Sebastian Stone

I’m a fictions character recently escaped from the book “Seb”, soon to be available in iBooks and then other formats. I grew up in Surrey, England with my mother, Amelia Stone, but I’ve no idea who my father is or was. The gutter press has attempted to link my mother to a number of popular musicians at the time of my conception; though she claims not to remember very much of that period of her life or, indeed, anything subsequently.

Apart from a stint at a imaginary art school, one that you won’t have heard of, most of my relevant education came from my meeting with the model Francis “Frankie” Summerfield, heiress of the Summerfield margarine empire. We stayed together for two years, mostly in Edinburgh, and there are a number of paintings of her from that period, though most of them were bought by her father. The remaining portraits are now worth upwards of a quarter of a million pounds. Gratifyingly, had Lord Summerfield’s kept the pictures, rather than using them as firelighters, they would now be worth more than his margarine empire.

Following my retreat from Edingburgh and the delights of Frankie Summerfield, I washed up back in Surrey near to where I grew up and had a number of successful, though low key exhibitions, winning many prizes at the local flower show. However, my main exhibition space was provided by the landlord of the Head in Bucket, my local pub, who was kind enough to exchange daubs of dogs drinking beer for a regular supply of whiskey. Following the events related in “Seb," the landlord exchanged a picture titled “Alfie the Schnauzer drinking a pint of porter and eating Cheese and Onion crisps” for a small cottage in the Cotswolds, where he retired with his new collection of vintage cars and Molly the barmaid, late of his employ.