Tourist Information

Hey there kids! How have you all been these last few weeks? Those of you who are friends of mine as well as readers will be aware of the fact that for the past week I have been living the high life in New York New York (so good they named it twice.) Or at least pretending to. 


Yes I was staying at the Waldorf Astoria, the go to get away for the likes of Serena Van Der Woodson, Carrie and Big (yes I am aware that none of these people are real.) But I wasn't downing champagne cocktails on the Starlight Roof but rather scurrying through the lobby with Starbucks and sneaking to the closest diner for chocolate chip pancakes to avoid the extortionate prices.

(The Waldorf, yes I'm showing off)

As I was stomping around the town trying to keep up with the New York pace, I turned to my mother, who was clutching a map like it was her first born, and said; 'hurry up, we look like proper tourists.' She then pointed out that we were proper tourists, we had never been to New York before, in fact we had never even left Europe before. This then bought to light my unhealthy obsession, disguising the fact that I am a tourist.


I'd never realised it before but it's something I do every time I go away! I don't know why but I seem to relate being a tourist to being a very shameful thing. When I was in London a few months ago, I was sat in Sloane Square and someone asked me for directions, and I took great delight in the fact that they thought I was a local, like somehow I had succeeded in deceiving people with my elaborate, non tourist clothing. 


When I go away I never dress like I usually would, and I don't mean that I adjust my clothes to the weather, I mean I actually adjust my style. Before I jetted off to New York I was sad enough to scroll through the Satorialist to gauge the city's style. One day we decided to go to the MoMA and I was pretentious enough to not only wear a Hermes scarf around my neck but I also IRONED my clothes. Who on earth actually irons their clothes anymore unless they're using their GHDs for a quick once over? 

(Pretty sure I achieved the same effortless glam that this Satorialist model does)

I also decided that I was so 'street' that I would be able to cope with wearing heels all day in the baking heat. I thought this would act as the ultimate tourist disguise as people would look at my feet and obviously think; 'well she must know the streets if she's brave enough to wear those shoes round New York.' The plan inevitably failed when we decided to go on the ferry over to Liberty Island and I just look like an effing moron tripping all over the place wearing heels on a boat. And my cover was completely blown when mother purchased a Statue of Liberty foam tiara and wore it for the remainder of the day. 

(Yupp that very crown, this is not my mother)

I realised just how tragic I was when I caught myself saying 'thank you' in an American accent, shortly followed by a cursory "'ey! I'm walkin' 'ere!" which I'm sure screamed out the fact I was a tourist because any self respecting New Yorker would rather get hit by a cab than utter those words. The truth was that we were the perfect tourists, we were like Buddy the elf for Christ's sake! We were walking out in front of the traffic, if there was syrup on the table we used it, we had great trouble with the fast moving escalators and by the end of the trip we still had no clue what a dime was. 

("'ey! I'm walkin' 'ere!")

So yes I am no longer in denial. My name is Martha and I'm a tourist. I really don't know what my problem is. Maybe it's because I live in a tourist town, or maybe it's because I'm so self interested I actually think people will notice and care about the fact I'm touring. 


There we are, I do believe that admitting I am a tourist is the first stage to getting over my fear of tourism. I did learn one thing from my secret identity though. I should really make more of an effort with my clothes when I'm not on holiday, it's amazing what a little ironing can do and how nice your hair can look when you actually do something with it!


I say that but I'm currently wearing a long sleeved grey t-shirt, ground breaking.

Princess Diaries

Happy Wednesday everybody! Yes it may be Friday now but it was most definitely a Wednesday when I wrote this, so there! 

This week I was gonna write about the pros of Summer as I understand that perhaps not all of you have such an irrational aversion to it as I do. However after looking out of the window and seeing a whole load of mist and no sign of the sun wearing his hat, I just wasn't in the mood to sing his praises (his being the sun.) Though I promise you this weeks blog subject is as equally joyful as a full beaming sun. This weeks post is about Princesses. 

Not a totally random subject when you consider the Diamond Jubilee that is coming up at the beginning of June. Being an employee at my mother's ice cream parlour we have been asked to celebrate the jubilee in style and come dressed as a Royal. I, of course, have opted to be the Duchess of Cambridge, (princess Kate to you and I) because of our obvious similarities in both looks and personality (sense the sarcasm here.)

(You would swear that myself and Kate were separated at birth, aside from the ten year age gap)

It was a no brainer for me, of course I want to dress up as the princess, I mean who wouldn't? But the more I think about it, it is a little tragic to still take such delight in the idea of being a Princess. I am a 20 year old career obsessed, highly competitive aspiring journalist and yet I would happily throw all my hard work and dreams away in order to have the delight of wearing a tiara (and not just a plastic pink one on my birthday which I will no doubt donate to a male in a night club.)

(If you see an intoxicated male wearing this, it's most likely mine)

So what is it about Princesses that provokes even the most cynical romantic (I'm referring to myself here) to throw away all of their 'strong independent woman' values in favour of a life of curtsying? 


Well from birth, little girls all over the world are fed a pack of lies. Glancing through my 'congratulations on your new baby cards' (as in the ones my mum was given, not my own baby, heaven forbid), there are countless 'Congratulations on your little Princess' cards. How many fathers across the world build their daughters hopes up by telling them they are Princesses? I'm not exaggerating when I say that I truly believed that I was a real Princess once I was fed this lie and I remember the bitter disappointment I faced after my mother revealed to me that actually this wasn't true after I had been shot down with laughter by my friends at school when I revealed my secret Royal identity as a Princess.


Lets take the case of Sara Crewe, the little girl from the book/film (no one read the book) A Little Princess. She insisted on telling the whole of that boarding school that she was a Princess despite having no royal connections whatsoever, and refused to be told otherwise (no wonder Miss Minchin was a bit shirty with her.) And this was all due to an over indulgent father and too many fairy stories.

(He's lying to you Sara)

I mean its no wonder we all believe that we should be Princesses. From the age of about 2 upwards we are plonked in front of Disney movie after Disney movie, so that in the end we know no different. We are taught that no matter what goes wrong in our lives 'some day our prince will come' and we will live happily ever after. And I can't deny that I still don't possess this naive view.

(And another one bites the dust)

As I am writing this I am watching Cinderella with my sister and I have that same stupid grin on my face when she sings 'so this is love mmmmm.' Because I rescued a mouse from my cats talons the other day and have unstacked the dish washer more than 5 times in the past year I am convinced that me and old Cindy have too much in common and that I too deserve to be a Princess. Maybe my interpretation of what being a Princess means has changed but still I have bored my family and friends half to death about the fact that education is fabulous and all, but eventually I will marry a gorgeous charming husband from Chelsea and live happily ever after. 

(My modern day equivalent to Prince Charming)

Maybe Disney should do some follow up movies about how after 4 years of marriage and a spin off reality TV series, Cinders realised that Prince Charming had lost his charm and no matter how much Rogaine he used he still has a receding hair line. So after a passionate affair with Buttons she moved to the big city and now runs her own cleaning business with her mice friends, rather than this 'happily ever after' nonsense.


But then again maybe its healthy to infuse today's youth with optimism and the notion that 'everything will be alright in the end.' Unfortunately depression, anxiety and pessimism runs in my family but every Monday, at 11pm after an episode of Made in Chelsea and several glasses of wine, my faith that dreams can come true is restored and that there are really people, in real life, who do do their weekly shop at Harrods or, even better, have it delivered. And maybe its not just a silly fairy story after all.

(Oh how delightful!)

I know Kate Middleton is stupidly posh and fancy but she was a commoner and she's now a Princess (Duchess whatever.) And Harry, as moronic as he may be, is still on the market so maybe becoming a Princess isn't such a ridiculous dream. Plus they're are so pretty, no one can resent a Princess. Everyone loves a pretty Princess.

(Princess Grace, how lovely you are...were)

I think I may be more likely to be one of the step sisters, forcing my little sister to bring tea in my own huge town house, though she best not start getting any ideas, I don’t think I could bare it if she became a Princess and I didn’t. I think Drizella and Anastasia were misunderstood, they were just a sucker to the fairy stories like we are. When Anastasia hears of the Prince's ball and says 'I'm so eligible' you can just see the desperate Princess dream sparkle in her caroon eyes that exists in every little girl.

So yes, I want to be a Princess, that is the moral of this blog. Also  I would just like to make it clear to my readers that other princesses (Disney or otherwise) are available and this blog is not exclusively in support of Cinderella.


Have a lovely week, and next week I hope I will be in a good enough mood to write something positive about summer.

An argument against Summer

So weekly, well if only it was weekly, excuse for being late is that I have been a busy busy bunny completing my second year of uni. Yuppp I'm all moved out and only one more year away from being an actual grown up and not just pretending to be one with the help of my student loan. And with the end of uni brings the beginning of summer.


Now I, unlike most, do not see summer as this glorious, uplifting, fun-filled fest of freedom. Even as a little girl I was always far more of a winter lover, though this was most likely due to a desire to be different and dislike of things that were popular amongst my peers which also lead to an irrational hate of Princess Aurora.

(ain't got no time for this chick)

This, I don't wanna say hatred, but annoyance with summer has continued into my adult life and so for this blog I will present an argument both for and against summer.


So the first reason I don't need summer in my life is that you have to go home. Don't get me wrong I love my family and my friends at home but I don't really actually like the place. When you're in uni it feels like Disney Land half the time. You go from having the best time in the most exciting city to coming back to reality with a bump. You return, as a 20 year old who's lives and breaths a cosmopolitan lifestyle (and drink) to a little old country bumpkin patch of greenery where if you asked for a cosmopolitan they'd send you up to tesco for a copy of the magazine.

(I just find it very hard to get excited about scrumpy cider with this lot)

And it's not just the place it's the people. You have to face the locals. Any quarrels that have previously been brushed under the carpet whilst you've been at uni suddenly rear their ugly head and the politics of the town come back into play. This is especially awkward when your town is as about as large as a football pitch so you are bound to see someone you dislike about 3 times a day. You also inevitably change whilst you've been away and something you might now find hilarious just doesn't wash with the locals.


I find that everyone tends to have a 'travelling friend.' I know I do. A friend who inevitably disappears for about half the summer to see the world and you have to be satisfied with google maps. Now I don't blame my globe trotting friend in the slightest, if I had the money and wasn't quite so inadequate I think I'd hot foot it outta this town in a flash but this leaves me with an empty Filofax and finding myself on endless trips to Crealy great adventure park (it's not great) with the family to prevent myself from slitting my wrists with paper scissors out of boredom.

(feel my pain?)

Now I am a picture of anxiety. I can literally worry myself about anything. Last week I was worried that I wear my hair up too often. This is why university suits me, I can worry myself away at a piece of work and keep busy and so long as I'm crossing things off my 'to do' list, feel fine. This is why summer is not good for me. The majority of normal and sane human beings enjoy summer for the following reason; it is care free and you have nothing to do. This sends me into a blind panic. I worry about the fact I haven't got anything to worry about, I hate the fact my Filofax is empty. I spend my days panicking that I'm not volunteering my services to a local paper and the fact that sitting home watching friends is not furthering my career path. I am a freak, I understand this.


I find that summer is also the ultimate test of friendship and this can prove very depressing. You spend your whole year saying 'oh yes we definitely HAVE to meet up in the summer when we're allll free' to friends you don't get to see all that often. And then when summer finally comes and no one organises to meet up with anyone you come to the sad realisation that if you're not gonna meet up with them in the summer you're probably not going to meet up with them at all. You will never see them again, or at least not until your wedding day by which point you won't care because you'll be wearing Vera Wang and drinking Moet. 


The final reason why summer just gets up in my grill (other than the obvious sunburn etc) is just how inadequate it makes me feel. I get to summer and I realise that every item of clothing that I own is absolutely hideous and I realise that I'm not this fashion goddess I thought I was. In the winter no one realises that you dress like Kerry Katona because you buy one gorgeous coat and so long as you've got that on you could well be Caggie Dunlop (or someone you find very stylish, Carrie Bradshaw maybe?) But then summer comes and you can't wear a coat, every drop of your outfit has to be delicious because all of it is on display. This then means rather than spending my money joining my globe trotting friend on her travels I will be emptying my bank account on asos to try and look half decent next to that bitch on the beach.

(I spend my summer hoping that some how, I will end up looking like this)

The summer also means diet time so that I don't look like a pasty member of the 'Little Britain' cast on the beach. So I spend the whole summer going to BBQ's saying the compulsory line of 'yeah I always lose my appetite in the summer it's too hot to eat' which is the biggest lie, in reality I would swap my Chanel quilted handbag for hot dog sausage and twister. 


So yep. That was my argument for and against summer except there wasn't really a 'for' bit about it. I do like some bits of summer, like staying at friend's houses and maxi dresses and holidays but obviously just not as much as I dislike it. It would also have made this blog far far far too long. I hope you're all sat there feeling as depressed about your lack of uni work and flabby white arms as I am. I've got to go, I think I can hear the ice cream van...