Quiet Wins: My November in London.

November was one of those months that feels like… nothing’s happening, but somehow everything is? Not dramatic shifts — just the little ones, the quiet wins, the background glow-ups. Honestly, it was very “slow burn character development,” which I suppose is growth?? Or maybe I’m just finally learning how to waffle on the page like every Kiwi who’s moved overseas and suddenly thinks they’re profound because London has fog. This is blog post number three, which feels like a minor miracle. Consistency and I are not friends. But here I am, typing away like the main character in my own indie film — pretending November didn’t quietly shape-shift under me.

Rugby Fever 

Highlight of the month? Easy. Marching myself out to Twickers to watch my beloved All Blacks do the mahi. My GOD I was feral. The second the lads jogged out I turned into a full-blown Dunedin student again — screaming, heckling the ref, giving unsolicited rule explanations to strangers. My British workmates were bewildered. 

Them: “What’s a scrum?” 

Me, holding a plastic cup of lukewarm lager (honestly, is it meant to be that temperature?): “Right. Imagine eight men binding their souls together and then trying to shove another eight men backwards. And it’s sexy. That’s the sport.” 

Football is their religion but… sorry babes, rugby is spiritual. Every time the haka starts, I feel it in my DNA.

Twickers was unreal — cold, crisp, autumn leaves sticking to my boots, a sea of black jerseys dotted between Union Jacks. I had my camel coat on, ankle boots, massive scarf I could probably sleep in. Everyone there looked like they walked straight out of a “London in Autumn” Pinterest board.

Afterwards, we hit The Orange Tree in Richmond with my sister and her partner. Several pints deep, we dissected the game like we were expert commentators. It was one of those days that just fills your cup. Nothing fancy — just good weather, good banter, and zero thoughts about the commute back to reality.

My 9–5 

Work has been chaos. Not catastrophic chaos — just the normal “I’m the rookie so let’s ship her off to Essex” kind. Beaulieu is stunning, but that commute? Two hours each way. IF the trains behave. (Spoiler: they do not.) I’m now the kind of woman who carries emergency concealer and has a spiritual connection to dry shampoo.

But honestly, project management always felt a bit like something I stumbled into sideways anyway. I started out at Otago trying to force myself through marketing and law — absolutely hated it. Got swallowed by Dunedin student life, got homesick, bailed to Auckland Uni, switched to Property, and suddenly everything clicked. Probably helps that Mum and Dad used to have a gaggle of rentals, so I’ve been hearing about capital gains since before I could drive.

Property management post-uni was a fever dream — leaks, noise complaints, rent dramas. I wanted to build things, not babysit them. So I pivoted, landed in project management, and here we are. The reality? Me on muddy sites surrounded by middle-aged men who think I’m the admin girl. I’ve learned to fake confidence, Google acronyms in toilet cubicles, and answer questions I barely understand. And honestly? I’m bloody good at it. Sharper than I give myself credit for.

It all sounds a bit chaotic written out like this, but somehow it landed me exactly where I needed to be.

And look — London has fully corrupted me. Workwear here is practically a personality trait. Camel coats, boots, oversized scarves… it’s all very “woman on a mission.” I’ve leaned into it. Blazers, messy hair that looks intentional, a red lip to keep the men on site slightly intimidated. And yes, I now understand the cult of the giant tote bag. Mine could house a small family.

Flat Hunting 

November’s biggest relief: I finally found a flat in Tooting Bec. Moving in with a British girl who works in finance, and I know that sounds aggressively London, but she’s honestly lovely. Works for a hospitality group, so free drinks for the foreseeable future. That’s what we call strategy.

Honestly, after weeks of awkward viewings, awkward small talk, and kitchen corners with strangers who all felt vaguely traumatised — did I mention awkward? — finding a flat felt like winning Lotto. Hanging my clothes up instead of living out of a duffel nearly cured my seasonal depression.

Flatting here vs NZ is hilarious. Back home it’s mismatched mugs, puffer jackets drying on chairs, someone’s mum dropping off feijoas. Here it’s curated bar carts, Jo Malone candles, £12 olives, and Deliveroo menus displayed like art. I miss the chaos of Kiwi flats sometimes, but there’s something soothing about this new girlie setup. My flatmate and I have already bonded over Zara hauls and skincare — nothing cements a flatmate friendship faster.

New Hobbies 

With so much solo time, I’ve gone full Magpie Mode with photography. London makes it easy — fog hanging over the Thames, cosy mews that look like staged movie sets, Christmas lights turning every street into a rom-com. I’m not amazing at it, but taking photos slows me down. Editing them even more. Half the time I’m just squinting at my phone, messing with brightness while sipping tea and wondering if the shot is moody… or just underexposed. But it’s soothing, the same way my skincare routine is. Cleanse, serum, moisturiser — my unofficial therapy.

And don’t even get me started on the hair situation. Back home my hair lived its best salty, sun-fried, beach-bun life. London humidity has other plans. I caved and bought a proper blow-dryer, and honestly? Life-changing. There’s something so strange and empowering about seeing yourself with a good blow-dry — like, oh hello, who’s she?

Looking Ahead 

December is peeking around the corner, and it’s wild knowing it’ll be my first Christmas without whanau or even the borrowed family of an ex. But London in December is pretty unreal: mulled wine, fairy lights everywhere, the Liberty Christmas floor (which should honestly have its own postcode), and Winter Wonderland looming like the chaotic festive giant it is.

I’ve even eyed up a sequinned Zara dress for the office party because Christmas is the one time of year you’re allowed to dress like a disco ball and no one questions it.

Will I miss a summer Christmas? Absolutely. Cicadas, pavlova, sunburn, jandals — big yes. But maybe this is what the adventure is about. Letting traditions shift. Finding aroha in unexpected places.

And because I enjoy suffering, I re-downloaded the apps. Yes, yes, those apps. Absolute carnage. One guy turned up half-cut, another kept “powdering his nose” like we were in some kind of dodgy Netflix drama. I’d heard the horror stories but thought people were exaggerating. They were not. But — plot twist — I did match with a cute Swedish guy from work. Very wholesome energy. And honestly, Scandinavians give off reliable vibes. Hoping he’s less chaos, more charm.

So that was November: rugby highs, commuting lows, flat-hunting triumphs, skincare religion, budding hobbies, and the soft hum of a fresh start. Nothing dramatic. Just the little moments that end up being the real story. 

Gem x