Showing posts with label Pasha du Valentine. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pasha du Valentine. Show all posts
Dec 1, 2024
Countess Diaries, Chapter 29, An Intrusion Most Foul and a Songbird’s Lament
Diary of the Countess of Brighton and Hackney
"An Intrusion Most Foul and a Songbird’s Lament"
Greetings, my beloved subjects and gentle companions,
Tonight, I recount a tale of such nerve and villainy that it shall live in infamy within the annals of my court. As I recline now in my tub, the waters scented with lavender to soothe my frayed spirits, I must unburden my soul to you, my ever-loyal confidantes.
’Twas but last night, after the day’s labors and triumphs, that I retired to my chamber of rest and refreshment. My bath drawn, I did recline, washing my delicate person with the care befitting a Countess. The hour was late, and the night air still. Then, lo, a most dreadful sound reached mine ears—a ruckus, as though some brutish beasts had descended upon my palace unbidden.
At first, I thought it a mouse, for my abode, like any noble’s, is occasionally troubled by such tiny creatures. Yet no! The noise was heavier, angrier, and full of menace. I lay still as stone, listening intently, and then—oh, horror!—I heard footsteps, booted and heavy, ascending my fire escape. Voices followed, coarse and gruff.
I, your Countess, called out, “Who dares disturb the sanctity of my palace? Who treads so boldly where they have no right?” No reply came. Grabbing the nearest cloth—a towel so small it might as well have been a kerchief—I leapt from the bath, dripping and incensed, and flew to confront these intruders.
Up on my mezzanine I spied them—two men of ill repute, their figures shadowed but their intentions clear. I shouted, demanding their purpose. “Begone!” I cried. “Lest you face the wrath of my court!”
Hearing my voice, they muttered foul oaths and made to flee, clambering down the fire escape like thieves caught in the light. I pursued them, as any noble protector of their realm would, but they vanished into the darkness before I could seize them. Yet their escape was not the end of it. No, dear reader, for justice would soon be meted out.
This morning, with my court guards summoned and the fire escape barred with iron bolts, I set forth a decree to hunt the knaves. By midday, they were captured and brought before me, quaking and covered in filth, as they deserved. I sentenced them to a punishment both fitting and revolting—dunking in the slurry pits of my estate. There, their sins would be washed away in a tide of foulness most befitting their audacity.
But now, to other matters that weigh upon my heart. For though my spirit burns with righteousness, there is one criticism oft whispered beyond my court that wounds me deeply: the claim that my voice, my sweet and melodious song, is not in tune.
Can you imagine such gall? Within my court, none dare utter such falsehoods. Indeed, my loyal subjects clap and swoon when I grace them with a tune. “Like a nightingale,” they say, their eyes bright with admiration. Yet beyond my domain, in the murmurings of commoners, I am accused of shrieking like a crow or wailing like a banshee.
It is slander, pure and simple. Do I not possess the poise of a songbird? The grace of a lark? And yet, these unrefined ears, unfit for the delicacies of my art, spread their cruel assessments.
I shall not be swayed by their lies. When I sing, I bring forth the joys and sorrows of the soul, uniting heaven and earth in melody. If they cannot appreciate the beauty, it is because their own hearts are unworthy of such gifts. Still, I wonder—might there be truth in their jests? Could my pitch stray? Perhaps it is the fault of the chamber’s acoustics, not mine own.
I shall practice anew, for a Countess must always strive for perfection. Tomorrow, I shall sing in the grand hall and let my notes soar to the rafters. Let the critics come and hear for themselves, though I doubt they possess the courage to face me directly.
Ah, but enough of these trivial grievances. The day ends, and I must rest, my subjects. My bath grows tepid, and I find myself longing for a warm goblet of mulled wine to chase away the chill.
May your nights be peaceful and your dreams filled with grandeur befitting the loyal companions of a Countess. Until tomorrow, my dearest friends.
The Countess of Brighton and Hackney
Nov 25, 2024
Countess Diaries, Chapter 26, A Most Delicate Crusade
Diary Entry: A Most Delicate Crusade
My dear and devoted readership,
It is with great humility that I pen this account of yet another act of benevolence executed by my noble self. One must strive, after all, to set an example of philanthropy for the lesser mortals who wallow in their own mediocrity. This past week saw me embroiled in a campaign of the utmost importance—a crusade, if you will—against a most heinous practice known as Female Genital Mutilation (FGM). Pray, do not be alarmed at my addressing such a serious matter, for even the loftiest Countesses must sometimes soil their silken gloves with the dirt of humanity's worst afflictions.
It began, as many such endeavors do, with an invitation to a charity luncheon, where I was to sit at the head of the table (naturally) and regale the gathered philanthropists with my wit and wisdom. The event was held at a splendid manor, though, I must confess, the canapés were frightfully small. One had to consume at least five to feel even remotely sated, though I suppose hunger lends an air of gravitas to one’s oratory.
I addressed the room with my usual eloquence, weaving words into a tapestry of inspiration that left many a dowager dabbing their cheeks with lace-trimmed handkerchiefs. My speech, titled "Cut No More: A Noblewoman’s Call to Arms," was hailed as a triumph. I declared, with a dramatic sweep of my gloved hand, that the eradication of such barbarity required not only funds but the cultural enlightenment that only the likes of me could provide. My suggestion of organizing a series of workshops—complete with interpretive dance and possibly a cello accompaniment—was met with polite applause. (Some of the attendees are not yet ready for the full breadth of my genius, but they will learn.)
The next day, I took to the streets, flanked by my loyal retinue of Brighton’s finest eccentrics. My dear friend Pastor Po (whose knack for creating spectacles rivals even mine) insisted on carrying a banner that read, “The Countess Commands Compassion.” It was a touch verbose, but I allowed it for the sake of camaraderie. We distributed leaflets, mingled with the public, and even staged a short play outside the Pavilion Gardens. I played the role of "Lady Justice," naturally, draped in a toga and armed with a prop sword, which I wielded with such vigor that a tourist mistook me for a live statue and attempted to tip me a pound coin. I accepted graciously, for every penny counts in the fight for justice.
Later that evening, exhausted but victorious, I hosted a soirée in the grand salon of my palace. I declared it a “Night of Enlightenment,” where wine flowed as freely as my speeches. My staff had outdone themselves with the decorations, transforming the room into a vision of classical elegance (though I did have to remind the maid to dust the chandeliers more thoroughly—one must not allow standards to slip).
The evening concluded with a rousing toast to the cause, during which I likened myself to Joan of Arc, though without the unfortunate burning. "I shall not rest," I proclaimed, "until this scourge is but a dark chapter in the history books, and women everywhere may embrace their futures unscarred!" There was much clinking of glasses and murmurs of admiration, though I did catch Lady Penelope whispering to her companion that I had perhaps overdone it with the metaphors. Jealousy, dear reader, is the sincerest form of flattery.
As I write this, I am already planning my next endeavor—a charity gala with the theme "Cutting No More, Cutting No Corners." It will feature a fashion show of ethically sourced gowns (designed by me, of course), a silent auction, and a grand finale in which I shall perform an original aria composed in honor of the survivors. Truly, no one gives of themselves as selflessly as I.
And so, I retire to my chambers, satisfied that I have once again contributed to the betterment of humanity. The weight of my own brilliance is heavy indeed, but someone must bear it. Who better than I, the Countess of Brighton and Hackney, patroness of the oppressed, beacon of hope, and undisputed queen of charity events?
©2020 Sarnia de la Mare
Books by Author Sarnia de la Maré FRSA
Quick look
Toddle Poddle: Issue 2 (Rat Gang Crew and Friends)
Kindle Edition
$6.00
Other formats: Paperback
Quick look
Strata 14: The Journey to the Edge (Fear of Death) (The Book of Immersion 16)
Kindle Edition
$6.32
Other formats: Paperback
Quick look
Elderescence: A Manifesto (Elderescence Academy Book 2)
Kindle Edition
$9.99
Quick look
Tea Cup Shorts: V1
Kindle Edition
$4.99
Other formats: Paperback
Quick look
Strata 13: The Fight (Hormones) (The Book of Immersion 17)
Kindle Edition
$0.99
Quick look
Handmade by Sarnia, Eco Winter Warmers: Elderescence Academy: Recycled Fashion
5.0 out of 5 stars15.0 out of 5 stars. 1 customer reviews
Kindle Edition
$6.50
Other formats: Paperback
Quick look
Strata 12: Shabra and the Basement People (Emotions) (The Book of Immersion 15)
Kindle Edition
$1.32
Quick look
Strata 10: Dinfant Trouble (Synthetic Love) (The Book of Immersion 14)
Kindle Edition
$0.99
Quick look
Strata 11: The Crossroads (Guessing) (The Book of Immersion 12)
Kindle Edition
$0.99
Quick look
Strata 9: Limerence (Loins and Lust) (The Book of Immersion 13)
Kindle Edition
$0.99
Quick look
Feminism, AI, Big Tech, and Societal Issues: Navigating the Nexus (The Humanitarian...
Kindle Edition
$3.99
Other formats: Paperback
Quick look
Strata 8: Shabra (Laws of Attraction) (The Book of Immersion)
Kindle Edition
$0.99
Quick look
Strata 7: Jarome and the Scritters (Trade and Barter) (The Book of Immersion)
Kindle Edition
$0.99
Quick look
Strata 6: Trouble at the Bank (Animal Instincts) (The Book of Immersion)
Kindle Edition
$0.99
Quick look
Strata 5: Renyke Goes to The Bank (Memories and Experiences) (The Book of...
Kindle Edition
$0.99
Nov 23, 2024
Countess Diaries Chapter 25 The Curious Case of the Sentry Who Wasn’t There
The Diaries of the Countess of Brighton and Hackney
The Curious Case of the Sentry Who Wasn’t There
Dearest and most patient readers, today I must recount an absurdity so improbable that even Molière might have balked at its implausibility. It began with an alarming discovery: the palace gate, which ought to be steadfastly guarded by my trusted sentry, had been left open to the Brighton winds, as vacant as a charity shop at dawn. This sentry, mind you, is not a strapping musketeer but one of my more eccentric staff—a poet-turned-security-enthusiast named Algernon, whose greatest weapon is his penchant for quoting Shakespeare at passersby.
Algernon had apparently decided that guarding the gate required interpretation, and so, instead of standing vigilant, he had relocated himself to the café to conduct an impromptu symposium on the metaphorical “gates of life.” Guests were treated to a rambling soliloquy on how “the portals of existence are best left ajar to let in inspiration,” punctuated by sips of a latte he had commandeered from the café’s supplies.
Meanwhile, I, oblivious to this dereliction of duty, was upstairs attempting to soothe the gallery curator, Maria, who had taken offense at the positioning of her latest abstract masterpiece. She claimed the light in the gallery was “undermining the emotional integrity” of her work. I suggested a compromise: a new spotlight and perhaps a dose of Valerian root tea. Maria muttered something about “art being shackled by utility” and stormed out, leaving me to consider whether I should advertise for an emotionally detached curator instead.
Returning downstairs, I found a small gathering of libertines had taken advantage of the unguarded gate. They had installed themselves in the café, claiming to be a traveling troupe of improv actors, though their performance seemed to involve little more than gesticulating wildly and confusing Maria’s abstract sculptures for coat racks.
“Oh, but what do you expect me to do?” Algernon protested when I confronted him about the chaos. “Am I to physically keep people out? I am an artist, not a bouncer!”
It was then that I noticed Toria, the ever-dutiful DJ and occasional model, observing the scene with a bemused smirk. “Countess,” she said, “this reminds me of the time you tried to run a VIP gallery bar and forgot that VIP means Very Important People, not ‘Very Interesting Passersby.’”
She wasn’t wrong. My reputation for gathering Brighton’s most eclectic misfits precedes me, and it seems the café has inadvertently become an impromptu clubhouse for the town’s most theatrical vagabonds. One particularly bold fellow attempted to barter his “services” as a human statue in exchange for a pot of Earl Grey.
I shooed the libertines out with promises of hosting an open mic night at some vague and distant point in the future—sufficiently far away that they will likely forget all about it—and dragged Algernon back to his post.
To ensure no further artistic interpretations of gate-guarding occur, I have drawn up a list of official sentry duties, which I have laminated for Algernon’s reference:
- Keep the gate closed unless the visitor has an appointment or a compelling backstory.
- Refrain from engaging in existential debates with guests who have yet to prove their ability to purchase coffee.
- Do not compose or recite poetry while on duty unless it is an ode to vigilance.
Algernon swore solemnly to abide by these rules, though I suspect he will pen a 12-stanza rebuttal in iambic pentameter by week's end.
As for me, I’ve decided to implement a new protocol: all gate-related grievances must now be forwarded to my French-imported bed, which remains the most steadfast and reliable thing in my life. Until tomorrow, dear readers, may your gates be guarded, your poets obedient, and your libertines suitably shooed.
Yours in unending exasperation,
The Countess of Brighton and Hackney
©2024 Sarnia de la Mare
Books by Author Sarnia de la Maré FRSA
Quick look
Toddle Poddle: Issue 2 (Rat Gang Crew and Friends)
Kindle Edition
$6.00
Other formats: Paperback
Quick look
Strata 14: The Journey to the Edge (Fear of Death) (The Book of Immersion 16)
Kindle Edition
$6.32
Other formats: Paperback
Quick look
Elderescence: A Manifesto (Elderescence Academy Book 2)
Kindle Edition
$9.99
Quick look
Tea Cup Shorts: V1
Kindle Edition
$4.99
Other formats: Paperback
Quick look
Strata 13: The Fight (Hormones) (The Book of Immersion 17)
Kindle Edition
$0.99
Quick look
Handmade by Sarnia, Eco Winter Warmers: Elderescence Academy: Recycled Fashion
5.0 out of 5 stars15.0 out of 5 stars. 1 customer reviews
Kindle Edition
$6.50
Other formats: Paperback
Quick look
Strata 12: Shabra and the Basement People (Emotions) (The Book of Immersion 15)
Kindle Edition
$1.32
Quick look
Strata 10: Dinfant Trouble (Synthetic Love) (The Book of Immersion 14)
Kindle Edition
$0.99
Quick look
Strata 11: The Crossroads (Guessing) (The Book of Immersion 12)
Kindle Edition
$0.99
Quick look
Strata 9: Limerence (Loins and Lust) (The Book of Immersion 13)
Kindle Edition
$0.99
Quick look
Feminism, AI, Big Tech, and Societal Issues: Navigating the Nexus (The Humanitarian...
Kindle Edition
$3.99
Other formats: Paperback
Quick look
Strata 8: Shabra (Laws of Attraction) (The Book of Immersion)
Kindle Edition
$0.99
Quick look
Strata 7: Jarome and the Scritters (Trade and Barter) (The Book of Immersion)
Kindle Edition
$0.99
Quick look
Strata 6: Trouble at the Bank (Animal Instincts) (The Book of Immersion)
Kindle Edition
$0.99
Quick look
Strata 5: Renyke Goes to The Bank (Memories and Experiences) (The Book of...
Kindle Edition
$0.99
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
$1,310
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)