It Happened To Me | Shirley Skeel

Meeting A Starr

I came to London at age 20, a solo traveller venturing to the big city to see the storybook come to life. I was staying in a hostel somewhere in the Ozzie haven of Earls Court and ended up on Redfern Avenue in a designer terrace house with a large hole through the center and six similarly-aged inhabitants. There was the accountant, the rock and roller, the blonde Harrods girl, two others who came and went, and Mary. Mary was generous in every sense of the word, and more significantly—Mary worked for Ringo Starr. Ringo as in à la Beatles.

It was the 1970s, and I have the strong impression that it was at a furniture business that Ringo owned. Whatever it was, I do remember the business was called Apple.

I was looking for a job, any job, and Mary insisted that she could get me in at this Apple business: a little typing, a little note-taking, a little filing. So I went for an interview. I was met by a man and a woman, smartly-dressed and smart enough to see within minutes that I had as many office skills as an orangutan. I sat at a typewriter and managed to tap out a few sentences at 30 words a minute. I tried to take dictation. And I gave some inane answers to inane questions.

Then I was taken to a large room. The three of us sat at a table at one end and talked. The door opened, I looked up, and in walked Ringo Starr.

I have always assumed that my sense of humour came from my British father, so perhaps I had some vague hope when I rose to my feet and stood towering over Ringo by about six inches and opened my mouth, that I was on home territory. Or maybe I was just stupid and young. I know I had still not learned NOT to say that first thing that came into my head. So I did.

"I hope it won't be embarrassing for you, my working for you when I'm so tall and you're so short," I said.

Ringo looked up at me without a change of expression.

"That's all right. You can work on your knees."

I don't remember a lot after that. I don't think we were given a chance to exchange more pleasantries because I remember moments later being back in the main office and making some frustrated comment about, "Well I guess I may as well give up," since my typing was so bad. 

Back at home, Mary reprimanded me for making that parting remark, insisting that, but for that, I would have got the job through her influence. As it was, the job I did eventually get, printing cibachrome colour photos at a small professional lab, led to a string of fortunate events that would never have happened had I been on my knees at a typewriter at Apple.

God is good. And Mr Starr ain't such a bad bloke either.