Christmas, Chaos & Second Chances.

Gemma Medforth
Jan 2, 2019
4 min read

Updated: Nov 19

Right. Let’s just start by saying this: if you’re here for a polished, centred, New-Year-New-Me energy… babe, you’re in the wrong blog. January has been feral. December was feral. I have been feral. And frankly? I’m leaning into it.

This isn’t a cute vision-board era. This is Gemma-in-London, hanging on by a French‑tipped thread and still somehow thriving.

Work Functions & Emotional Self-Sabotage.

Christmas party season in London hits like a freight train — sequins, warm Prosecco, tiny canapés that do NOTHING, and the kind of chaos that makes you question your life choices.

Our work function was at the Mayfair Conference & Events Centre (boujee in theory, tragic in lighting). I’d had one of those days where my lunch was a peppermint tea, the inbox was giving me war flashbacks, and my blood pressure probably breached NHS guidelines.

So obviously, I drank like I was 19 and bulletproof.

Not cute drunk. Not fun flirty drunk. I’m talking heels-off, judgement-gone, God-save-me drunk.

And of course — OF COURSE — I threw myself at Sam.

Sam, who oscillates between emotionally available and full Victorian ghost. Sam, who turns up to work drinks acting like he’s auditioning for a BBC drama about emotionally distant men.

I didn’t realise he was in one of his frosty moods, either, which made my drunken enthusiasm… worse. At some point I was bundled into a taxi before midnight like a disgraced Love Island contestant. I attempted a graceful Spew-Out-The-Window manoeuvre — thought I nailed it — but was rewarded with a soiling fee anyway.

Rude.

Got home. Rang Sam three times.

All ignored.

Woke up to beer fear so intense I could’ve peeled myself out of my own body.

When he finally texted the next morning — “Hey, are you ok? Looked like you had a bit of a wild night.” — I wanted to crawl into the Thames.

We spoke. I apologised. He hit me with, “You shouldn’t drink like that. It’s not a good look. The other girls don’t drink like that.”

Ouch. Noted. Filed. Ignored.

Somehow we’re “friends” again. The delusion is mutual.

The Christmas Exclusion Olympics.

Now THIS is where the story gets properly cooked.

Every year I’ve been in London, I’ve done Christmas with my Kiwi crew — our makeshift family. The group chat is usually chaos by early December, arguing about who’s hosting and who’s bringing what.

This year? Radio silence.

When I asked, it was all:

“Not sure yet!”
“Still figuring it out!”
“Will let you know!”

Spoiler: they were lying.

Eventually I cornered Sacha and she cracked.

Turns out the big Kiwi ringleader Cam organised a group trip to Poland for Boxing Day — with a MASSIVE sleepover at his place on Christmas night so everyone could go to the airport together.

But because Cam is best mates with my ex… I wasn’t invited.

And the kicker? The group didn’t tell me because they were scared they’d get uninvited too if they defended me.

Twenty years of friendship with some of them. Summers. House parties. School. Uni. All of it.

And suddenly I was on the outside.

I wish I could say I shrugged it off like a queen.

I did not.

I cried. Properly. The kind where your whole chest aches.

There’s a special kind of heartbreak reserved for being excluded not because of who you are — but because it’s easier for everyone else.

The Plot Twist: Nicola Saves Christmas.

Nicola — one of my oldest friends — reached out.

The irony? I was the one who cut her off years ago because she’d fallen out with my ex and I’d taken his side. (I know. Yikes.)

We’d only recently reconnected, but apparently the universe was soft-launching forgiveness season. She wasn’t going to Poland either — she was heading home to NZ soon — but before she left, she invited me to hers in Putney for a proper family-style Christmas.

It was perfect.

Warm. Loud. Roast potatoes you’d sell your soul for. Kids running around. Netball girls gossiping. The kind of Christmas where everyone has a role except me, so I just poured wine.

It healed something. Genuinely.

So, Nicola — if you ever read this — thank you. You patched up a Christmas that broke me.

Between Christmas & New Year: Main Character Reset.

With the drama over, I went into soft-rebuild mode:

solo coffee-shop mornings
wandering Shoreditch looking at graffiti like an angsty art student
taking myself on micro-adventures
aggressively hydrating

London is magic when it’s quiet. The empty streets felt like a secret.

Then, just before New Year’s, I went out in Chelsea with Nicola and Michelle. Every bar was empty — everyone had fled the city — but we made it iconic.

We danced. Shared lip gloss. Lied to men about our jobs. Pretended we were 23 again.

And yes… I met someone.

A younger ex-rugby boy from Surrey.

Dangerously attractive. Good chat. Terrible dance moves. Exactly the kind of energy I needed.

Is it something? Who knows.

Is he hot? Absolutely.

Is it giving: Gemma’s New Era incoming? Possibly.