Tale Teller Club Music: diaries

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Nov 25, 2024

Countess Diaries, Chapter 28, Gifts for the Magnificent Countess

Diary Entry: Gifts for the Magnificent Countess

My dearest admirers, it is no secret that being a Countess of such unrivaled stature brings with it an unending stream of adoration, and with adoration comes gifts. Oh, how they arrive—by courier, by hand, even by the occasional tipsy pigeon, burdened by some poor fool’s misguided attempt at novelty. My palace, while grand, is in constant peril of becoming a storage facility for the well-meaning offerings of those seeking my favor.

Naturally, there are treasures that delight even my refined sensibilities. Why, just last week, I was presented with a crate of the most exquisite beluga caviar, accompanied by a magnum of vintage champagne so rare it practically whispered aristocratic secrets as it was uncorked. Such gifts, I assure you, are treated with the reverence they deserve—savored in the salon with dear friends (and the occasional envy-prone frenemy) under candlelight, as Bach’s cello suites waft through the air. Perfection.

Then there are the… shall we say, lesser gifts. Just yesterday, a local artist—a dear, albeit misguided soul—arrived bearing a sculpture fashioned entirely from driftwood and what appeared to be discarded bottle caps. While I commend the creative spirit, my immediate thought was, “Where shall I hide this until the next high tide reclaims it?” Fortunately, the palace’s west wing has a charming utility cupboard that has become something of a purgatory for such pieces. From there, many find their way, quite miraculously, to the hands of needy urchins and beggars who, one assumes, will make better use of them.

Another gem of an offering arrived in the form of a knitted scarf. Knitted! Now, I appreciate a touch of handmade charm as much as the next Countess, but this particular item appeared to be the result of a lengthy battle between wool and good taste, with neither emerging victorious. It was so long that I briefly considered using it as a makeshift clothesline in the garden. Alas, it now graces the shoulders of a rather enthusiastic local postman who expressed his gratitude by bowing awkwardly and mumbling something about his mother being a fan. The community, you see, benefits immensely from my largesse.

Children, too, often bring gifts—bless their sticky little hands. Finger paintings, seashell necklaces, and the occasional petrified frog have all been placed at my feet with wide, expectant eyes. These I cherish briefly before discreetly redirecting them to the palace’s secret bin—a receptacle reserved for the most heartfelt yet irredeemable tributes.

Still, some gifts are so absurd they simply demand to be shared. Who could forget the taxidermy ferret clutching a fake ruby in its jaws? Or the antique chamber pot (mercifully unused) that someone dared to describe as "vintage chic"? Both caused much merriment during my soirée that evening, especially when the ferret was posed mid-table alongside the caviar as a kind of ironic centerpiece. The chamber pot, meanwhile, now resides in the garden, where it serves as a planter for a rather aggressive basil bush.

Of course, none of this is to suggest I am ungrateful. No, no, no! Every gift, regardless of its merit, serves to remind me of the love and admiration that my public—nay, the world—feels for me. And if the champagne and caviar are enjoyed with gusto while the knitted scarves and ferrets find new homes, it is all part of the grand ecosystem of generosity. One must give to receive, and I am nothing if not charitable. Besides, the sight of a beggar wandering the streets with a questionable sculpture or oversized scarf surely warms the heart of any observer, does it not?

So, my darlings, do keep the gifts coming. Shower me with your tributes of affection and adulation, and know that whether they end up in my dining room or in the hands of a street urchin, you have contributed to the grand tapestry of my life as the Countess of Brighton and Hackney. And for that, I am forever grateful—well, almost.

Yours in magnificence,
The Countess of Brighton and Hackney

© 2024 Sarnia de la Mare

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Nov 22, 2024

Countess Diaries Chapter 12 Fairy Lights, Felines, and Fainting at Suspension

Countess Diaries Chapter 12 Fairy Lights, Felines, and Fainting at Suspension

Ah, the life of a Countess is never dull, though it does occasionally require one to retreat to the bath mid-afternoon for a moment of calm before the chaos. Today has been a whirlwind of preparations, delightful surprises, and, dare I say, more squeals than I care to hear before sunset.

Miss P, my dear dominatrix friend, arrived earlier with her usual flourish, laden with both her professional accoutrements and a charming gift for me: heart-shaped fairy lights in the most delightful shade of pink. They will add a touch of whimsy to the new venue across the road, a stark contrast to the usual ambiance of leather and dim lighting at Club DARK. Such contradictions amuse me endlessly—perhaps because I embody them myself. After all, who else hosts dominatrixes and Cat Cafes in the same week?

Speaking of the Cat Cafe, our delightful intern Maria has taken charge of it for now. She runs it with a dedication I can only describe as saintly, ensuring the cats are doted on without becoming overwhelmed. The felines, in their infinite wisdom, adore the Saturdays-only schedule. They seem to know they are the stars of the show, accepting strokes and treats with the regal air of those who own the place (a trait I rather admire). We already have regulars, both human and feline, which fills me with pride.

As for Club DARK, preparations are complete, thanks in no small part to my cleaner, who has outdone herself. She has scrubbed and polished until the palace positively sparkles, and I swear the faint smell of bleach mingled with sea breeze has replaced even the most persistent reminders of the squatters who once tarnished these halls. The lighting is moody, the sound system is primed, and the graffiti—well, most of it—is concealed beneath fresh paint. If only all my battles were as easily won.

Upstairs, however, things have taken a decidedly noisier turn. A suspension photo shoot is underway, and the occasional squeal or giggle echoes through the palace. While I appreciate their enthusiasm for artistic expression, I must confess: pain, whether real or performative, holds no allure for me. I lasted all of five minutes before excusing myself, citing “artistic overload” as I fled to the sanctuary of my bath.

Tomorrow promises to be a gentler affair with the life drawing session, a staple of the palace’s artistic calendar. The students are industrious, already planning their exhibition with the kind of optimism that only youth can sustain. I admire their dedication, though I do wonder about the shelves they’ve requested. What they’re for, I cannot imagine, but I’ve learned not to question the whims of artists too deeply. Better to nod approvingly and let them surprise me.

As I contemplate the evening ahead, I find myself feeling rather rebellious. Perhaps it is the thought of the after-party, or the lingering laughter from Miss P’s visit, or even the faintly absurd soundtrack of squeals from upstairs. Whatever the reason, I’m inclined to indulge. A vodka and orange, a Marlboro, and the promise of revelry await.

So, dear reader, I bid you farewell for now. The night beckons, and I must answer. With any luck, tomorrow’s entry will find me with tales to tell, a new gift from Club DARK’s enigmatic attendees, and no further interruptions from suspension enthusiasts. Until then, bonne soirée!