The Quentin

I'm on my way to the ball, but somehow 'The Magic Bus' I took to get to Willow Manor has stopped off in Amsterdam, and I'm looking for my favorite hotel before I climb back on to see if I can make it for the last dance.

There is - or was - an hotel (please note the way I say 'an' and drop the 'h' in an affected and ostentatious way) in Amsterdam called The Quentin.

It is - or was (I really must check up) - a wonderfully peaceful oasis of calm in the middle of the bustling old city, which catered almost exclusively for people in showbiz. When I was in showbiz, we stayed there for a few nights whilst putting on a show for the opening of a new gallery in town which involved rigging up a specially made pyrotechnical waterfall about 50 feet above and across the gleaming new front, then going away to let them light it for themselves on the night.

We were booked to be somewhere else on that occasion, so never actually performed. All we did was rig the thing up and tell them to put a match to one end of it to produce a sheet of white fire which would spectacularly fall down the front of the ancient, renovated building for about 4 minutes when required to do so.

We heard later that the entire front had to be re-decorated at great expense, having been blackened by the pyrotechnics before the gallery had officially been declared open. Oh well, we did warn them.

The Quentin is (or was - I really must check) run by a gay couple who make it their business to serve breakfast in a calm atmosphere up until about 2.00 in the afternoon. This is a most unusual - if not unique - regime for a hotel, as most of them want you out of the house by about 10.00 to change your sheets, and finish serving breakfast at around 8.30 or 9.00.

The establishment was founded around 25 years ago, and named after the proprietor's hero at the time, Quentin Crisp. They even went so far as to invite Mr Crisp to the opening, promising free accommodation for any time that he happened to find himself in Old Amsterdam, but he could not make it over from his dusty Manhattan apartment, and has died in the intervening period anyway.

The reason that the Quentin's breakfast is so late is that almost all of their clientele were either rock stars or theatrical, and since their work usually finishes about 2.00 am, they are hardly likely to want to get their sorry arses down for breakfast before about midday, especially if they have unwound in a 'brown bar' after the gig. So it was with us.

Before you get the wrong idea, I have to tell you that my function in this company of thespians was as a 'driver technician', not - sadly - a performer, though I did have to stand in once or twice for a sick one, or a fictitious one who they could not afford to pay at the time.

One show we regularly did was called 'The Cannon Club', and it involved the third performer sitting in a small chair whilst the other two fired a large and loud cannon at him, whereupon he flew off the chair in a cloud of gun smoke whilst dressed in a dinner suit. I had to stand in for a missing actor twice in my career with the company, but since there was not a great deal of dialogue involved, I managed to perform the part adequately, if not brilliantly - actually, DEFINITELY not brilliantly. There is more to being shot than meets the eye.

Before I was reunited with H.I., she had heard that I was actually being fired out of a cannon on a regular basis, which shows the power of Chinese whispers. When she heard the actual truth, I am sure I went right down in her estimation.

Anyway, the only reason I began telling you this is... wait a minute... Blimey. I had better see if I can get off to Willow Manor.

(posted using a Blackcurrant mobile/cell device from the Lowlands...)