Good Will

This is the part of my blog where I usually apologise for being late. And yes I am late, what is it, coming on for a month now? So rather than boring you all with yet another apology I thought I would make use of the fact that my blog is ALWAYS late and that I am a useless journalist who probably doesn't deserve a job in the industry, and turn it into this weeks blog feature. This is, therefore, a blog about will power.

(This is what my life, the daughter of the owner of an ice cream parlour, is like, but with a little less tash)

Once upon a time I wrote a blog about not caring, Laundry Day Living- give it a whirl, and I was talking about what a busy little bumble bee I was being and how sometimes I take on too much and need to slow myself down. Well if you were a big fan of that  particular post you might not want to bother with this one because  this week I will be talking about how I need to speed myself up.


I, my friend, am in a slump. Those of you who know me, understand that I like to keep myself busy. If you have ever looked through my filofax (yup sad enough to have owned one from the age of 16) you will see weeks of filled appointments, tasks that I've set myself, deadlines that I need to meet. Well that filofax has been looking awful lonely recently. I started my summer so well, complaining about having nothing to do so therefore volunteering myself to every news publication I could and doing a whole 6 hours of solid exercise a week, I was just about ready to take down Mike Tyson. But now my filofax is slumping and my lightening legs are looking pretty slumpy too.

(I hate Cassey Ho, I was doing her exercises and was never smiling like that, she must be on crack, at least)

I realised I was in a slump (can I just take a moment to assure readers that I am in a slump, not a flump which is a British marshmallow piece of confectionery, as I understand that this would have been confusing) when I actually cried, CRIED, real tears when I couldn't find my make up wipes. I was practically hysterical when I later couldn't find my pyjama top either and as I lay topless under my summer duvet sobbing I realised I honestly needed to sort my life out if it has become that uneventful that not having matching pyjamas is enough to set me off. Those of you who know me will know that this completely out of the ordinary because A.) I am so emotionally unavailable that I was once called 'inhuman' for not producing a tear at My Sister's Keeper (please don't judge me) and B.) all of my pyjamas look like they were picked out by Carol Thatcher.

(I wish I was looking a patch as attractive as this in my nightwear, though preferably not reading 'House and Gardens')

I am sure each and everyone of you has been in my position. That position being where you adopt an 'f**k it' attitude. This can be caused by many things, and can also cause many consequences. Whether you are in a quandary about which London post code you should live in for your September internship, or perhaps you've watched a sad film (Magic Mike to be precise) or you've just been on that bread free diet for far too long eventually somethings gotta give and you say 'f**k it.' Before you know it you've gone into your overdraft buying yourself solo Cactus Jacks shots and playing a chicken nugget eating competition with yourself. Sad times. It was this attitude that had landed me with such non events in my life  that I cried at the loss of Boots own make up wipes.


My point is, once you've slipped and you've tasted that sweet taste of freedom (wheat in my case) it's very hard to shake off. I mean there's not a lot of point hitting the air stepper at the gym if you're only planning on going home and secretly stuffing your face with your sisters Haribo 'fruity frogs', low point. And no matter how many times I tell myself that tomorrow I will eat only what a rabbit would I still wind up munching on a piece of chocolate cake for breakfast. So what is the solution how do you get your will power back, stop loafing around and start acting like a real human being and not Homer Simpson? Cause at the moment the thought of typing up essays for free (ie like this, for no one but yourself to read) and eating food that comes off trees sounds awfully unappealing when I know what I'm missing, ie lying on the beach feeding off fried cheese.


The short answer is you just have to do it. Have one productive day and the rest will follow. You have to give yourself a scare, stop leaving everything cause inevitably it will get bigger and more and more difficult to deal with, my filofax is getting fuller as is my stomach. As Nike would say, 'Just Do It' (please don't copyright slap me.) I often find clothes shopping slams me back to reality. If I naively take a certain size (please, I'm a lady) into the changing rooms and find out I need the next size up, it's like being faced by Gok Wan but not, because he's not there to give you a hug or a makeover.

(Compulsory Made in Chelsea reference)

Other things you could do to re motivate yourself is buy yourself some stuff to be motivational about. Like say you wanna get loads of work done, buy yourself some shit fancy filofax and pens and pencils (I am currently looking at a lovely mulberry filofax on ebay.) You wanna lose a stone? Buy yourself some dumbbells. You will, if you're a poor student like me, use these items because it will be a total waste of money otherwise and let's face it putting stuff on ebay just to have people dispute you the whole time is no fun. However if you are rich and have this money to throw away then I can't help you. 

Above all put pen to paper. Writing things down always, ALWAYS, makes things seem more achievable. My very favourite artist, Rob Ryan, once very wisely said; 'Why does putting things down on paper somehow make things seem more manageable? Is it because it is a constructive act when inside you feel destroyed?' Well OK, I don't feel 'destroyed' but he was bound to exaggerate, he's an artist, but he is also a grown up and successful which must make him right. So get your parker pens at the ready!

(Well there you are then)

I think the main thing is to have a starting point, something to kick you into first gear. Mine was this blog. Martha Thursday is always about being late and making excuses, and putting things off and yet here I am on a Thursday writing a blog. A good place to start? I think so. I am almost tempted to rename myself Martha Friday so that I can claim that I am, in fact, early. An even better place to start. 


Oh filofax, how I've missed you.


Though I might add that I decided that doing this blog would be my starting point for re motivating myself on Sunday, so I've already procrastinated for four days. Oh well the sun doesn't shine every day! God only help me when the Olympics start...


Speaking of which Olympic theme post next week kids.

Whistle down the wind

So hey, how are ya? Its been a while right? You might ask what has happened to the terribly organised Ms Thursday from two weeks back. I have been being terribly organised elsewhere. Writing for my columnist job over at BSB (take a look if you haven't already.) And sorting out deposits et al with robbing estate agents for my flat in Chelsea, yes CHELSEA!

I will give you a moment to weep with jealousy.

I promised you on my last post that I would be writing about true love, this will not be the case as that idea is now based on something that happened sooooo long ago that it's a little irrelevant, and I like to think Fashion Nerd is pretty up to speed. 

This week I have been up in London to go on several viewings around pokey studio apartments, where I would, quite frankly, be better buying an IKEA wardrobe parking it outside my place of work and living in that for a month but I feel like that would be frowned upon at the Putney Bridge. In an effort to make the experience a little less painful I invited my dear friend up with me to reward ourselves for hours (maybe an hour and a half at a push) house hunting with a slamming night out on the town.

(We did almost look as out of place as this)

So we headed out of our hostel (I know who do I think I'm kidding with my Chelsea flat?) dressed to the nines and travelled the lengthily length it takes to get from Willesdon Green to the Kings Road. We very nearly turned around and went home and not because our feet were hurting. Without wanting to sound completely self involved and vain beyond belief we received a lot of unwanted attention. You know the drill, whistles, 'wahayys' and someone even took it to the next level with a 'Yo.' NO.

It's not like we were walking down the Kings Road dressed like friggin Barbarella, our going out style reflects classy teen vogue shoots (I know that we're not teens, but no one dresses their age in that mag) not an FHM shoot. At one stage a group of builders, why is it always builders?, called his group of mates to have a gawk. I mean come on! Have you no shame?

(See what I mean? No teen is that stylish, we usually haven't moved out of flared jeans by this stage)

What I want to know is what I am meant to do in these situations? What do these men who are, let's be honest, often batting way above their weight expect me to say? (You think I'm being cocky but one man actual had a centre parting and sandals with socks, I like to think I could do slightly better.) Are they expecting me to shout 'Hey buddy! Get up on this!' 

(This could be any of us back in 1993)

I actually find it humiliating and I'm not the only one with the Daily Mail reporting last week that 3/4 of us think it's inappropriate. And I It's bad enough to have to take the tube and then stagger through Chelsea in your going out gear without some toothless truck driver pointing out to everyone the fact that your legs are out. No wonder women were tutting at us, we were encouraging disorderly conduct in the royal borough! 

Maybe I'm just being really uptight about it? I mean some women genuinely love this attention. I have this, now, ex friend of mine who actually used to count the amount of car honks she used to get and would practically produce a pie chart every time we saw her like we were meant to be impressed or something? I suppose it could be considered flattering that out of everyone on the tube, the man who has to cross his legs to hide his 'pop up and say hello' has chosen to sit opposite you and stare at you in a creepy way whilst trying to entice you by provocatively eating his salt and vinegar crisps.

(It was on a par)

It's not so much the fact that men are enjoying my outfit that I object to because, as my friend pointed out, 'at least we know we don't look shit', its the way this point is addressed to me. I am not a football team I do not need to you to shout 'get in' and 'wahaay' for me to understand that you appreciate my choice of outfit. If you came over, tapped me on the shoulder and politely told me how much you appreciated my wardrobe choice and pointed out what an excellent eye for colour coordination I have then that would be just lovely. Especially if you then bought me a 'Flawless' cocktail (costing £35,000 at Movida's night club London.) Then I would understand your appreciation rather than feeling like I shouldn't walk home alone.

(He's got it right but he's obviously gay)

Many people would still argue that it is my fault for attracting unwanted attention. I'm sorry but am I meant to go out sporting the costume cupboard from the Sound of Music to avoid getting an 'oi oi'? (and even Maria got lusted over by Captain Von Trapp.)  At one point I said 'I'd feel less self conscious wearing a cucumber costume right now.' Why should I feel intimidated by my choice of dress? Contrary to popular belief, it's not unwanted attention. God forbid, two years of being single and someone finding me attractive on the Kings Road is a blessing, it's just the wrong form of attention. 

So fellas, builders, van drivers from across the nation open those lug holes, for the sake of myself, your wives, your daughters, your sisters, please refrain from the following phrases: Cor' blimey, yeesss, wahaaay, oi oi, take your belts off, I just wanna bang her' etc. The following actions are also pretty taboo: high fives, whistles, car honking and absolutely no way ever do you squeeze my bum unless we have been bumping and grinding for at least 6 minutes. Follow these rules and you are far more likely not to receive a double V sign from myself or the rest of the female population.

As it is, the only drink I got offered for the whole night was several swigs from a cheap wine bottle that belonged to a very sweaty man who was later thrown out for being incapable of speech. Charming.