Countess Diaries Ch 11 A Motley Crew of Misfits by Pasha du Valentine
Today, as I wandered through the palace inspecting my domain, I found myself reflecting on the peculiar collection of characters who make up my staff. They are, without exception, the most bizarre assortment of individuals ever assembled under one roof. Naturally, the question arose: Is it their oddity that draws them to me, or does my own eccentricity inspire them to such outlandish behavior?
Take, for instance, Mr. Applethwaite, my gardener. A man who mistook my German crutch boots for wellies is hardly one to blend into the background. He speaks to the plants as though they are old friends and claims to have once coaxed a dying azalea back to life by singing Danny Boy to it. While his results are undeniably impressive, his methods leave me questioning whether the garden is thriving or plotting its escape.
Then there is Mrs. Tweedle, my housekeeper, a woman who has an uncanny knack for disappearing into the shadows at the exact moment she is needed. One might mistake her for a ghost if not for her incessant muttering about "the dust revolution." She is convinced that dust has a malevolent will of its own and once attempted to barricade an entire wing of the palace after discovering what she called a "dust uprising" under the chaise longue.
My secretary, Miss Pringle, is another enigma. A former librarian, she insists on cataloging everything that passes through the palace, from deliveries to guests’ footwear. Her filing system, however, is incomprehensible. Only she knows that "D-14/B" refers to the spare set of teaspoons, while "L-3/F" denotes the guestbook from 2017. When questioned, she replies cryptically, “The system reveals itself only to the worthy.”
The palace’s oddities extend even to the kitchen, where Chef Claude reigns supreme. A culinary genius, he is also prone to fits of existential despair, often triggered by the sight of an imperfect soufflé. Last week, he declared himself unfit to cook after a baguette emerged “too rustic.” He spent the rest of the day reciting Rimbaud in the pantry while cradling a wheel of brie.
And then there’s Lars, the palace handyman, who is nothing short of a riddle wrapped in duct tape. A man of few words, he communicates primarily through grunts, gestures, and an elaborate series of eyebrow raises. Despite his silence, he possesses an almost supernatural ability to appear whenever something breaks—and a more supernatural ability to repair it with materials that defy logic. Just last week, he fixed a leaky faucet using a shoelace, a spoon, and what appeared to be a jellybean.
As I survey this cast of characters, I cannot help but marvel at the absurdity of it all. Is it me, I wonder, who attracts such delightful lunacy? Or is it the palace itself, a place so steeped in eccentricity that it bends the laws of normality? Perhaps it is a bit of both—a meeting of like-minded oddities drawn together by some cosmic force.
Regardless, I wouldn’t trade them for all the competence in the world. For all their quirks, they are loyal, capable (in their own peculiar ways), and endlessly entertaining. And as much as I like to imagine myself the picture of grace and refinement, perhaps I am as much a part of this peculiar tapestry as they are. After all, what is a palace without its oddballs?
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