Stalking Wounded

A week ago I do a bit of talking head to camera for a Nick Cave documentary, as I leave the studio I pass Seasick Steve on the stairs. I nod hello, a "you-had-to-get-up-early-on-a-Sunday-for-this-too-did-you?" sort of way, and he nods back. A few days later I'm dropping off a guitar at a hotel for one of Pink's backing singers to borrow while she's in London (don't ask, I lead a complicated life) when I turn round and bump into... Seasick Steve, clearly a guest at this hotel. Do his friends call him Sea? Sicky? Steve? Probably Steve, now I think about it.
I nod hello, in a sort of "I-nodded-at-you-last-week-and-now-I'm-nodding-at-you -again-but-I-don't-know-why" sort of way... he nods back, in a sort of "I-
have-no-idea-why-you're-nodding-at-me-either, shorty-Sean-Bean" way, and then turns and leaves. Two days later I'm in Soho looking through the window of a guitar shop (no, really) when my eye shifts focus from the guitars in the foreground to a bloke inside the shop who turns and looks out the window and stares me directly in the eye...he looks familiar. It's Seasick Steve. He is unamused. Like most blues singers.

By this point it is clear that one or either of us is stalking the other... I assume he thought I was the nutter as he has just sold out The Royal Albert Hall and I'm off to play venues in the US that would struggle to hold the Team GB sprint relay team. So now that's what I'm reduced to... inadvertently stalking old blues guys. Or maybe we're just destined to be together. Who knows? Safe to say I am not leaving the house until Sicky has left the country.