Tale Teller Club Music: Countess Diaries Ch 19 The Countess Goes to Alcatraz #countessoffbrightonandhackney

Countess Diaries Ch 19.

Diary Entry: The Countess Goes to Alcatraz.

Oh, what a day, my dear world. I write to you from my bath—a sauna masquerading as a sanctuary tonight—after an adventure that tested my patience, my dignity, and my eyeliner. Today, I made my first foray into Alcatraz—or, as the locals call it, Lewes Jail.

The day began with chaos. Knowing I had to leave the palace before noon—a time I consider unholy—I set my alarm for nine, only to toss and turn in a fit of nerves until dawn. The Baron, my incarcerated son, had requested some essentials, including boxer shorts. Simple enough, one might think, except Brighton Arts Club operates on an unspoken socialism of shared everything. As luck would have it, the second pair of boxers on his list were currently being worn—by me. Naturally.

And then there was the ID debacle. My passport, like my alter ego, exists under a different name. Combine that with a missing bank card (left at the gallery the night before), and I was a picture of disarray as I sprinted across the park in five layers, sweating profusely under an unseasonably warm sun. The eyeliner was the final insult—dull, blunt, and utterly unsalvageable. By the time I left for Lewes, I looked more prisoner than visitor.

Lewes, my dear readers, is a town that defies logic. Shops close with the whimsical irregularity of a Dickensian novel. We needed change—prison rules demand shrapnel, not notes—but every place we visited was either shut for half-term or out of coins. After an endless trek through jaywalker-unfriendly streets, we stumbled into a pub that promised sustenance, only to abandon it 30 minutes later when no sandwiches appeared. By the time we reached the jail, I was famished, frazzled, and faintly homicidal.

The prison itself is a marvel of bureaucracy and indignity. As a Countess, I’m accustomed to deference, so being herded like livestock was quite the humbling experience. Perhaps next time I’ll dress as a solicitor; they seemed to glide through the process with an air of untouchable efficiency. Meanwhile, I found myself fumbling through security, trying to convince a stern-faced officer that no, I did not have contraband tucked into my Victoria sponge.

Once inside, the emotional toll hit me. The waiting area was a microcosm of pent-up tension, brimming with nervous mothers, tearful sisters, and a sprinkling of overly aggressive visitors who seemed one step away from starting a fight over queue etiquette. The highlight—or perhaps lowlight—was seeing a man whose visitors never arrived. He waited for nearly an hour, his hope slowly eroding until it was unbearable to watch. My heart broke for him, though I made a mental note to tell The Baron never to expect Victoria sponge in his care packages.

Finally, I saw The Baron. The relief was immediate, the joy palpable, and yes, I may have shed a tear or two. Despite his polyester-sheet predicament, he was in good spirits, regaling me with tales of prison politics and his plans to reform the canteen menu. It was a bittersweet meeting, but one I wouldn’t trade for anything.

The return journey was a blur of hunger and poor decisions. A tasteless sandwich at a service station followed by McDonald’s back in Brighton left me questioning every life choice that led to this gastronomic low point. Tomorrow, I resolve to detox with something green, fresh, and decidedly non-processed.

Back at the gallery, I discovered my latest flyer—a photograph of a rope-suspended model—had ruffled a few feathers. Apparently, her “blueish hue” upset a fellow rope enthusiast, who felt compelled to lecture me on technique. “Darling,” I wanted to say, “I’m a photographer, not a knot connoisseur. If you think you can do better, tie yourself up and let me take your picture.”

And so, another day in the life of the Countess concludes. My bath is finally cooling, the Marlboros are calling, and Midsomer Murders awaits—because even in chaos, one must have their comforts. Until tomorrow, my dear world, I remain yours in exhaustion and eyeliner smudges.