Weddings, Frenchmen, and Public Nudity.

I know, I know—I skipped January. But honestly, there wasn’t much to say beyond a blur of cold mornings, strong flat whites, and a lot of hiding from the London drizzle (admittedly quite a lot of it spent at Sam’s - it’s early days, and we are taking it slow). February, though, came in swinging. It’s been one of those months that felt full to the brim—messy in places, hilarious in others, and completely unforgettable. So here we are with an oversized entry.

Home Again.

First up, I went home. God, that was needed. Sitting on my parents’ balcony in Mt Eden, Dad at the BBQ, a glass of savvy B in hand, tui calling in the trees, fantails darting about chaotically—it was bliss. There’s something about New Zealand air that hits different. It feels cleaner, brighter, softer on your skin. After months of wrapping myself up like a burrito in scarves, standing barefoot in jandals with the sun on my shoulders felt like medicine.

Fashion-wise, the contrast was hilarious. Back home, brunch was girls in denim shorts and sneakers, hair in ponytails, and barely-there makeup. Meanwhile, I turned up in skinny jeans, boots, and a Zara blazer because London has rewired me. My skincare routine back home used to be sunscreen, rosehip oil, and maybe coconut oil if I was feeling fancy. Now I’m layering serums like a pro. It made me laugh—but also reminded me how quickly new habits take root.

Even the little things stood out. At brunch in Auckland, my friends didn’t bat an eyelid at my chipped nail polish. In London, it feels like everyone has a fresh gel manicure every week, nails gleaming as they hold their flat whites. Different worlds, both valid. But it made me love the casualness of home even more—less effort, more ease. Girls rocking up barefoot at the beach with damp hair straight from the surf while I was clutching my handbag and checking my lipstick. Two worlds colliding, and me caught between them.

Wedding Drama.

The main reason for the trip was bridesmaid duties. My old flatmates tied the knot—yes, the couple my ex and I lived with for two years. And of course, gregarious as ever, he was the best man. Cue awkwardness. The Hilton was dressed to perfection, the bride glowing, champagne flowing, and there I was, doing Olympic-level avoidance manoeuvres every time my ex came near. The top table was a strange dance of what was not said, banter stretched thin like cling film, and me wondering how I’d ended up feeling like a guest star in my own hometown.  It was basically quite a lot of yuck.

Still, a weekend of pampering with the bridal party lifted my spirits. Hair, makeup, silk robes, mimosas—it’s amazing how much glamour can patch over discomfort. There’s something about a curling iron, a bold lip, and a silk robe that makes you feel like you can take on the world, even if your stomach’s in knots. The morning playlist was a mix of Lorde, Beyoncé, and Fleetwood Mac, and for a while all the history and drama melted away. We were just girls getting ready, laughing over false lashes and debating whether our spray tans had gone streaky.

And then, as if scripted, came "the Frenchman". JP. He’d always been part of our wider circle of friends in the UK, but I’d never really paid him much attention when I was with my ex. By midnight at Danny Doolans, with champagne still fizzing in my veins, he was whispering in my ear with a heavy French accent.

JP:  “You looked so gorgeous tonight. Stunning.  Magnifique.” 

I’d been trying not to think about Sam all day, which was actually quite easy as a lot of my thoughts had just been about what a proper dickhead my ex was.  I just smiled at JP, and said thanks.

JP:  “I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long, but…well, he is here”

Me: “Yeah, I don't really care. He’ll just do what he wants.”  JP edged closer, straining to hear me over the music, so I had to repeat myself—this time yelling. Classy.  I’m too drunk to actually register that he’s making a pass.

Before I knew it, his hand was on the small of my back, his tongue was in my mouth, and my brain just went: 

“Fuck it.”

The night ended in comedy and chaos. We wind up back at JP’s accommodation, which turns out to be the parents house of one of our friends.  We wind up in the shower together, him continuing to whisper any manner of French words throughout, and me drunkenly laughing and giggling.  Eventually, he turned off the shower, and it dawned on me just how quiet the house is.  He towelled off with the only towel on the rail before starting to walk out of the bathroom.  I said I’d follow in a few minutes so I could wrap my sopping hair in the towel.  When I walked out into the hallway, it was pitch black, all of the doors were shut, and there was no sign of JP.  

Shit!  

Completely naked except for the towel around my head, I decided I’d take my chances.  I opened the first door, peered into the darkness, and saw two bodies.  Not JP.  I quietly closed the door, and walked back into the hallway.  Without the water of the shower pouring over me, I was suddenly aware of just how drunk I was, and got confused.  I opened the next door, and realised as I peered into the darkness that I was the first door again.  One of the sleeping bodies than sat up, and a voice cut through the murk:

Random Stranger whose house I am naked in: “Are you alright, sweetheart?"

I’ve never covered up faster in my life, and I wanted the floor to swallow me whole. I somehow squeaked out a “sorry, sorry”, before backing out into the hallway.  I turned when I heard a creak from the other end of the halIway.  Illuminated by a strip of light coming from an open bedroom door, I saw JP with a huge grin on his face.

JP: “What the fuck are you doing?  We’re up here.”  

Despite the darkness, I knew I’d gone bright red. Not my finest moment. 

The morning after wasn’t much better. Head pounding, makeup smudged, my “charming” Frenchman rolled over, groaned, and muttered, “you need to leave.” Romantic. I ordered a taxi, grabbed my heels, and bolted barefoot to the car. Two days later came the apology text and an invite for a date. Reader: I declined.

Sometimes you know when a chapter is just a story, not a sequel.

Nostalgia & Whanau.

The rest of the trip was pure kiwi summer. Walks up Mt Eden, beers at De Post, flat whites at Frasers, and a pilgrimage to Tawharanui—my favourite beach in New Zealand. My family camped there every summer from when I was six. Picture six families, tents all circled, a big marquee as a dining hall, parents on lifeguard duty as we kids spent every hour between 7am and 5pm in the ocean. Magic. Going back as an adult, I still felt six—hair salty, skin sticky with sunscreen, heart full. That kind of nostalgia hits deep—it’s when you realise just how much those summers shaped you.

Even the rituals made me emotional. Buying an ice block at the dairy, sand between my toes, Mum passing me a towel that smelled faintly of sunshine. These things don’t exist in London in quite the same way. Sure, there are markets and picnics and rooftop drinks, but the carefree, barefoot ease of New Zealand? That’s home.

Leaving was brutal. I promised myself no tears at the airport, but then Dad started. Then Mum. Suddenly we were in a snotty group hug outside the gate, mascara running down my cheeks, Dad laughing through his tears. Not cinematic, not chic, but real. Exactly what I needed before heading back to London. I carried that warmth all the way on the plane, even as I swapped jandals for boots at Heathrow.

Beast From the East.

London welcomed me back with a bang—the Beast from the East. Proper snow, trains cancelled, buses crawling, people panicking. Management sent a cheery “please still try to make it in” email, so I stomped into work in Hunters with my flats in my tote, refusing to ruin good shoes. By 3pm both days, the tubes were abandoned and we were in the pub with mulled wine. London chaos, but in the best way. There’s something hilarious about Brits panicking at the first sign of snow when half of New Zealand would just chuck on a hoodie and carry on.

Fashion lessons: Hunters are worth it, scarves that double as blankets are essential, and yes, a bold red lip works even in a snowstorm. Also, tinted moisturiser is the real MVP when you’re trudging through slush—less cakey, more glowy. I’ve also learned that a messy bun with a slick of lip balm can look more chic than a two-hour blow-dry, especially when the weather is conspiring against you.

Skincare lessons: moisturiser on overdrive, hand cream always in your bag, and a newfound appreciation for sheet masks with my flatmate while Netflix hums in the background. It’s silly, but there’s comfort in those little rituals—candles, wine, masks, and laughing about our week with green goop on our faces. I’ve started to realise that self-care isn’t just about skincare; it’s about carving out those slow moments where you can breathe. And yes, sometimes self-care is also ordering Deliveroo instead of cooking. Balance, right?

Even my hair has become an exercise in adaptation. Back home: salty waves, messy buns. London winter: frizz, static, hat hair. I’ve totally surrendered to the blow-dryer, though every strand reminds me how much I miss a swim in the ocean. For now, I make do with texturising spray, a bit of dry shampoo, and the illusion of volume. Hair isn’t perfect here—it never really is—but it’s mine, and I’m learning to embrace the lived-in look. There’s a certain kind of power in walking into a meeting with imperfect hair and still owning the room.

February’s Lesson.

So yes, February was a lot. Weddings, exes, French flings, whanau hugs, snowy commutes, fashion hacks, and skincare salvation. Messy, imperfect, mortifying at times—but fully lived. And maybe that’s the point: life doesn’t need to be polished to matter. Sometimes it’s the mascara-streaked airport hugs, the karaoke-loud snow days, the bold lip in a snowstorm, and the sheet masks with wine that remind you who you are. It’s the stories you tell later that make you laugh until you cry. It’s the little rituals you share with friends that stitch together the bigger picture of who you’re becoming.

Sending aroha as we roll into March—with imperfect hair, tired eyes, full heart, and a little bit more grit.

Jess x