The Diaries of the Countess of Brighton and Hackney
The Curious Case of the Sentry Who Wasn’t There
Dearest and most patient readers, today I must recount an absurdity so improbable that even Molière might have balked at its implausibility. It began with an alarming discovery: the palace gate, which ought to be steadfastly guarded by my trusted sentry, had been left open to the Brighton winds, as vacant as a charity shop at dawn. This sentry, mind you, is not a strapping musketeer but one of my more eccentric staff—a poet-turned-security-enthusiast named Algernon, whose greatest weapon is his penchant for quoting Shakespeare at passersby.
Algernon had apparently decided that guarding the gate required interpretation, and so, instead of standing vigilant, he had relocated himself to the café to conduct an impromptu symposium on the metaphorical “gates of life.” Guests were treated to a rambling soliloquy on how “the portals of existence are best left ajar to let in inspiration,” punctuated by sips of a latte he had commandeered from the café’s supplies.
Meanwhile, I, oblivious to this dereliction of duty, was upstairs attempting to soothe the gallery curator, Maria, who had taken offense at the positioning of her latest abstract masterpiece. She claimed the light in the gallery was “undermining the emotional integrity” of her work. I suggested a compromise: a new spotlight and perhaps a dose of Valerian root tea. Maria muttered something about “art being shackled by utility” and stormed out, leaving me to consider whether I should advertise for an emotionally detached curator instead.
Returning downstairs, I found a small gathering of libertines had taken advantage of the unguarded gate. They had installed themselves in the café, claiming to be a traveling troupe of improv actors, though their performance seemed to involve little more than gesticulating wildly and confusing Maria’s abstract sculptures for coat racks.
“Oh, but what do you expect me to do?” Algernon protested when I confronted him about the chaos. “Am I to physically keep people out? I am an artist, not a bouncer!”
It was then that I noticed Toria, the ever-dutiful DJ and occasional model, observing the scene with a bemused smirk. “Countess,” she said, “this reminds me of the time you tried to run a VIP gallery bar and forgot that VIP means Very Important People, not ‘Very Interesting Passersby.’”
She wasn’t wrong. My reputation for gathering Brighton’s most eclectic misfits precedes me, and it seems the café has inadvertently become an impromptu clubhouse for the town’s most theatrical vagabonds. One particularly bold fellow attempted to barter his “services” as a human statue in exchange for a pot of Earl Grey.
I shooed the libertines out with promises of hosting an open mic night at some vague and distant point in the future—sufficiently far away that they will likely forget all about it—and dragged Algernon back to his post.
To ensure no further artistic interpretations of gate-guarding occur, I have drawn up a list of official sentry duties, which I have laminated for Algernon’s reference:
- Keep the gate closed unless the visitor has an appointment or a compelling backstory.
- Refrain from engaging in existential debates with guests who have yet to prove their ability to purchase coffee.
- Do not compose or recite poetry while on duty unless it is an ode to vigilance.
Algernon swore solemnly to abide by these rules, though I suspect he will pen a 12-stanza rebuttal in iambic pentameter by week's end.
As for me, I’ve decided to implement a new protocol: all gate-related grievances must now be forwarded to my French-imported bed, which remains the most steadfast and reliable thing in my life. Until tomorrow, dear readers, may your gates be guarded, your poets obedient, and your libertines suitably shooed.
Yours in unending exasperation,
The Countess of Brighton and Hackney
©2024 Sarnia de la Mare
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