Showing posts with label book. Show all posts
Showing posts with label book. Show all posts
Dec 3, 2024
Diaries of a Countess Chapter 30: A Detox Most Foul
Chapter 30: A Detox Most Foul
My dearest journal, it is with a reluctant quill that I recount the circumstances which have led to my current predicament—imprisonment (of sorts!) in a house of healing, or what the common folk rudely term "rehab." Though I vehemently refute the accusations of overindulgence in vodka (which I consume only for its medicinal properties) and smelling salts (which surely cannot harm one if used hourly), my physician insists otherwise.
Physician McBane is a man of infuriating logic wrapped in the most charmingly devilish features. His eyes are a piercing gray, like stormy seas that whisper both danger and allure. I should have suspected his intentions when he arrived at my chambers armed with charts, a tincture that tasted of despair, and the most infernal of suggestions: “Countess, your liver is in rebellion. If you value your empire of charm, wit, and intoxicating presence, you must retire to St. Elmo’s Retreat for recuperation.”
“Rehab, you mean,” I spat, indignantly tossing my silk turban across the room.
“Indeed,” he replied with maddening calm, “though I should mention, a certain Lord Peregrine—a duke of scandalous reputation and unrivaled beauty—resides there presently, seeking respite from his own excesses.”
Ah, dear Lord Peregrine. It has been whispered that his jawline could cut glass and his wit could undress even the most virtuous maiden. Though I feigned indifference, my heart—traitorous organ!—beat a little faster at the thought.
“And what, pray, shall be the nature of this... retreat?” I inquired, narrowing my eyes.
“Austere,” said Dr. McBane, his lips twitching ever so slightly. “No spirits, no stimulants, only rest, hydration, and light conversation—though in your case, Countess, I shall permit an hour of philosophical debate after supper, should you avoid too much anxiety from those who dare to disagree.”
I considered my options. To refuse would risk looking obstinate to society, while to agree might procure me the companionship of Lord Peregrine and an hour’s debate to crush Dr. McBane with my superior intellect. Such handsome men as folly seemed almost delicious. It was a sacrifice, but I am nothing if not a martyr to duty.
Thus, I arrived at St. Elmo’s Retreat with the air of a queen surveying her conquered territory. The staff seemed flustered, unsure whether to bow or escort me to my chambers. Was I prisoner or guest? And then, as if conjured by fate, Lord Peregrine appeared, a vision lounging upon a velvet chaise like a lion basking in the sun. I noted his healthy packet, my eyes transfixed by the excess. He rose, his every movement a symphony of grace, and bowed deeply. “Countess,” he purred, “your presence makes even rehabilitation bearable.”
I cannot deny, dear journal, that my cheeks reddened like a maiden’s, though I swiftly regained my composure. “And yours,” I replied, “is the tonic that dulls the pain of this most unjust exile.”
It has been three days since my arrival, and I find the regime most disagreeable. Broths are served in place of roasts; water replaces wine; and the physician has the audacity to suggest ‘mindful walks’ when everyone knows that strolling is only tolerable with a parasol and an audience.
But, alas, the evenings are salvaged by tête-à-têtes with Lord Peregrine, who reveals himself to be as wickedly charming as the rumors promised. Dr. McBane watches our exchanges with an expression I cannot quite place, amusement? Annoyance? Jealousy? No matter, for I have resolved to endure this ordeal with the grace and resilience befitting a Countess.
And when I depart, triumphant and perhaps a little healthier, it shall be known that I, the Countess of Brighton and Hackney, conquered not only my affliction but also the hearts of all who crossed my path.
And so, dear journal, this velvet-covered tome, crafted by the finest artisans in all the land, mashed to royal pulp by the tiny feet of Chinese children, is now filled to its very edges with the chronicles of my trials, triumphs, and undeniably noble escapades, thus far. I shall cease my writings until I return to my rightful palace in Brighton and Hackney, which is immeasurably superior to this austere barn in the Cotswolds. Here, I will endure the indignities beyond imagination: no wine cellars to plunder, no smelling salts concealed in cunning nooks (despite my midnight forays to locate such contraband), and not even the faintest slaver of foie gras to comfort my soul.
But fear not, for I shall rise above these tribulations and continue my grand saga, refreshed, reinvigorated, and armed with tales to scandalize and delight all of society. Until then, my faithful parchment, adieu.
Yours humbly, Countess of Brighton and Hackney.
Nov 22, 2024
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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