Diary Entry: The Mystery of the Missing Boots
It was with great distress, dear reader, that I awoke this morning to the realization that my beloved German crutch boots were still missing. These boots are not mere footwear; they are a statement, a symbol of my authority as the Countess of Brighton and Hackney. Their absence left a void not only in my wardrobe but in my very soul. How could I face the world without their towering heels and gleaming buckles?
Determined to locate them, I scoured every corner of the palace. The boots were not in the gallery, nor the linen cupboard (where I briefly wondered if they had joined the ceramic bust in some clandestine conspiracy). They were not in the smoking area, nor under the chaise longue in the VIP room. I was beginning to despair.
It was then, as I ventured toward the garden in search of solace, that I beheld a sight so bizarre it took several moments for my brain to fully process it. There, in the middle of the lawn, was Mr. Applethwaite, my gardener, crouched among the weeds with a trowel in one hand—and my crutch boots on his feet.
To say the boots looked out of place would be an understatement. Mr. Applethwaite, a stout and unassuming man with a penchant for corduroy, was the last person I would have imagined donning such dramatic footwear. And yet, there he was, blithely digging up dandelions as though he were in his usual wellies.
“Applethwaite!” I called, my voice tinged with a mix of disbelief and indignation. “What, pray tell, are you doing in my boots?”
He looked up, startled, as though caught in the act of some unspeakable crime. “Oh, mornin’, ma’am,” he said, tugging at his cap in a gesture of respect. “Didn’t realize these were yours. Found ’em by the potting shed, I did. Figured someone left ’em out for the bin.”
“The bin?” I gasped, clutching my pearls. “Applethwaite, these boots are worth more than your entire garden shed!”
He straightened, glancing down at the boots as if seeing them properly for the first time. “Well, I thought they were a bit fancy for weed-pullin’, but they’re dead comfy, I’ll give ’em that.”
“Comfy or not,” I said, crossing my arms, “they are not gardening attire. Return them at once.”
Applethwaite began unlacing the boots, balancing awkwardly on one foot, then the other. “Sorry, ma’am,” he mumbled. “Didn’t mean no harm. Didn’t reckon they’d belong to anyone round here.”
“Who else would they belong to?” I demanded. “Do you think Dominicus has taken to cross-dressing?”
He chuckled, clearly missing the rhetorical nature of my question. “Well, you do have some odd sorts come through here, ma’am. Never know what’s what.”
By the time he handed me the boots, they were coated in a fine layer of dirt and grass clippings. I held them gingerly, mourning their soiled state. “Applethwaite,” I said, fixing him with a stern glare, “see that these are cleaned and polished by the end of the day. And in the future, if you find anything by the potting shed, kindly assume it is not refuse but part of the palace’s… eccentric collection.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, looking thoroughly chastened.
I carried the boots back inside, where they now await their restoration to their former glory. Though I am relieved to have recovered them, I cannot help but marvel at the absurdity of the situation. Who knew that a Countess’s prized boots could find themselves demoted to gardening gear? Perhaps this is the universe’s way of keeping me humble.
And yet, as I sit here writing this, a thought strikes me: Applethwaite was right about one thing. They are rather comfortable.
