Quiet Wins: My November in London.

November felt like one of those months where not much really happens, but at the same time, a lot quietly shifts. Not drama — just small changes, small wins, some fireworks and the realisation that even the quieter chapters deserve a place in the story. This is blog entry number three, which already feels like an achievement. Consistency isn’t my strong suit, so maybe this is growth? Or maybe it’s just me learning to ramble better on paper, to capture the unglamorous bits alongside the fun ones.

Rugby Fever.

The highlight was absolutely trekking out to Twickenham to watch my beloved All Blacks. There’s just something about oversized men in teeny shorts smashing into each other that makes the average woman (hi, me) swoon. I was hoarse the next day from yelling at the ref, like a proper Kiwi. My British workmates looked half-entertained, half-confused, especially as I attempted to explain a scrum while sipping on a plastic cup of lager. Football is their religion here, and I still don’t get it. The culture around it feels so different—chants, pints, rivalries that seem to last generations. Rugby, though? That’s aroha and pride wrapped into 80 minutes. Every time I hear the haka, I feel it in my bones. It’s like a heartbeat that echoes all the way from home.

The vibe at Twickenham was magic: crisp air, autumn leaves underfoot, and that buzzy mix of black jerseys and Union Jacks. I layered up in my trusty camel coat, ankle boots, and scarf that could easily double as a blanket. Everyone else seemed to have the same uniform—London loves a practical but stylish coat moment. After the game, we ended up at The Orange Tree in Richmond with my sister and her partner, sinking pints and dissecting plays like we were commentators. It was one of those perfectly golden days—the kind where you forget about commutes and heartbreaks, and just feel alive.

My 9-5.

Work has been… intense. I’m still the newbie at my consultancy in King’s Cross, which means, naturally, I’ve been shipped off to a regeneration project way out in Essex. Beaulieu. Beautiful area, nightmare commute—two hours each way if the trains behave. I’ve started carrying a spare concealer in my bag because nothing says “young professional” like showing up on site with panda eyes from the 6:15am alarm. I also swear by dry shampoo now; it’s become my unofficial workmate.

Sometimes project management feels like something I stumbled into by mistake. I started out studying marketing and law at Otago, hated both, and spent way too much time partying in Dunedin. Homesick, I bolted back to Auckland Uni and switched into Property, which instantly clicked. My parents had dabbled in property themselves—nothing huge, just a handful of rentals—but it meant I grew up knowing about renovations and capital gains before I even knew how to properly cook pasta. That background got me in the door, but the career path since hasn’t exactly been a straight line.

Landing in property management after uni was… grim. Endless calls, late rent, tenants screaming about leaks you couldn’t fix yourself. It wasn’t me. I wanted to build things, not babysit them. Getting into project management felt like a win, but the reality? It’s standing on muddy sites with men twice my age, most of whom assume you’re the secretary. You learn to toughen up quick. Honestly, half the time I still feel like I’m Googling acronyms in the loo, but I’ve also realised I’m sharper and more resilient than I give myself credit for.

The one thing London has taught me? Workwear is an aesthetic. In Auckland, corporate was a pencil skirt, blouse, and maybe a cardigan if you wanted to jazz it up. Here, it’s camel coats, ankle boots, and oversized scarves that double as blankets when the heating breaks on the train. I’ve started leaning into it—pairing tailored blazers with messy hair, red lips with project plans. It’s weirdly liberating to treat fashion as armour. And yes, I’ve joined the cult of the tote bag—apparently every London woman owns one that’s big enough to carry a laptop, a makeup bag, and three emergency snacks.

Flat Hunting.

Big news: I finally scored a flat in Tooting Bec. Moving in with a British girl who works in finance, which sounds very “London cliché,” but she’s fab. Works for a hospitality group that owns a bunch of bars, so hello, free drinks. After weeks of standing in awkward kitchens explaining that yes, I do wash dishes, this feels like a proper win. The relief of finally unpacking my suitcase and hanging my clothes (instead of living out of a duffel bag) was unreal.

The differences between flatting here and back home crack me up. In NZ, flats are all mismatched mugs, couches rescued from the roadside, and someone’s mum dropping off a bag of feijoas. Here, it’s bar carts with carefully curated bottles, scented candles everywhere, and Deliveroo menus pinned like art. Both have their charm, but sometimes I miss the chaos of a proper Kiwi sharehouse. At least here, I don’t have to argue about who’s buying the next bottle of tomato sauce. My new flatmate and I have already bonded over Zara hauls and skincare recommendations—turns out nothing cements a flatmate friendship faster than comparing serums over wine.

New Hobbies.

With more solo time than ever, I’ve thrown myself into photography. London is the dream for it—misty mornings along the Thames, mews that look like movie sets, Christmas lights twinkling on Oxford Street. I’m not amazing, but it makes me slow down. There’s something therapeutic about framing a shot, the same way skincare routines calm me at the end of a day. Cleanse, serum, moisturiser—it’s my version of meditation.

I’ve even dabbled in editing apps—though honestly half the time it’s me messing with brightness while sipping tea and wondering if the photo looks better moody or just underexposed. Still, I’m enjoying it. And it’s made me notice how Londoners love their seasonal aesthetics: autumn leaves, Christmas markets, even the way everyone suddenly starts wearing burgundy nail polish. Back home, the seasons don’t demand wardrobe changes quite so loudly—you just throw on a puffer if it’s cold and hope it doesn’t rain all week.

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.

Looking Ahead.

December looms, and it’s strange knowing this will be my first Christmas in the UK without whanau—or even the built-in family of an ex. But London in December has its own sparkle: mulled wine, fairy lights, Winter Wonderland, Liberty’s Christmas floor. If nothing else, I’ll armour up with a bold red lip and a killer coat, and I’ll sparkle my way through the season. I’ve even eyed up a sequinned Zara dress for the office party because if you can’t go overboard at Christmas, when can you?

I’m not going to lie—it will be weird not being at home, not hearing the cicadas at night, not eating pavlova in the sun. Christmas here is more mulled wine and mince pies than BBQs and fresh strawberries. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe part of this whole adventure is learning that traditions can shift, that aroha for home can sit right alongside the joy of building something new.

Oh, and one more thing.  Cue dramatic music.  I’ve been trying my hand at dating apps the last month, and I will admit with limited success.  It’s actually wild just how many men in London either A) think it's appropriate to turn up to a date already drunk or B) need the support of powdering their nose every 30 minutes.  I’d heard horror stories from girlfriends, but didn’t expect my first two dates (one Australian, one American) to be such a jumbled experience.  What is intriguing though is that I’ve matched with a cute guy from work.  He’s Swedish, so I’m hoping that he might be slightly more refined, and at least we’ll have some common ground.  Wish me luck!

So that’s November: rugby highs, commuting lows, skincare rituals, new hobbies, and the tiniest flickers of a proper fresh start. Not dramatic, not headline-worthy, but real. And maybe that’s the point—the quiet months still matter. They’re the ones where you notice the details, where you hear the aroha echoing from home, and where you remind yourself that life is built just as much in the stillness as in the chaos.

Jess x