Showing posts with label Brighton Arts Club. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Brighton Arts Club. Show all posts
Nov 22, 2024
Countess Diaries Chapter 23 Parties, Cats, and the Smoking Conundrum
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
Shazambam Boogie
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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.
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