So it dawns on me that, of course, the guitar must have been from Bruce.
I'm not sure how I know… but I remember as we - I can't discern who's with me - approach the gig. It's like a large village hall with a balcony - or one of those non-conformist churches, but I can see no religious stuff.
Anyway, we take seats on the floor to one side, under the balcony, thinking we won't get much of a view from here. I look to the centre of the crowd and there's an old girlfriend. Is it Christine? Not sure - but she is blonde. Next thing, I'm over there too and looking up at the seats in the balcony (I know I watched from them last time)… big, corporate leather jobs with head and arm rests. And room.
Then I'm outside and I'm on my haunches, talking to him. To Bruce. Springsteen. Crowds mill around us, but they ignore us.
"I know it was you… I asked you a question at the press conference about song writing and you asked me if I played an instrument, and I said no. The next day there was a Telecaster, in a case, on my desk. It was from you, wasn't it?"
"What do you think, buddy?"
"Bloody brilliant! But I didn't get it for two years. I left the Yorkshire Post that day and someone hung on to it for me."
Then we're sitting, leaning back against a wall and I remember we're supposed to meet someone for a meal. So we're heading through the crowds and a cityscape and Bruce hands me some white clothes.
"Where I used to live, we were four-and-a-half hours away from the restaurant so we needed to make sure we got in and ate."
I look at the clothes - they're a chef's coat and hat!
So we're in an area like Soho or somewhere and we run past a restaurant front and down an alley at the side and into a rear door where we don the chefs' garb. There are other men dressed like me, busy cutting chunks of meat from roasting meats hanging in a huge oven. They don't notice me - but one says: "Hi!" So this is cool. I get a plate and do what they do. So does whoever I'm with - it's not Bruce by now, but I know he's coming too. I cut a couple of good slices of the meat - avoiding the fat, of course. There's already what looks like sauerkraut on the plate.
I make my way through to the restaurant, put the plate on a table set for two - I see my companion has done so already - and head down to the toilets, down a staircase that wraps itself around a cylindrical brick wall. At the bottom, I notice a large cupboard and assume it's for laundry. Making sure no-one sees me, I remove the chef's gear and bung it in there, go back up the stairs and…
… and the radio plays…