I was 17, living in London, broke. Playing drums in a band occasionally, working three jobs, one as a dishwasher (no machine, all by hand) and the others were office-cleaning gigs. I loved the dish-washing as the kitchen crew and waiters were top rate, lovely people. The others jobs were just in-and-out, rearrange the dust a bit and skedaddle.

I used to hitch-hike a lot and one evening a Volkswagen minibus stopped to pick me and my pal Gavin up. It was evening time, dark and rainy. I sat on the front bench, ever the conversationalist and diplomat, Gavin snoozed in the back. Noticing the guitar case, the driver started talking music, which I gladly joined in with. He told me that the only way to reliably tune a guitar is by using harmonics, the overtones on the fifth and other frets.

These days I use a phone or box to tune up, but I still double check with the harmonics after all these years.

I asked the driver where he was going and he replied that he was on the way to visit his wife’s grave.

Being young and lacking most social graces I didn’t know what to reply. He put me at my ease and told me that he had planted Marijuana plants by her headstone and it grew very well there.

He seemed melancholy, unsurprisingly, and eventually he dropped us off where we wanted to go. He drove off into the dark and rain and I often think of him, sitting on his wife’s grave, smoking a joint and extending her memory.