From Jandals to Camel Coats: Finding My Feet in London 👢

So, here we are for blog number two—whoop, go me! They say it takes six weeks to form a habit, so I’m calling this my first baby step in that direction. Writing again feels surprisingly grounding, like I’m piecing myself back together, one post at a time. And while I still feel like the new girl in town half the time, I’m realising that even the messy bits are worth documenting—and that sometimes sharing them out loud (or online) makes them feel less overwhelming.

Life Update

I’ll be honest: this month has been rough. I’m still couch-surfing at a friend’s place in Hammersmith while I flat hunt. There’s nothing quite like finishing a full day at work and then pitching yourself to a group of strangers in a dingy kitchen, trying to prove you’re fun, tidy, social but not too social. Flat-share auditions are brutal. I’ve met some genuinely lovely people but also a few questionable ones—including one man who didn’t believe in opening windows because he “didn’t like drafts.” (Sir, this is how mould happens, and no amount of scented candles is going to cover it up.)

It’s funny—back home, flat hunting was always a bit more casual. You’d move in with friends-of-friends, everyone chipped in for the power bill, and someone inevitably owned a BBQ. Here in London, it feels like speed-dating meets job interview, complete with awkward silences and the inevitable question: “So, what do you do?” The Kiwi in me just wants to shout, Does it matter? Do you own a kettle? But alas, I play along.

Even little details highlight the difference. In NZ, you’d rock up to a viewing in jandals and a hoodie and still be taken seriously. In London, it feels like you need to turn up in full “I work in consulting” chic just to prove you’re respectable enough not to leave dirty dishes in the sink. I’ve started dressing smarter even for flat viewings—jeans, a fitted blazer, ankle boots—because apparently my future flatmates are auditioning me as much as I am them.

The silver lining? My parents are visiting from New Zealand. Their original reason was to meet my younger sister’s new boyfriend, but I happily piggybacked on their plans and joined them for a weekend in the Cotswolds. Having Mum around to fuss over me and Dad to remind me to “just keep going” has been a much-needed reset button. Sometimes just sitting across the table from family—even if it’s over a pub roast rather than a Kiwi BBQ—feels like a form of medicine.

Cotswolds Escape

Honestly, the Cotswolds is every bit as dreamy as Instagram suggests. Honey-coloured cottages, crooked lanes, and that storybook charm you’d imagine in an Enid Blyton tale. We based ourselves in Stow-on-the-Wold, a picture-perfect spot with the Porch House—reputedly England’s oldest pub, dating back to 975AD. Sadly, it was closed thanks to damage from a particularly rowdy Horse Fair the year before (imagine a pub hangover that lasts 12 months). Still, the village was gorgeous. Every corner looked like it belonged on a postcard, and I took an embarrassing number of photos—most of them destined for my camera roll rather than Instagram, since I still haven’t fully jumped back into the socials game.

We brunched at Daylesford Farm (their eggs benedict = chef’s kiss), strolled through the Slaughters and Bourton-on-the-Water, and even met my sister’s boyfriend’s parents in Chipping Norton. Their life looked like a Nancy Meyers film—beautiful homes, sprawling gardens, oversized dogs. Did I feel a tiny pang of envy at my sister’s seemingly perfect new chapter? Maybe. But mostly, it was just lovely to have family time. A reminder that I’m still me, even if sometimes there are tears behind the smiles.

I also couldn’t help noticing how different the fashion vibe was compared to London. In the Cotswolds, it was wax jackets, Hunter wellies, tweed caps, and perfectly brushed Labradors. My oversized knit and ankle boots felt out of place next to all that countryside chic. Back home in NZ, a weekend away means jandals, puffer jackets, and someone always forgetting their togs. Different worlds, but both kind of charming. And yes, Mum was already eyeing up tweed jackets “for next time,” while I was secretly longing for my sneakers and messy bun.

Even the beauty habits felt different. While I was fussing over my serum in the morning, the Cotswolds girls were barefaced and glowing, probably from clean air and country walks. It made me laugh thinking about the hours London girls spend with concealers, contour, and dry shampoo—meanwhile, back home, you’d roll into brunch still smelling faintly of bonfire smoke and no one would care.

Little Joys

Back in London, I’ve leaned into small comforts. Skincare has become my ritual—cleansing properly, layering serums, and trying not to cry over the price of Sunday Riley. I’ve added hyaluronic acid into my routine, and while I can’t tell if it’s life-changing or just Instagram marketing, the ritual itself feels soothing. A small anchor at the end of the day. It’s funny—back home, skincare was sunscreen, coconut oil, and maybe a supermarket moisturiser. Here it’s a whole culture of serums, acids, and endless debates over retinol. I’m not sure if my skin is actually better, but I do feel more put-together.

Fashion-wise, I’ve embraced the London uniform: black skinnies, ankle boots, oversized knitwear, and my trusty camel coat. I’ve been wandering through Zara and & Other Stories a little too often—dangerous, addictive, but also a reminder that clothes can make you feel pulled together when life feels messy. (Note to self: my Stan Smiths are officially past it. Do I replace them or finally make the leap to Veja?) Back home, you wear your trainers until they’re literally falling apart. London girls seem to replace theirs the second they scuff—different priorities. And don’t even get me started on handbags—Kiwi practicality still screams “just chuck it all in a tote,” but here, crossbody bags are practically a personality trait.

Even beauty here feels different. Everyone looks polished but not overdone. I’ve swapped heavy foundation for tinted moisturiser and discovered the joy of a bold lip—it makes me feel confident even when I’m running on very little sleep. Back in Auckland, a bold lip felt overdressed; here, it’s just Tuesday night at the pub. It’s like London has given me permission to play a bit more—to lean into being “that girl” who turns up to drinks with winged eyeliner and a half-decent blow-dry. Honestly, I’m not mad about it.

I’ve also noticed how hair has become part of my armour here. Back home, it’s salty, air-dried, and flung into a bun. In London, the frizz is real—so I’ve caved and bought a proper blow-dryer. It’s small things like this that remind me how much the environment changes your rituals. And while I miss my beach waves, there’s something powerful about a good blow-dry, like I’m stepping into a slightly more polished version of myself.

Holding On to Joy

And because I refuse to let heartbreak dull my spirit, I’ve booked tickets with some workmates to watch the All Blacks play at Twickenham. They’re facing the Barbarians in November, and if there’s one thing guaranteed to make me grin, it’s watching my boys in black—hunky thighs and all. Rugby always feels like home, no matter how far from New Zealand I am. Just hearing the haka will probably make me cry in the best way. It’s grounding, almost like calling Mum, but louder and with more mud.

I’ve also been saying yes to more after-work drinks, even when I’m tired. Sometimes it’s just a glass of wine and a gossip session, but those little moments remind me that new friendships are always possible. London feels less intimidating when you’re laughing over shared chips in a pub. Back home, it’d be chips and dip around someone’s kitchen table; here, it’s fries and rosé in a dimly lit bar. Both hit the spot in their own way. And maybe that’s the point—different backdrops, same connections.

Even little style notes creep in here too. Pub nights in London are all about the balance of casual and chic—ankle boots, skinny jeans, leather jacket, smudged eyeliner. Back home, it’d be jeans and jandals, lip balm instead of lipstick. Both have their charm, but I’m starting to lean into the London version—sometimes it feels nice to play dress-up, even if it’s just for a pint.

So that’s October: long commutes, awkward flat viewings, skincare rituals, countryside escapes, and little sparks of joy that remind me I’m still me. Still searching, still adjusting, but slowly finding my rhythm again—with a camel coat as my armour, a red lip in my back pocket, and the Kiwi girl inside me still very much intact.

Jess x