Diary Entry: Parties, Cats, and the Smoking Conundrum
Good evening, dear world, from the bath at Providence Palace, where I soak away the remnants of an utterly madcap weekend. The water’s teetering on the edge of tolerable heat, my throat’s gravelly from too many Marlboros, and my mind’s racing from the whirlwind that was the last few days. Allow me to regale you with tales of wild parties, feline escapades, and my ongoing battle with smoking.
The Friday Night Marathon
Friday’s party was the sort of event that legends (and exhaustion) are made of. Three birthdays—two gentlemen and one delightfully sassy lady—merged into one raucous celebration at the palace. The revelers danced like maniacs until half-past six in the morning, at which point I gently encouraged them to “go party somewhere else, dears.”
Twelve hours on my feet, not a moment’s rest, and by Saturday morning my legs felt like they’d been trampled by a particularly enthusiastic marching band. It was magnificent, but I’m not sure my noble constitution can survive too many such soirées. Age may not weary me, but hosting marathons might.
Cat Chaos
Saturday brought Cat Café, where feline therapy and tea reign supreme. Unfortunately, my staff abandoned ship, leaving me scrambling to prepare. There I was, bleary-eyed and running on fumes, fumbling with kettles and saucers like a sleep-deprived Downton Abbey maid. Eventually, reinforcements arrived, and the café was, as always, a haven for cat lovers.
Anyone who works at the café must genuinely adore cats—no pretenders allowed. Cats, like their Countess, have an uncanny ability to sniff out insincerity.
I’m contemplating opening the café more often, perhaps as an evening art space where guests can sip tea amidst feline muses. But for now, Saturdays suffice.
The Photography Show
Saturday evening belonged to the second-year photography students, who brought their friends, family, and a heartwarming sense of pride to their private view. Parents traveled from London to support their offspring, and the gallery was alive with chatter and admiration. Everyone behaved impeccably—no spills, no drama, just art and appreciation.
After the event, Joel (bless his wine-bearing soul) tempted me with two bottles of red. Fatal, of course. Thus began the night’s second chapter.
Karaoke and Foam Fights
Joel and I ventured into Brighton, where we stumbled upon the glorious spectacle that is Poison Ivy. Disco balls—dozens of them—clustered together like a glittering galaxy on the ceiling. I’ve decided I simply must replicate this in the private members’ lounge. They even had a smoke machine, though I’ve noted it makes photos look dreadful. Still, the atmosphere was sublime.
The foam machine, however, was the real star. Joel and I had an epic foam fight, with me shrieking, “Not the makeup!” He was a gentleman and aimed for my hair and cleavage instead.
The night continued at The Bulldog, Brighton’s sticky-floored, fabulous gay bar, where I basked in the company of the most divine men and belted out gay anthems on karaoke. Truly, there is no better way to spend an evening.
The Bus Stop Battle
Not all was joyous, though. Outside the bar, I encountered a foul-mouthed teenager hurling homophobic abuse at a passerby. St. James’s Street, of all places! I couldn’t let it slide.
“Excuse me!” I bellowed, channeling my inner fishwife. “This is my town, and your ignorance isn’t welcome here!”
It became a full-blown shouting match, with me delivering a thorough verbal dressing-down while the girl’s friends looked mortified. Victory was mine, of course, but it left me seething at the audacity of it all. Joel, ever the diplomat, ensured peace prevailed by getting on the same bus as her, albeit upstairs and out of earshot.
Wine, Fudge, and Marlboros
The night ended with Esther, wine, and a bag of 25p fudge. We laughed, gossiped, and indulged in the kind of sugary nostalgia that only fudge can provide. But as I puffed on yet another Marlboro, Esther gently suggested I consider quitting.
I suppose she’s right—my throat does sound like I’ve swallowed gravel—but I can’t quite imagine giving up the ritual of a cigarette break. Perhaps someone could invent a “dummy cigarette” that looks chic without the nicotine. Imagine it: the glamour of smoking, without the health risks. Someone should get on that immediately.
Tabby in Monochrome
Shazambam
$1,310
