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 hiding from the London drizzle (a frankly indecent amount of it spent at Sam’s. It’s early days, we’re “taking it slow,” etc, etc).

February, though, came in swinging. One of those months that felt crammed full — messy in places, hilarious in others, and weirdly unforgettable. So here we are with an oversized entry.

Home Again

First up: I went home.

God, I needed that.

Sitting on Mum and Dad’s balcony in Mt Eden, Dad parked at the BBQ like a king, glass of savvy B in my hand, tui calling in the trees, fantails doing their chaotic little fly-bys — bliss. New Zealand air hits different. It feels cleaner, brighter, softer on your skin. After months of wrapping myself in scarves like a human burrito, standing in jandals with the sun on my shoulders felt like medicine.

Fashion-wise, the contrast was hilarious. Back home, brunch is: denim shorts, sneakers, ponytails, maybe mascara if someone’s trying. I rocked up in skinny jeans, boots, and a Zara blazer because London has clearly rewired my brain. My skincare used to be sunscreen, rosehip oil, and coconut oil if I was feeling fancy. Now I’m layering serums like I’m on commission.

Even the little stuff stood out. At brunch in Auckland, my chipped nail polish got zero attention. No one cared. In London it feels like everyone’s on a rolling schedule of fresh gels, nails gleaming while they hold their flat whites and say things like “I’m just so busy right now.” Both worlds are legit, but the casualness of home made my shoulders drop about five centimetres.

Girls turning up barefoot at the beach with damp hair straight from the surf; me still clutching my handbag and checking my lipstick. Two worlds colliding, and I’m somewhere in the middle wondering which one I belong to more.

Wedding Drama

The main reason for the trip: bridesmaid duties. My old flatmates were getting married — yes, the couple my ex and I lived with for two years. And, of course, Mr Gregarious himself was the best man. Naturally.

The Hilton looked perfect. The bride was glowing, champagne was flowing, and I was doing Olympic-level avoidance any time my ex drifted into my orbit. The top table felt like a social minefield — smiles stretched a bit too wide, banter thinned out like cling film, everyone pretending it wasn’t weird. It was… a lot of yuck, honestly.

The saving grace was the bridal prep. Hair, makeup, silk robes, mimosas. It’s amazing how much a curling wand and a bold lip can plaster over emotional carnage. The playlist was Lorde, Beyoncé, Fleetwood Mac — very “main character getting ready to face her past.” For a few hours, it was just girls laughing, trying not to smudge eyeliner, debating whether our spray tans had gone patchy.

And then — enter the Frenchman.

JP had always been part of the wider London friend circle, but he’d just been “one of the lads” when I was with my ex. Suddenly, it’s midnight at Danny Doolans, champagne still bubbling through my veins, and he’s leaning close with that heavy French accent.

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

I’d spent most of the day trying not to think about Sam and quietly resenting my ex, so the compliment just… landed. I smiled, said thanks, kept it moving.

Then:

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

Me, already tipsy and over it: “Yeah, I don’t really care. He’ll just do what he wants.”

He leaned in to hear me, music blaring, so I basically ended up yelling this into his face. Classy. At this point I was too drunk to register that yes, he was absolutely making a move.

Next minute his hand’s on the small of my back, his tongue’s in my mouth, and my brain just went:

Fuck it.

Cut to: we end up back at his accommodation, which turns out to be one of our friend’s parents’ house. We somehow end up in the shower — him whispering all sorts of French nonsense, me giggling like an idiot.

Then he hops out, wraps himself in the only towel, and wanders off, leaving me under the water. I switch the shower off, suddenly very aware of (a) how drunk I am and (b) how naked I am in someone else’s family home.

I wrap my hair in the towel and step out into the hallway. Pitch black. Doors everywhere. No JP.

Fantastic.

I open the first door. Two sleeping bodies. Not JP. Quietly shut door. Walk back into the hall. Try another door. Same room. Same two sleepers. One of them sits up.

Random Stranger, in the house I am naked in: “Are you alright, sweetheart?”

I have never tried to cover myself so fast in my life. I squeaked something like “sorry, sorry!” and bolted back into the hallway.

And there, at the other end, lit by the glow of a half-open bedroom door, is JP.

Grinning.

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

I could feel myself going bright red even in the dark. Not my finest hour.

The morning after didn’t improve things. Head pounding, makeup somewhere up near my hairline, I rolled over and he just groaned and muttered.

“You need to leave.”

Romantic.

I ordered a taxi, grabbed my heels, and padded barefoot down the driveway with my dignity in tatters.

Two days later, he sent an apology text and asked me out properly.

Reader: I declined.

Some people are just meant to be a story, not a sequel.

Nostalgia & Whānau

The rest of the trip was pure Kiwi summer. Walks up Maungawhau (Mt Eden), beers at De Post, flat whites at Frasers, a pilgrimage to Tawharanui — my favourite beach in the world.

We camped there every year when I was a kid — six families, tents in a circle, giant marquee for meals, parents on lifeguard duty while we spent every possible hour in the ocean. Going back as an adult, I still felt six. Hair salty, skin sticky with sunscreen, heart ridiculously full. Those summers built whole chunks of who I am.

Even the small rituals hit hard. Buying an ice block at the dairy, sand stuck between my toes, Mum passing me a towel that smelled like sun and detergent. Those things don’t exist in London in the same way. There are parks and markets and rooftop drinks, sure, but not that barefoot, easy, no-ones-in-a-rush feeling.

Leaving was brutal. I told myself I wouldn’t cry at the airport. Then Dad’s eyes went glassy. Then Mum’s. Then I cracked. We ended up in a blotchy, snotty group hug near the gate, mascara running, Dad laughing through it. Not glamorous. Very real. Exactly what I needed before heading back to my weird new London life.

I kept that warmth with me all the way to Heathrow — even as I swapped jandals for boots in Arrivals.

Beast From the East (and what?)

London welcomed me back with the Beast from the East. Proper snow. Trains cancelled. Buses crawling. People acting like the apocalypse had arrived.

Management sent out a chirpy “please still try to make it in” email, so I clomped into work in my Hunters with my flats buried in my tote, refusing to sacrifice good shoes to the slush gods. Both days the office basically gave up around 3pm and we decamped to the pub for mulled wine. Honestly? No complaints.

Watching Brits react to snow is comedy. Meanwhile the Kiwi in me is thinking, “Chuck on a hoodie and get on with it, mate.”

Fashion lessons:

• Hunters are worth the investment.

• Scarves that double as blankets are elite.

• A red lip somehow works even in a snowstorm.

Skincare lessons:

• Moisturiser on high rotation.

• Hand cream in every bag.

• Sheet masks + Netflix + my flatmate = therapy.

We’d sit there with green goop on our faces, candles lit, wine in hand, laughing about work and exes and awkward dates. I’m slowly realising that self-care isn’t just about having a “routine” — it’s having those silly little rituals that pull you out of your own head.

Hair-wise, I’ve fully surrendered to the blow-dryer. Back home it’s salty waves and messy buns. London winter is frizz, static, and hat hair. Now it’s texturising spray, dry shampoo, and accepting that my hair will never look finished. The power move is walking into a meeting with imperfect hair and still owning it.

February’s Lesson

So yeah. February was… a lot. Weddings, exes, French flings, whānau hugs, snowy commutes, fashion hacks, skincare nights, and a very soft, early-days thing with Sam humming in the background.

Messy. Imperfect. Occasionally mortifying. Very, very lived.

Maybe that’s the point. Life doesn’t have to look polished to count. It’s the mascara-streaked airport hugs, the naked-in-the-wrong-bedroom horror, the red lip in a blizzard, and the face masks with your flatmate that stick with you. Those are the bits you tell as stories. Those are the bits that remind you who you are.

Rolling into March with imperfect hair, tired eyes, a fuller heart, and just a little bit more grit.

Gem x