I, his biggest fan, am disappointed. His latest album, Flaming Pie, isn’t getting very good reviews. That’s not the Paul McCartney I loved as a kid and came to know as an adult. Well, know breifly anyway.

After the Beatles had gone their separate ways, I went to work for a publishing company that had a lot of the Beatles’ stuff in its catalog. Paul McCartney came to town to do some recording and Nashville was abuzz. Everyone was trying to find out where he was staying.

I knew where he was staying. I even had the phone numbers at his house in the country. But I wasn’t telling. It was heady knowledge for a secretary to harbor. For a short time, I felt important.

My boss, who knew my love for the precious Paul, mused one day that the office ought to do something nice for him, even though we weren’t publishing his current songs. "I know," he said. "They’re out in the middle of nowhere with no liquor stores around. Do you know anybody who would like to deliver some booze to them?" He winked at me slyly.

He didn’t have to ask twice. I called to tell Paul’s people we were coming, went to the liquor store and got in the car with a fellow Beatles fan who owned an automobile that looked like it had a right to be driving up to see Paul.

Directions in hand, we twisted around country roads to the magnificent house. We pulled up the long drive and a red pickup truck pulled in behind us. We figured, rightly, that they were some kind of security people.

My companion – who never had a tongue-tied day in his life – was speechless, so I took charge. I explained our purpose to the men. They thanked me, took the boxes out of the car and said good-bye.

I was determined to get in that house. Brilliantly, I asked if I could use the ladies room, since there was not one for miles around.

As I headed to the door, I saw Paul at the side shooting baskets with a little girl. Paul McCartney shooting baskets! Unbelievable.

I went in. Linda McCartney was stuffing a turkey. She waved me to the rest room. The two children in the house were totally naked. The youngest, about three or four, followed me in the rest room and stayed the whole time I was there.

As I left, Paul came around the house, walked up and introduced himself., if you can believe that. After we chatted a while, he floored me.

"You’ve got the phone number here, don’t you?" I nodded. "Well, if you can think of anything interesting for us to do, let us know and we’ll all go together."

For the two weeks he was here, I racked my brain. Couldn’t take him out to the countryside. He was already there. Couldn’t take him any place public, they’d be mobbed. I doubted they’d be impressed with my apartment. Couldn’t introduce them to anyone famous they couldn’t meet on their own. I never made the call.

I’ve often wondered if I had it to do all over again, where I’d take Paul McCartney.

I know what I’d do today.

I’d say let’s go back to the studio and show them the stuff you’re still made of.