All I really want to do is, baby, to be friends with you...(Lennon and Dylan, Kenwood, 1966)
John was slouching inelegantly on the sofa of his living room, in his slippers and heavy glasses, lazily watching bad telly (summer repeats, pah. More like repeats of repeats, actually, his mind provided with an inner snort), feeling sleepy in the warm sun of the afternoon. John wasn't feeling very productive, that day. He chuckled aloud, this time. "Not productive" was a bit of an understatement, "lazy as fuck" would have been more accurate, really. But John didn't like the word, anyway. Productive, uh. It always made the picture of Paul flash before his eyes, looking all reproving and disappointed by his lack of motivation, whining about the fact that he'd written all of the decent material they'd recorded recently.
"Sod 'im," John grumbled under his breath, kicking a cushion to the floor viciously. It wasn't that he felt uninspired or too upset to write, really. He just couldn't be bothered to put anything together these days. He had moments of apathy like these, days during which he would do nothing but trip on acid and watch telly. Mn. Maybe he ought to write a song about that, after all. He sat up with a long suffering sigh and scratched his stubbly cheek, getting up and padding to the kitchen to get himself a cup of tea.
The wifey was away for the week (at her mother's again, or something), not very keen on staying around when John was in "one of his moods". She was away rather a lot, these days, he'd noticed. He knew he would have felt suspicious and perhaps jealous about that once, but now he just didn't care anymore. He supposed that was one more sign that his happily married state of boredom was falling apart. John didn't feel like being alone though, wondering who he could have over. Not a groupie, he wasn't in the mood for that. Paul would just boss him into writing, and he was fed up with George showing him sitar chords. Ringo then, perhaps. Or that kooky bird he'd met at the Indica Gallery. She'd been quite something.
Dylan had said he'd swing by, he recalled, sipping his tea distractedly. He'd been high though when they'd met the day before, and John knew all too well that dear Robert wasn't the most reliable person ever as far as remembering that sort of thing went. Oh, well. He took another sip of tea, looking up when the bell in the corridor rang, leaving his cup in the kitchen and sauntering to the door, forgetting to take his heavy glasses off.
"Sod 'im," John grumbled under his breath, kicking a cushion to the floor viciously. It wasn't that he felt uninspired or too upset to write, really. He just couldn't be bothered to put anything together these days. He had moments of apathy like these, days during which he would do nothing but trip on acid and watch telly. Mn. Maybe he ought to write a song about that, after all. He sat up with a long suffering sigh and scratched his stubbly cheek, getting up and padding to the kitchen to get himself a cup of tea.
The wifey was away for the week (at her mother's again, or something), not very keen on staying around when John was in "one of his moods". She was away rather a lot, these days, he'd noticed. He knew he would have felt suspicious and perhaps jealous about that once, but now he just didn't care anymore. He supposed that was one more sign that his happily married state of boredom was falling apart. John didn't feel like being alone though, wondering who he could have over. Not a groupie, he wasn't in the mood for that. Paul would just boss him into writing, and he was fed up with George showing him sitar chords. Ringo then, perhaps. Or that kooky bird he'd met at the Indica Gallery. She'd been quite something.
Dylan had said he'd swing by, he recalled, sipping his tea distractedly. He'd been high though when they'd met the day before, and John knew all too well that dear Robert wasn't the most reliable person ever as far as remembering that sort of thing went. Oh, well. He took another sip of tea, looking up when the bell in the corridor rang, leaving his cup in the kitchen and sauntering to the door, forgetting to take his heavy glasses off.