I flew to New York to have lunch with Quentin Crisp at his local diner, The Cooper Square Restaurant on the corner of E5th street and 2nd Avenue. 1pm. 2 November 1997. There is always something lovely about Manhattan of course, rumbling down Fifth Avenue in a yellow cab in bright sunshine, the Flatiron building, the Empire State. Down to the Lower East Side and the diner and Quentin. The diner was plain from the outside - plate glass and dark wood - and plainer still on the inside - bare wooden tables and chairs. I arrived before Quentin, and two enormously tall men in white aprons, who seemed as capable of murder as cooking, washing up, or waiting tables, looked me up and down to ensure I was ‘alright’ to meet ‘Mr Crisp'. I must have passed the test because they showed me to a table and offered me a beer while I waited. I had read

with Quentin's claim, 'All I have to offer the world is my availability'. He pointed out that he was listed in the Manhattan phone book under 'C'. I had looked up the number in the directory in my hotel room and he had answered with a theatrical 'Oh yes...' Now suddenly here he was, smaller than I had expected and very lovely, very beautifully got up with mauve hair under a wide-brimmed hat, light make up, wonderfully scented, wearing a pale silk shirt.