into the little room.

“What’s wrong, Paulie?  Ya woke us out of a dead sleep, man, are ya all right?  Ya even woke George and Ritchie!”

“I’m a ... I’m a ... I’m a ... man!”, Paul stuttered happily in reply to John’s question.  Oh, his mates were all men again, too!  He reached to touch John’s chest, oh, yes, flat and male, then touched Ringo’s chest as they all stood looking at him, perplexed and sleepy.  George stepped back from Paul’s reaching hands.

“Don’ even think ‘bout touchin’ me anywhere, ya wanker,” he muttered.

“Oh, bloody ‘ell, ‘e’s ‘ad that dream again,” Ringo commented, pulling a cigarette from God knew where.

“What dream?” George asked, owlishly blinking in the bright light of the ensuite.

“That weird dream, th’ one where ‘e thinks ‘e’s a gurl!” Ritch chuckled, taking a drag from the ciggie.  “Ya gotta stop eatin’ that caviar so late at night, Paulie!  Or else give us some o’ what yer trippin’ on!”

Paul suddenly noticed that George was standing in the ensuite stark naked, and he had enough of the girl left in him that he blushed and averted his eyes.

“Georganne...errr...George, put some clothes on, fer God’s sake, man!”

“What’s th’ matter, Paulie, you’ve gone all modest on us?  Ya know I always sleep in th’ raw!  Oh, yer prob’ly just jealous ‘cause I’m bigger than you, son.  I get more action from th’ gurls than any one o’ ya,” George said smugly, admiring himself in the mirror.  He had to duck away from the hail of blows that came his way, but they were all too tired to do much of anything in retaliation.

“C’mon, lads, let’s get back ta sleep, if Paulie ‘ere will stop with th’ hysteria; we got a big shew ta do tomorrow, an’ I need me beauty sleep,” John laughed, fluttering his lashes at the three of them.

They all staggered back to their beds, and Paul watched Ritch and George leave their bedroom.  George had a nice arse, he thought, then mentally shook himself.  Stop that!  He rolled over and lay still, listening as John’s breathing became slower and deeper, his mate drifting off into sleep in his bed across the room. 

Paul lay quietly for a while, thinking about his dream and how it had ended.  That had been pretty nice, he thought, wondering if what he’d experienced was anything like the real thing for a bird.  It had been better than pretty nice, he admitted, it had been pretty fantastic.  He lay quietly for another spell, simply thinking.  He finally rolled over onto his back to stare at the ceiling, his arms crossed under his head.  Maybe he needed a little help to fall asleep.  He began to sing quietly to himself, careful to keep his voice low so that he wouldn’t disturb JoAnne.  Errr, John.

“Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream,
make him the cutest that I’ve ever seen ....”

Paul rolled over with a groan and tried again, mumbling into his pillow.

“Mister Sandman, bring me a dream,
make HER the cutest that I’ve ever seen.
Give HER two lips like roses and clover.
Then tell HER that HER lonesome nights are over ....”

There, that was better.  Thank God!  He decided he needed to take a whiz before he could fall asleep and he went back into the ensuite to use the facilities.  As he finished and prepared to leave the room, he paused, then carefully lowered the seat on the toilet before returning to bed.

Cheryl Mortensen has been a Beatle fanatic since the 1960s, but somehow went on to other things in the late 1960s, only rediscovering her passion for "all things Beatle" in the late 1990s (and on into the new century).  She is a computer programmer and an avid photographer. (Concert photos of bands and performers is her favorite area -- ask her about her Ringo pictures!!)  Cheryl lives with her husband of 18 years (Mike), her German Shepherd (Sorsha), and a bunch of fish in the tank and the pond that they've never bothered to name.