May Musings: Family, Futures, & French Getaways.

So let's just say that I've absolutely given up trying to do this monthly.  I know I say this every month, but at least I'm honest about it.  It's been three months, and it's been a whirlwind of social activities, a trip home, a trip to France, and work going gangbusters.  

Buckle up babes.

Sister’s Wedding: Kiwi Tears & Too Much Bubbles.

My big sister getting married in March? Stunning. Emotional. Chaotic. The kind of day where you wake up with perfect hair and go to bed with mascara streaked halfway down your ribs.

She looked unreal — all elegant and mature and wife-y — and there I was, the Kiwi tornado in heels, bawling my eyes out because apparently I’m now the kind of woman who cries at speeches. Mum and I had a meltdown in the bathroom at one point. Happy tears obviously, but still — if anyone had walked in, they would’ve thought we’d buried someone.

The whole day was this blur of hugs, champagne, dancing barefoot, and relatives I hadn’t seen in years grabbing my face and telling me I “look healthy,” which in Kiwi-speak means, "you’ve put on a bit but it suits you." Iconic.

My uncle from Aus told me I’m “really doing it” career‑wise and babes… I nearly burst into tears again. Men never say things like that unless they mean it deep in their bones. It hit harder than any compliment from London men ever has.

The fairy lights, vineyard backdrop, drunk aunties, cousins I used to share Froot Loops with — it was all so stupidly wholesome. My heart felt like someone had wrung it out and hung it on the washing line.

Home: Sunshine, Yarns & Absolutely No SPF.

Going home is like stepping into a warm bath you forgot you needed. I inhaled Whittaker’s like a woman possessed, burnt myself to a crisp at Tawharanui (forgot SPF — rookie behaviour), and caught up with everyone from school mums to old mates who now own homes and children. Eww.

Visited my childhood bestie Maddie — now a Pinterest mum with two kids and a deck that looks like a lifestyle ad. Her toddler smeared yoghurt on my jeans and I apologised to him. That’s how far removed I am from motherhood.

Leaving? Brutal. Dad cried first, as always. Mum pretended she wasn’t crying while VERY MUCH crying. I strutted to security like I was fine, then fell apart the moment they scanned my bag.

But the second I sat on that long-haul flight, the itch for London started again — chaos calling me home.

Back to London, Back to Bullshit.

Beaulieu is FINALLY done — no more hellish commutes and 6am trains surrounded by men who smell like protein powder and disappointment. I’ve moved onto a Brentford project with an Irish developer (love them), but the client rep is colder than the Waitrose freezer aisle. Truly a man carved from ice.

Meanwhile, I LOST my Kensington project — gutted — because apparently I’ve been “promoted” onto a St John’s Wood megaproject for a Malaysian billionaire. Huge old military barracks conversion, four-storey basements, wellness suites, architects who all wear funky glasses and look expensively moisturised.

It’s stressful but hot-girl stressful, you know? Like: I’m busy, but also thriving.

And then there’s the APC. The holy grail. I’m studying like a woman trying to earn a dowry. Sam (yes, THAT Sam) has been helping with mock questions — somehow we’ve slipped into this cute, functional friendship where we run along the Thames, complain about life, and end up drinking Pret coffees on a bench like divorcees who still fancy each other.

If anyone thinks something’s going on — they’re wrong. It’s genuinely nice. Growth.

Charlie: Red Flags & Rogue Jealousy 💔🔥

Right. Charlie.

I didn’t take him to NZ — gut instinct. Smartest call I’ve made in years.

When I got back, I brought him to a Kiwi night in Shoreditch to meet the crew. He was charming, funny, hot — everything you want your boyfriend to be in front of your mates.

Until some random bloke made small talk with me at the bar.

Not flirting. Not weird. Just a normal conversation.

I shut it down IMMEDIATELY and told him I had a boyfriend.

Turned back… and Charlie’s entire face had changed. The shutters DOWN. Within two minutes he’s grabbing his coat and Irish‑exiting my friends.

I chased him out and we argued the whole Uber home. Turns out his ex used to flirt with guys to make him jealous and he’s still traumatised by it.

I get it — but also: I’m not your ex, babe.

We "made up," but something in me shifted. I saw the 24‑year‑old in him that night — the insecurity, the immaturity, the way he goes cold instead of communicating.

The following weeks were full of weird vibes, dry texts, accidental silences, and me questioning every interaction like a detective in a crime drama.

Maybe timing’s off. Maybe we’re growing in different directions. Maybe I just need a man whose emotional development isn’t stuck buffering at 17%.

France: Girls, Wine & Freedom (aka Therapy Without the Invoice).

Obviously, I did what any self-respecting woman does when her relationship feels wobbly: booked a spontaneous girls’ trip.

Monsegur, babes.

Restored farmhouse. Tennis court. Vineyard views. A pool reflecting the sky like something from a perfume ad. We lived like unbothered queens.

Days were:

• reading by the pool

• rosé in tumblers

• sunbathing topless until one of us chickened out

• long lunches that ruined our bikinis

• debating which of us will marry rich (jury’s out)

  
  

I attempted tennis. I fell over. I dropped my Aperol. Tragedy.

Our final dinner at Le Patio Monsegur? Life-changing. Three options only — chicken, beef, or veg — and every plate slapped. We wrote in their guestbook like drunk backpackers and swore we’d come back next year. Probably won’t. But it felt nice.

For the first time in ages, I felt calm. No overthinking. No relationship angst. Just me, my girls, good wine, and a French sunset.

Looking Ahead.

Now May’s done and dusted, here’s where I’m at:

• work: cooked but thriving

• love life: messy but not tragic

• hair: considering chopping it like a French-girl bob because why not

• skin: glowing thanks to several litres of water and zero men

• social life: Michelle’s wedding coming up and I’m a bridesmaid — pray for my liver

  
  

If this month taught me anything, it’s this:

You can have a messy life and still be That Girl.

You don’t need answers. You just need SPF, girlfriends, and a decent margarita.

Gem x