“I’ll just be a couple of seconds, I’ve got a patient in here,” says Sir Paul McCartney, poking his head round his office door.
He disappears again, leaving you to nervously scan the books in the waiting room – three dictionaries, some Taschen art folios, a few dozen Beatles reference works and a surprising number of Jamie Oliver cook books.
Minutes later Sir Paul reappears, ushering out his “patient”, who turns out to be one of the many assistants at his plush, five-storey office in Soho.
“Take the pills three times a day,” he quips. “You might feel a little drowsy at first.”
As he beckons you in, the star begins fussing around the room, making small talk (“You’re from Belfast? I thought I detected that lovely little accent”) and straightening up his picture frames.
“Slight obsession,” he says. “What do they call it? Obsessive compulsive disorder. Disorder! I think it’s the opposite. I think it’s order.”
All this kerfuffle is designed to put you at ease.