It’s the early 90s, a small activity centre in the Brecon Beacons, and the man who wrote Here Comes the Sun wants to know how his young son’s getting on

It was the early 90s and I was at a loose end. I phoned a former employer and crossed my fingers.

Three days later I was the new kitchen assistant at a small activity centre in the Brecon Beacons. Mostly I just did the washing-up. I didn’t mind. The view from the window was amazing and the walls of the kitchen bounced to the sounds of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I was happy.

I looked across the staffroom at the phone. George Harrison’s voice was going to be on the other end of that

One day, the manager summoned us all to the staffroom. He seemed very excited about something. I can still picture his suntanned face and blue eyes, but his name has long escaped me. However, he looked like a Dave so I’ll call him that.

Dave said: “I had an important phone conversation today. Next week, George Harrison’s son is staying here and George will call every evening to check everything is all right. So nobody is to use that phone. And if it rings and it’s someone else, we get them off the line as quick as possible. That phone has to be free for George.”

I looked across the staffroom at the phone on the desk. George Harrison’s voice was going to be on the other end of that. George Harrison. The Beatle. The one who wrote Here Comes the Sun and Taxman. The one with the best hair. Here. In this room. Suddenly, I was in a place of greatness.

I regret forgetting Dave’s name because Dave was a wonderful manager. George Harrison’s son was with us for a week and Dave organised a rota so each staff member had a chance to pick up the phone and speak to a Beatle. But he briefed us carefully. No small-talk. No phone hanging. Just answer politely and pass it on.

When my turn came, I was let out of the kitchen early. I stood in the staffroom, with Dave right next to me, and waited for the greatest phone conversation of my life. And then...

“Hello.”

“Hello. Who is it this time?”

“Hayley. I work in the kitchen.”

There was a chuckle down the line. “What a great thing to do.” There was no sarcasm – he was being nice.

Becoming more confident, I said: “It’s mostly washing-up.”

Dave nudged me and beckoned furiously for the phone.

“I’ll get Dave,” I said.

“Thanks,” said George.

I beamed at Dave, passed him the phone and went back to the kitchen to finish the dishes.

I did lots of jobs like this in my early 20s and I learned a really useful lesson. Interesting things can happen anywhere and few situations are entirely without promise.

The Nearest Faraway Place by Hayley Long (Hot Key Books, £6.99) is published on 13 July. To order a copy for £5.94, go to bookshop.theguardian.com