The Countess Diaries Chapter 24 by the Countess of Brighton and Hackney
Bath, Libertines, and the Burdens of Artistry
Dearest readers, once again, the Countess finds herself ensconced in her gilded bathtub—a veritable cauldron of boiling vexation and fragrant oils, mulling over the indignities of a day spent at the mercy of libertines and dilettantes. I am convinced, utterly, that my life resembles some tragic Restoration comedy, wherein I, the noble Countess, must suffer fools, fend off philistines, and somehow still keep the palace lights on.
Yesterday was most insufferable—a Monday no less, that day which skulks into the week like a scheming footpad. I had readied the boudoir in splendiferous fashion, arranged for the lighting to rival Versailles itself, and donned lashes so long they threatened to furl like Venetian blinds. The recording studio was staged for the inaugural broadcast of my over-50s program—a YouTube visual triumph celebrating our second half-century (or as I must now lament, our falling second act). All was prepared. And what happened?
One of my guests—a local notable of dubious reliability—withdrew an hour before we were to go live! An hour! I had spent the day meticulously arranging my visage, polishing my anecdotes, and practicing the precise tilt of my head for the camera, only to have it all rendered moot by a flake of the highest order. And these are not seasoned professionals, mind you—oh no, they are of Brighton stock, whose experience of television might stretch as far as once glimpsing themselves on CCTV. Nevertheless, I try to remain magnanimous. But truly, if one more person pulls out, I may have to instate an ancient feudal punishment—perhaps banishment to Rottingdean.
Ah, but there was solace to be found! My boudoir, resplendent after a thorough refurbishing, offered comfort aplenty. I sank into my French-imported bed that night, its cushions plumped to perfection, and fell into a most restorative slumber. The bed has, I fear, now usurped my lover in its affections, it does not complain about my late-night snacking nor demand explanations for my eccentricities.
Today, however, brought brighter spirits. My dear friend Toria visited, bringing gifts of a most useful nature—a CD player for my sound system. Toria, a DJ of much renown, was aghast when I suggested acquiring CDs from charity shops for my music. The horror on her face! One would think I had suggested grinding Mozart into compost. Ever the rescuer, she bestowed upon me a playlist of her own curation, saving me from my philistine impulses.
However, a moment of blonde calamity ensued. Attempting to relocate my Technics stack from the VIP room to the gallery, I disconnected wires with all the delicacy of a bull dismantling a harpsichord. Nothing works now. Nothing! I must summon Toria again, hat in hand, to untangle this Gordian knot of my own making.
Meanwhile, preparations for Friday’s show continue. A trip to my printers today offered much amusement. One particular image—a scandalous piece, both in size and content—elicited not so much as a raised brow. The printer is a stoic wonder, treating my avant-garde requests with the same placidity as if I were ordering wedding invitations. Truly, she is the unsung heroine of Brighton’s artistic underbelly.
Lastly, a word on the Café. I am valiantly attempting to foster an evening arts vibe from 7 to 10 p.m. each night, but alas, tonight not a soul entered. However, this afternoon, when the café was closed for live art (Maria, bless her, painting in a transcendental trance), there was a veritable queue of banging fists on the door. What is one to do? I tried to rebuff them, but their puppy-dog eyes and familial connections proved my undoing.
Tomorrow promises more—more catastrophes, more hilarity, and undoubtedly more moments where I must question my sanity. But until then, dear readers, I bid you goodnight. May your boudoirs be plush, your friends reliable, and your wires untangled.
Yours in eccentric exasperation,
The Countess of Brighton and Hackney
©2024 Sarnia de la Maré
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