by Jane MacRoss

Quentin was our art school model. We loved him. He told us stories. He was a hero. He held amazing poses and was the very best.

One day he lay down on a bench and to our young amazement and some horror watched as all his hair, blue and carefully brushed across and over his head, slowly fell back and revealed his baldness!

Later I was engaged to a man who had a flat in Chelsea. On my first visit to this flat, he said, "You must come and meet my neighbor." He knocked on a door and there appeared Quentin in a dressing gown.

"Oh!" he said. "Do come in. I was just playing chess with myself."

The room was amazingly dusty, you could say it was thick and contained the dirtiest wash basin I had ever seen.

He was one of my favorite people. I always hoped I'd see him again before he shuffled off this mortal coil.

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