So, Paul McCartney (or Sir P as he is known in our house) is coming to Missoula to play Grizzly Stadium. Despite being Beatles obsessives, J and I don’t have tickets. Their exorbitant price, our lack of baby-sitter and the fact that motels in Missoula are booked solid for tonight means we will be heading out of town today. I am gutted. I am a massive Paul fan. I know he needed John to lessen the saccharine in him, but nevertheless he has always been my favourite Beatle (despite the annoying cheeky chappy thing he does). I would go so far as to say I adore the songs he wrote almost more than any songs ever written. But this is not why he kept me up all night. His fans did. The town is abuzz with folk arriving for the concert. Tie-dye shirts and long hair and VW vans are trouping into Missoula. Last night a party sprung up in our motel.
I felt churlish asking them to be quiet, but by 3:20 a.m. I thought it was reasonable to don my flip flops and head upstairs to where the action was still going strong. As I opened my motel door, what looked like a venomous Hobo spider came rushing at me. Despite my sleepy haze I managed to squish it immediately. I asked the partiers to quieten down and by 4:00 a.m. they did. But now I had late-night Hobo spider paranoia to contend with.
Thanks Sir P for ruining my night of sleep. But I forgive you. Geniuses get away with anything. That Hobo spider, though, is another story.