The Salad of John and Yoko

It had been a long night in the studio (not a ‘Hard Day’s Night’, those ended a long time ago) and he knew that she would be in bed. He’d be quiet, he could do that, and she demanded peace.

He’d been looking forward to his tea which was odd because he was not a big fan of the lettuce.  He preferred fish and chips, mushy peas and sliced white with butter, but a vitamin boost always helps, what with his thinning hair and pasty complexion. The others were looking a lot better, especially George and he couldn’t have that. 

“Bloody sitar playing dark horse.”

Still, he was in a good mood. Maybe because Paul and he were getting along.  Love was the thing though, love did this kind of thing to a man. All you needed was love.

“Age will not wither me, for I am a Beatle, yeah, yeah, yeah. Ha-ha.” 

But then he opened the fridge to find nothing. No tomatoes, onions or sergeant peppers.”

“Where is it? Where is it?”

He slammed the door, sighed, took his glasses off. 
 
“That bloody woman. Christ, you know it ain’t easy! She’s always at it. No respect, a taker. Christ, you know it ain’t easy, Yoko? YOKO?”