Blonde's Eye View: Stranger in my own hometown

My sleepy little suburban town seemed like a metropolis teeming with exciting shops and restaurants. Shops and restaurants I'd already dismissed in favour of those in London.

And then we went to the Wharf.

They wandered around, mouths open, staring up at the glass towers and getting side-swiped by speeding Wharfers.

Like most tourists they were walking 10mph slower than your average townie.

Trying to keep up, or rather down, with them was unnatural at first, and then surprisingly pleasing.

All the things I take for granted; variety, late night shopping, Sunday opening, became something to be proud of.

My life is not actually a dull drudge of rat-race boredom, but a colourful, culture-filled, wine-soaked, fine-food-scoffing adventure.

I don't work in a factory and I haven't spent every Saturday in the same village pub for the last 15 years. I work in a glamourous industry and drink champagne all over London.

I quickly grew ashamed of my normal spoilt City ways when I wasn't satisfied with our table in the restaurant. My guests were just thrilled to be there.

My curt criticism to the staff produced grovelling apologies, their cheeky, friendly teasing produced a new table and a round of free drinks.

I decided to abandon my cynicism, and cease my sarcasm.

I watched cheesy West End shows, took photos in front of the sights and spoke to strangers on the Tube. I had a blast.

When it came time for my guests to leave I was genuinely upset. I knew by the time they reached home, my relaxed, touristy side would once more be lost.

Trampled under my Oyster card and my venti non-fat, no foam, extra hot chai tea latte.