Ah, my beloved world, here I sit, wrapped in the fragrant steam of my bath at Providence Palace, contemplating the whirlwind of a weekend just past. If life in Brighton is a circus, then I am its unicycling ringmaster, juggling everything from art to activism with just enough chaos to keep it interesting.
Not Quite Kidnapped
Let’s begin with the weekend’s peculiar highlight: my self-imposed exile in the VIP basement of the Brighton Arts Club. It wasn’t a kidnapping, per se—more a situation where the red lighting, sultry décor, and bottomless prosecco conspired to make the outside world utterly irrelevant. Hours bled into days, and before I knew it, I had been there two nights, only emerging for the occasional karaoke-induced breath of fresh air on St. James’s Street.
The Camp Circuit
St. James’s Street—Brighton’s fabulously camp answer to a runway of revelry—was, as ever, the highlight of my social escapades. Poison Ivy, with its gloriously kitsch décor, played host to our ragtag group as we butchered classics at karaoke. My dear Joel, the open mic maestro, serenaded us with a rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody so off-key it became performance art. Meanwhile, Cass, one of my stunning models, belted out I Will Survive like her rent depended on it.
We hit The Bulldog next, a venue where drinks are strong, tempers are stronger, and the regulars treat newcomers with a mix of suspicion and amusement. From there, it was on to Legends, where a minor skirmish over spilled drinks almost derailed the evening. For legal reasons, I’ll refrain from details, but suffice it to say, heels were flung, and words like "unladylike" were hurled. We laughed it off, of course, retreating back to the palace where we stayed until the wee hours, sipping wine and debating whether karaoke is a valid art form (it is).
Art, Activism, and Minje Fringe
The rest of the week has been a delightful mix of creativity and chaos. My gallery continues to thrive, attracting artists, dreamers, and the occasional oddball. Maria, ever the visionary, performed her Tuesday Through the Looking Glass piece, painting live in the gallery window. Her fluid use of color and texture is mesmerizing, and I’m thrilled she’s planning a solo show soon. It will undoubtedly transform the gallery into a kaleidoscope of vibrancy—quite the contrast to my own muted, melancholic aesthetic.
Preparations are also underway for Minge Fringe, my annual celebration of femininity, featuring work that elevates rather than denigrates. The submissions so far have been… mixed. While most are stunning tributes to the power and beauty of womanhood, there are always a few misguided attempts at provocation. Last year, a man submitted a tampon in a cardboard kennel. This year, I’ve preemptively warned artists: “No teeth on your vaginas, please.”
The Baron’s Saga Continues
Meanwhile, my dear son, The Baron, remains detained, undoubtedly using his time to compose rap lyrics about polyester sheets and plotting his next "big" move. I imagine he fancies himself a misunderstood genius, a Picasso of petty crime. I’ve decided to send him a care package—a notebook, a pen, and a few biscuits. Let him channel his “urban poetry” into something that doesn’t land him back in handcuffs.
Charity and Hot Tubs
The week ahead promises no rest. Sunday’s Desert Flower Charity Event at Providence Palace looms large on the horizon. We’re raising funds and awareness for survivors of female genital mutilation, a cause close to my heart. Volunteers are rallying, rehearsals are in full swing, and the palace is buzzing with anticipation. It’s a sobering reminder that art and activism can and must coexist.
On a lighter note, Danny has nearly finished assembling the hot tub in the garden. Its completion marks the beginning of springtime decadence—a place for plotting, philosophizing, and perhaps the odd bottle of champagne.
The Countess in Reflection
As I sip my frothy hot chocolate and contemplate the temptation of the Marlboro staring back at me from the sink, I can’t help but smile at the madness of it all. The palace, my gallery, my son, my art—it’s a life of contradictions, chaos, and unexpected beauty. But isn’t that what makes it worth living?
Tomorrow, the circus resumes. Until then, dear reader, I remain yours in bubbles and bath salts.
