Tale Teller Club Music: Countess Diaries Chapter 27 The Countess Prepares for the Artistic Throne

Diary Entry: The Countess Prepares for the Artistic Throne

Ah, my dear and loyal readers, it seems I cannot bear a single day without sharing the intricate tapestry of my life with you, for such brilliance simply must be archived. Whether the world finds my exploits thrilling or not is, of course, irrelevant—this is art in motion, a living masterpiece, and I am but the grand orchestrator. So here I sit, mid-bath, pen in hand (metaphorically), preparing to regale you with the events of this most industrious day.

The alarm tolled at the ungodly hour of eight this morning—eight! I felt quite the pioneer, venturing out among Brighton’s early risers, a foreign species entirely. By nine (a more civilized hour), I had collected my printing, a batch so exquisite it might have been kissed by the muses themselves. Onward to the gallery I marched, laden with art, determination, and, admittedly, the vague annoyance that adhesive decisions now felt like choosing the next heir to the throne.

You see, the placement of each piece is an art form in itself. A gallery wall must be curated with precision and intent—no rogue angles or ungainly gaps here. I eschewed the vulgarity of Blu-Tack and instead opted for elegance with my trusty marker pen, scrawling titles and credits directly on the wall. Bold? Yes. A touch risky? Absolutely. But this is Brighton Arts Club, where convention bows to genius. Admittedly, a minor spelling hiccup occurred with “umberella” (blame Rihanna, truly), but no masterpiece is without its flaws.

Boy Cat, that fiendish little creature, tested my resolve at every turn. No sooner had I draped an art print over a trolley for safekeeping than he pounced, all paws and arrogance. A vandal! And then, to add insult, a passing plebeian had the audacity to mock him. Mock my Boy Cat! The nerve. I unleashed the full force of my scorn upon her with a glare so withering she scurried off faster than a common thief. Justice served.

The private members’ lounge, meanwhile, has undergone a transformation worthy of Versailles, thanks to my dear friend Sha Sha (his name an enigma, his gifts divine). Victorian nursing chairs, director’s chairs, and a rug now grace the space, elevating it from a barren chamber to a boudoir of decadence. Sha Sha, naturally, has earned himself free membership—a princely reward, I think, for such generosity.

Tina, my beloved cleaner, continues to perform miracles. She telepathically senses my chaos and eradicates it as though she were some divine deity of tidiness. I returned home to find the palace gleaming, a sanctuary of order amidst my creative whirlwind. How blessed I am!

Tonight’s ensemble has been meticulously chosen: a daring black dress, cut low at both the front and back, to showcase my tattoos (art upon art, if you will). Knee-length patent buckle boots will complete the look, with an arsenal of alternative footwear at the ready because, as every noblewoman knows, the key to survival in heels is rotation. The engineering of pressure points is a science I have mastered.

The event itself promises grandeur: a showcase of my art, an opportunity to mingle, and a chance to recruit new members for the club. My trusted lieutenants, Joanne and Danielle, will serve as my loyal attendants, ensuring all guests are treated like royalty. As for me? I shall glide among them, charming and resplendent, the very picture of grace and magnificence.

And when the festivities conclude? Perhaps a visit to Kelly’s bar or a catch-up with Mark, my cage-fighting friend turned doorman. (I mean, who else could one trust to keep the riffraff in check while simultaneously discussing life drawing classes?) The night is young, my energy boundless, and Brighton is mine to conquer.

So here I am, soaking in scented waters, plotting my ascent to tonight’s artistic throne. To those attending, I’ll see you on Lewes Road. And to those who aren’t—well, your loss entirely.

Yours in brilliance,
The Countess of Brighton and Hackney