It was 1981. John Lennon had just been shot and killed and I was in Miami, listening to The Beatles all day long. I had a cassette player with a copy of The White Album which I played to death. “Happiness is a Warm Gun” indeed. The radio stations were playing Beatles back-to-back and even though I thought I was their biggest fan in the world, there were a couple of songs I hadn’t heard before.

It was my first time in America and I was staying in a small, green enclave called Coconut Grove. Lots of lush tropical leaves and wooden houses with fans in the ceiling.

I was broke, arriving on a one way ticket and no work permit. I’m not sure why they let me in, but I scraped through. The customs man tipped the contents of my one bag onto the floor and poked through my belongings with his boot. I had heard that packing a Bible could improve your chances and it might have worked. As soon as I got out of the airport I tore the visa out of my passport.

I got work as a busboy and graduated to waiting. I was pretty bad, but I made good tips, possibly out of sympathy. At the end of an evening I would have a pile of grubby green notes in my hand and no taxes to pay.

My unstable friend Gavin arrived from London and he stayed with a neighbour. He was broke too but I had enough to tide us both through.

One day we were introduced to some friends of our hosts. They probably wanted us out of the house.

We walked over to the address we had been given and it was a one-storey bungalow, open plan, with a bar in the kitchen. Behind it sat a man in his late thirties. His wife was out and it was the middle of the day.

We sat down on the stools opposite him and started talking. We explained a bit about ourselves and how we were musicians and had plans. The man was German and poured us sodas.

I jabbered away and started to ask about him, his life, his work. He was a photographer. I wondered a little bit abut why he was home in the daytime, but not out loud. He talked about things he had done.

At one point I asked if he didn’t miss doing the things he said he had done?

He went very still and looked at me. Then he swept all the glasses on the counter top at me, drenching me in sticky soda and broken glass.

After that there was not much to do but leave. He didn’t apologise and I didn’t either, not knowing which button I had pushed.

I asked Gavin: “What was that all about?”

“I could see he was getting wound up, I could see it coming. You were getting to him.”

“But what did I say that was wrong?”

“I don’t know.”

“Germans are crazy”

“Yes.”