Diary Entry: Necks, Gold Paint, and the Mysterious Vanishing Crutch Boots
Ah, the trials of the day! As I sit here soaking in my increasingly tepid bath, I reflect on the events with a mixture of frustration and reluctant amusement. One would think that as the Countess of Brighton and Hackney, the world might show me a little more respect. Alas, it appears even royalty must endure days when the universe conspires against them.
The morning began ominously enough—two hours of restless sleep left me bleary-eyed and brooding. And yet, despite my exhaustion, a rare gift greeted me: a complete absence of the neck pain that has plagued me for years. Imagine my delight! I practically skipped across the park to the palace, humming a jaunty tune and momentarily believing the day might bring blessings instead of curses. How foolish I was.
The sound system was the first betrayal. My cherished Technics stack, purchased just yesterday, refused to produce more than a whisper. My dear friend Trevor valiantly tried to fix it, succeeding momentarily, only for the issue to return the moment he left. The culprit, I discovered later, was my own forgetfulness—I had neglected to turn up the volume on my phone. A Countess should never be humbled by such trivialities, yet there I was, cursing technology like a peasant.
Then came the second catastrophe: an encounter with the nefarious gentleman from Lewis Road. He has been a thorn in my side for years, his unwanted attentions escalating into outright hostility. Today, he outdid himself, skulking about the palace grounds like a predatory fox and attempting to gain entry under the guise of retrieving some nonsense from a neighbor’s garden. When I confronted him, he resorted to veiled threats, promising ominously to "make the phone call." What this means, I dare not speculate, but rest assured, I responded with all the dignity of a fishwife at high tide.
By then, my neck pain had returned with a vengeance, a fiery reminder of the stress this man continues to inflict upon me. I vowed to take matters further should his behavior persist, for while I am a patient woman, I will not be bullied in my own domain.
To distract myself, I decided to add a touch of glamour to the VIP area by painting the steps gold. How could such a noble endeavor go wrong, you ask? The paint sprayer, of course, broke upon first use, covering me in a glittering layer of gold. While I might appreciate the effect in another context—perhaps as part of a Grecian goddess ensemble—today it was merely another indignity.
The universe then delivered a double blow: two Asda grocery orders arriving at the wrong venue, and a lorry driver bearing the brunt of my misplaced ire. To the driver, if you ever read this, I offer my sincerest apologies. You were undeserving of my wrath, and, might I add, rather dashing.
Yet the day was not without its brighter moments. An interview with a university student provided a rare opportunity to reflect on my artistic practice. She was delightfully well-prepared, quoting passages from my blog that I had long forgotten writing. It was both flattering and mildly alarming, as I scrambled to remember the context of some rather bold statements. Still, her enthusiasm was infectious, and I left the interview feeling slightly less beleaguered.
As for my missing German crutch boots—how does one misplace such a distinctive item? I shall embark on a thorough search tomorrow, for they are vital to my wardrobe and my reputation as Brighton’s most extravagantly dressed Countess. Without them, how will I achieve the air of dominance my sartorial choices so carefully project? I may not be a dominatrix, but one must keep up appearances.
And so, I shall close this entry with a sigh and a promise to myself to handle tomorrow with more grace—provided, of course, the world allows it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, the bath is cold, and my neck is screaming for another round of self-hypnosis.
©2024 Sarnia de la Maré
