Lockdown Begins: Me, Fiona & A Dining Table War Room.

March came in like a fever dream — one minute I was stomping around construction sites in my matte-black steel caps, the next I was working from home full-time, sharing a dining table with Fiona like we were in a very chic but underfunded coworking space.

Fiona, bless her, is the calmest woman I’ve ever met. South African, terrifyingly competent, unfazed by chaos — meanwhile I’m pacing the kitchen like I’m preparing to brief Parliament. We’ve become this funny little duo:

• alternating tea rounds,

• comparing Spotify playlists,

• silently screaming at each other through Zoom-call eye contact.

  
  

It’s domesticity, but make it corporate girlies trapped in a surreal apocalypse.

Rumours were everywhere: bats, Wuhan, Italy collapsing, Twitter behaving like the world’s worst news channel, and whispers of a “lockdown” none of us could imagine. Every day felt like the opening scene of a disaster film.

To cope? I snacked. Endlessly. Levels of snacking previously unseen in this household.

I made banana bread like it was part of my job description. Briefly attempted sourdough — Fiona looked at my starter and said it resembled “a failed school experiment,” and honestly? She was right.

We started lighting candles every evening, pouring a glass of wine, and pretending that marked the end of the “workday.” Pandemic delusion at its finest.

Some evenings even felt… wholesome. Slow. Soft. Like life was giving us a strange, terrifying reset.

If you ignored the existential dread, it was kind of cute.

But before the world went absolutely mad...

December Whirlwind: Parties, Hangovers & Found Family.

December flashed by in classic London style — parties, late nights, mince pies, and questionable choices.

Work Christmas party at the Barbican? Absolute chaos. Colleagues you assumed were boring suddenly dancing like they were auditioning for Strictly. Canapés that tasted like disappointment. Cocktails flowing like we were celebrating the end of a war.

And in a rare cultural moment, I went to the Tate Modern for the first time. Didn’t expect to feel things — but the brutal concrete, the weird installations, the literal SIZE of the place? Loved it. Felt grounding in a very “I’m a cultured adult now” way.

Christmas Eve was even more iconic: Nicola, an Aussie mate called Niles, and I bounced around London until we somehow ended up in All Bar One (forgive me) and then Duck & Waffle at 4am ordering £18 fries like delusional queens.

Christmas Day? A quiet little Kiwi orphan gathering — roast potatoes, hangovers, FaceTime with family back home, and that weird aching joy of being so far and so close at the same time.

New Year’s: Horror Cottage Edition.

NYE was meant to be Pinterest-core: Cotswolds cottage, fires, wine, winter walks.

Instead? We got scammed.

The host ghosted us. The cottage looked like a horror set. Flooded bathroom, unwashed beds, general despair. I slept on TOP of the covers wearing a hoodie and praying for morning.

But to be fair — we made it work. Long walks through Upper and Lower Slaughter, deer spotting at Broadway Tower, and a final lunch at The Royal Standard where we laughed so hard I nearly dislocated something.

Not the New Year I planned, but one for the books.

January: Grey Skies, Oat Lattes, & Mild Chaos.

January was… January. Dark, cold, aggressive. I survived via:

• oat flat whites,

• Zara dopamine buys,

• group chats debating Love Island,

• long walks under Waterloo discovering graffiti tunnels,

• and one completely unhinged day trip to Calais with Niles to pick up his aunt and her MASSIVE Alsatian.

  
  

We talked about heartbreak, sang Whitney, rescued a woman from her Moroccan ex, and bonded at a level usually reserved for therapy.

Honestly? It was iconic.

February: Rugby, Site Boots & Social Mania.

February was fast and bright.

I got invited to England vs Ireland through a contractor keen on one of our projects — corporate hospitality, Tom Kerridge menu, champagne everywhere. British rugby culture is hilarious. Half the crowd is more focused on prosecco refills than the actual game.

Work had me bouncing between Elephant & Castle, Chelsea Barracks, Oval Gas Works — inspecting contractor facilities like a woman who suddenly knows what she’s doing.

Client-side life suits me. More ownership. Less hand-holding. More chances to feel like a boss.

Bought matte black site boots. Felt hot.

Finished the month at Twickenham again (England vs Wales). I’m ashamed to admit this… but I cheered for England at one point. Maro Itoje? Obsessed. Ellis Genge? Unfiltered king.

Then the news started getting scary. Cases rising. Italy shutting down. People panic buying flour like they were preparing for the Great British Bake Off: Doomsday Edition.

London slowed. Stilled. Tightened.

Lockdown: The Quiet, The Strange, The Unexpected Calm.

The first weekend of lockdown was… eerie.

No planes. No cars. No pub noise drifting through the streets.

Just birds and sirens.

London felt like a painting someone forgot to animate.

Fiona and I tried to find rhythms — baking, yoga videos in the lounge, Brockwell Park sanity walks, long conversations over wine.

Some days we thrived. Some days we barely functioned. But we built a tiny, gentle routine that carried us.

I started noticing things I never paid attention to before:

• how the afternoon light hits the building opposite,

• the smell of rain after days indoors,

• how precious normal life actually was.

  
  

Everything felt fragile, but weirdly beautiful.

Where I’m At Now.

No idea what the next months will look like — none of us do — but I’m trying to laugh, stay grounded, be soft where it counts, and take the small joys seriously.

Life is messy. And unpredictable. And terrifying. But there’s still beauty tucked into the corners.

And whatever happens — I’ll find a way to make it look cute.

Gem x