Lockdown Beginnings, Life Lessons & Banana Bread.

So here we are in March — what a surreal month it’s been. Like everyone else, I feel as though the world’s spun off its axis. I’m now working from home full-time, sharing a dining table-turned-office with my flatmate Fiona, and trying to pretend that I’m thriving when in reality, I’m mostly just snacking my way through the apocalypse. Fiona’s a gem — calm, whip-smart, and unbothered by chaos — but I don’t think either of us imagined we’d be living on top of each other this soon after meeting. We’ve become an odd little duo: alternating tea rounds, comparing playlists, and occasionally glancing at each other mid-Zoom call like, “Is this really happening?”

The rumours online are wild — something about a bat in Wuhan, world leaders on Twitter making it worse, and a looming lockdown that nobody really understands. I’m half convinced this is all some dystopian Netflix pilot we’re unknowingly starring in. Still, I’m doing my best to stay positive — working, journalling, FaceTiming friends, and baking banana bread like it’s an Olympic sport. I even went through a brief phase of thinking I’d master sourdough, until Fiona pointed out that my starter looked like something from a Year 9 science experiment. Safe to say, banana bread is where I peaked.

We’ve started this little routine where we light candles every evening and pour a glass of wine before dinner — our way of marking the end of the “workday.” I make Spotify playlists titled things like Pandemic Chic and Home Office Glam to keep morale high. Some days, it even feels like a soft reset — slower mornings, more cooking, fewer late nights out. Almost wholesome… if you ignore the constant low-level anxiety buzzing in the background.

December Whirlwinds & Christmas Chaos.

December flashed by in a blur — catch-up drinks, office parties, too many mince pies, and not enough sleep. Our work Christmas party was at the Barbican this year (on a Wednesday, because why not), and it was as chaotic as you’d expect: canapés, cocktails, and colleagues you suddenly realise are actually fun after 10 p.m. One weekend I even played tourist and wandered into the Tate Modern for the first time. I didn’t expect to love it, but it surprised me — all brutal concrete, cavernous basements, and thought-provoking weirdness. It scratched that part of me that loves design and structure; there’s something strangely comforting about good architecture when everything else feels manic.

Christmas itself was pure London chaos. I met up with Nicola and an Aussie mate, Niles, for drinks on Christmas Eve — London was a ghost town, most pubs shutting early, so we somehow ended up in an All Bar One (don’t judge) before finishing the night at Duck & Waffle at 4 a.m., ordering £18 fries and far too many cocktails. Christmas Day was quiet, just me and a few Kiwi friends eating roast potatoes, nursing hangovers, and FaceTiming family back home. It’s always bittersweet — the joy of friends here mixed with that ache for home, sunshine, and Mum’s pavlova.

New Year, New Chaos.

New Year’s was meant to be the wholesome reset — a Cotswolds cottage with friends, open fires, winter walks, the full Pinterest fantasy. Except… we were scammed. The host ghosted us hours before check-in, and when we finally found the cottage, it looked like a set from a horror film — uncleaned beds, flooded bathrooms, and a faint smell of despair. I slept on top of the covers in a hoodie, trying to convince myself I was “camping chic.” Still, we made the best of it — wine, laughter, long walks through Upper and Lower Slaughter, and deer-spotting at Broadway Tower. On our last day, we found the oldest pub in England, The Royal Standard, and laughed until we cried over the absurdity of it all. Definitely not the New Year I planned, but memorable all the same.

By the time we got back to London, I’d made a list of resolutions that lasted roughly six days — meditate daily, limit caffeine, stop scrolling before bed. The usual lies.

January: Grey Skies & Good Distractions.

January hit like a freight train, and by mid-month I was already back to oat flat whites, Zara impulse buys, and late-night group chats about Love Island.  Between dark mornings and the post-holiday slump, I focused on work and mini adventures. One weekend, I explored the graffiti tunnels under Waterloo Station — a hidden gem full of incredible murals and street art that changes every week. Another, I somehow ended up on a spontaneous day trip to Calais with Niles to pick up his aunt, who'd recently broken up with her Morrocan husband, and her massive Alsatian. We sang Whitney and Taylor the whole way there, swapped stories about relationships gone wrong, and had the kind of deep car therapy that only happens when you’ve known someone just long enough to be honest. We drove back to London at sunset, both quietly aware of how nice it felt to have company that didn’t need defining (and frankly also amazed at how quiet an Alsatian can actually be).

February Frenzy: Rugby, Site Visits & Social Butterflies.

February was a blur — busy, brilliant, and full of rugby. I got invited to England vs Ireland through a contractor pitching for one of our North West London projects. Pre-game hospitality, three-course Tom Kerridge menu, and prime seats — not bad for a Kiwi in construction. It’s funny how different British rugby culture feels; at home, the crowd lives and breathes every play, while here half of them seem more focused on the champagne refills. Still, it was an incredible day.

Work-wise, I was deep in site visits, inspecting contractor accommodation setups for our new development — everything from Lendlease's Elephant & Castle setup, SRM at Chelsea Barracks, and Berkeley's Gas Works in Oval. I’m still getting used to the rhythm of client-side life — more accountability, less hand-holding — but I love it. There’s something addictive about walking a live site in steel-capped boots and feeling like you belong there. The smell of dust and concrete somehow feels grounding. I even bought my own site boots — matte black, obviously.

Six Nations, Self-Reflection & Staying Home.

The month ended with another match at Twickenham — Wales vs England — and, dare I say it, I caught myself cheering for the home side. Maro Itoje was a dream to look at but dull in interviews; Ellis Genge, on the other hand, was unfiltered brilliance. Maybe that’s why I love sport — it keeps real character alive. After that, life slowed down fast. The virus crept closer, news updates got scarier, and everyone started panic-buying loo roll and flour. Fiona and I stocked up on oat milk, pasta, and wine — priorities.

The first weekend of lockdown, the city fell eerily quiet. No planes, no traffic, no pub chatter drifting through open windows. Just birdsong and sirens in equal measure. It was unsettling but strangely peaceful. I started noticing things I’d never paid attention to — the way light hits the buildings across our street in the afternoon, the smell of rain after days indoors, the luxury of time. London without noise feels like an entirely different city.

Now we’re working from home, turning our dining table into a war room of laptops, sticky notes, and half-drunk mugs of tea. The novelty’s already wearing off, but there’s something weirdly comforting about it too. We bake, gossip, take turns doing yoga videos in the lounge, and escape to Brockwell Park for sanity walks when the walls start closing in.  Small moments of light in a strange, heavy time.

I don’t know what the next few months will look like — none of us do — but I’m trying to stay grounded. If nothing else, this strange, suspended moment feels like a reminder: slow down, stay present, and keep your humour intact. Life’s messy and unpredictable, but there’s still joy tucked into the corners — you just have to look for it.

Here’s to surviving (and maybe even thriving) through the weirdest year yet.

Jess x