A Quentin Crisp story – NY 1989

ABULKY wooden throne was carried on to the middle of the stage, Quentin followed, pressing his jacket beneath him as he sat down. Sitting sideways on his perfectly manicured long grey hair, he wore a floppy grey hat with a peacock feather jutting from a black satin band. Because he was ageless and because of his sexual candor, he was free to look whatever way he liked.

His eyebrows were painted black and angled into a wideeyed expression. Pancake powder and pale lipstick took his face into old lady land, but the black eyeliner gave him a Keith Richards edge. A turquoise stone brooch pulled his green satin cravat up to a frail doubled chin. From there down he looked like a timeless pop star in a black Edwardian suit with covered buttons.

Once he started speaking in his English upper class accent, it was clear that we were witnessing the nearest thing to Oscar Wilde’s wit and appearance that we would ever in our lifetime. He loved the outspokenness of New York and didn’t regret leaving England, where people never spoke their minds.

He went on to tell this story. “A woman is about to go on a Train journey, embarking from Victoria Station. She purchases a round trip ticket to Brighton, and upon doing so, realises that there is enough time to have a cup of tea before boarding. The Café with its steamed up glass windows, is full. She notices a man sitting at one of the tiny round tables.

‘Pardon me. Terribly sorry to bother you, but is anyone using this other chair?’ ‘No, not at all.’

Grateful, she tucks her suitcase under the table.

‘Would you mind terribly, watching my place, while I go to the counter?’

‘Oh certainly, I would be glad to.’ She had to almost shout above the steam hissing from the hot water cisterns.

‘May I have a small pot of tea and a Kit Kat please?’

‘Will that be one or two teabags, plyse?’ ‘One is fine, thank you kindly.’ ‘You are very welcome madam.’

Returning to her chair, she removes her scarf, and folds her coat across her lap. She takes a minute to look around the little busy café, wondering where all these people are going to and where they came from.

She opens up the Kit Kat and pours herself a cup of tea. The man sharing her table, who was engrossed in his broadsheet, reached over absent- mindedly and broke off a finger of the Kit Kat. She was silently astonished. What was going on? The bloody cheek! She quickly broke off a piece for herself, and washed the bite down with a sip of tea. He reached over and broke off another finger. She was even more astounded now, was he going to eat the whole thing?

Realising that time had moved on quicker than she expected, she washed the remaining finger down with the last sip of tea, gathered her stuff and rushed off to her train, all the while aghast with what had occurred.

After finding a place to sit on the train, she threw her luggage on the rack overhead. As the train made its way through London’s suburbia, she looked at the rain drenched backyards of Clapham, unlucky laundry hung on sagging clothes lines, but all she could think of was that man eating her Kit Kat!

The ticket collector shouted his approach. ‘Tickets Plyse!’

She opened her hand bag to find the ticket, and there too was her Kit Kat...unopened!”