Moving Madness, Milestones & Meltdowns.

Alright babes — Gemma’s here. And this month? Absolutely unhinged. Chaotic. London-feral. A highlight reel of wins, disasters, red flags, tears, triumphs, and me trying to hold my life together with dry shampoo and iced lattes. You know the vibe.

Buckle in — this one’s long, juicy, and very me.

June: Weddings, Feelings & Fully Losing The Plot.

June kicked off with Michelle’s wedding in Essex — and YES, I was a bridesmaid. The venue looked like a Pinterest board someone paid extra for. Fairy lights. Rose arches. Rolling hills. Kiwis absolutely everywhere. I swear every second guy had a Southern Cross tattoo.

Michelle looked STUNNING — like a Grace Loves Lace model who also pays her taxes on time. Meanwhile I was doing my best not to sweat through my dress or cry my eyelash extensions off.

And babes… I cried. Multiple times. During the vows. During the speeches. During the part where the MC said, “If anyone objects—” and I panicked like it was a group assignment.

Weddings are dangerous. They make you think about everything: love, purpose, skincare, whether you should move home, whether your ex is happier than you (he’s not). It shook me.

Flatshare Roulette: London’s Favourite Blood Sport.

THEN — as if life wasn’t spicy enough — my housing situation imploded.

My flatmate, absolute sweetheart, suddenly goes: “Sooo… I’m pregnant. And also my boyfriend basically lives here. And also… your room is becoming the nursery.”

Babes. I froze.

I’d been living there on the world’s cheekiest under-the-table rent (£500 a month in London? Should be illegal). Losing that meant re-entering SpareRoom Hell.

Scrolling listings at 11pm with cereal in my hand like I’m in a student flat-share sitcom? Not my strongest era.

Career Chaos & Small Miracles.

At the same time, I quietly started interviewing because I was SO over being the afterthought in my consultancy. Everyone else got opportunities. I got… vibes.

Then suddenly everything shifted.

Dream flat? Found.

Dream job? LANDED.

The Brixton flat was gorgeous — sunlit (rare), clean (rarer), and modern (basically a miracle). I moved in with this guy called Ben from Goldman who seemed normal, surfy, laid-back.

Spoiler: he was not.

But more on that later.

The new job though? Client-side in King’s Cross with a developer who delivers absolute architectural porn. And the best part? My new boss is an Aussie. Within five minutes we were bonding over missing actual beaches and slandering Marmite.

She’s sharp, funny, and actually gets women in construction. A win.

The Big Win (and Big Meltdown) 🎓😭

THEN came the two-week emotional rollercoaster.

1. I PASSED MY APC.

I still can’t say that without wanting to cry. The exam day was chaos — rescheduled because the Holiday Inn Heathrow apparently can’t organise its own diary — but I did it. YEARS of stress. Finally done.

I celebrated by sobbing into a Pret cookie and then smashing champagne with anyone who’d look at me.

2. Ben — the housemate from hell — fully unravelled.

This man went from “chilled surfer energy” to “unhinged frat boy” in record time.

When I'd interviewed at the flat, he'd been on stress leave from Goldman, and so he'd taken several months off, working on himself, surfing every few days, and planning a sabbatical to head back to Uni to do his Masters in Marine Biology.  By the time I'd moved in, he'd just started back at Goldman, and boy did it show.

Within 3 weeks, he was coming home drunk, slamming doors, yelling, stomping around like he was performing an interpretive dance of male rage.

The final straw?

He smashed a pot plant, tracked soil across the kitchen, and when I nicely asked him to clean it, he said:

“Why don’t you stop being a bitch and do it yourself?”

I saw red. Full Gemini mode activated.

We had a huge row — him in his boxers trying to stand over me like a toddler in a tantrum — and I noped the hell out. Grabbed a bag. Rang Sam. Went straight to his.

Bless him — he’d just moved nearby, so it felt like the universe throwing me a life raft.

My boss was incredible. Told me to take time, offered flexible working, basically saved me from a nervous breakdown.

Flat-hunting again though? God help me.

Little Joys: My Survival Toolkit.

In between all the chaos, I clung to the small Gemma-core pleasures:

• Battersea Park walks

• Blank Street oat lattes

• Glossier Futuredew (my face has never looked more alive)

• yoga instead of gym bro nonsense

• Sunday facials

• overpriced berries I absolutely did not need

  
  

Went to SW4 with the girlies — danced to Craig David (still a ledge) and Chase & Status, got drunk on Aperol, sweat in places I didn’t know could sweat. Peak joy.

London summer truly hits different. Everyone becomes hotter, happier, and slightly unhinged.

What Now?

So here I am — typing in a Clapham café, oat flat white going stone cold beside me — weirdly proud of surviving one of the most chaotic seasons of my life.

New job. Leaving a toxic flatmate. Passing the APC. Losing a home. Regaining my footing. Dancing in parks. Crying at weddings. Eating too many carbs. And somehow still standing.

I’m saving for a Paris solo trip in October or November — the feminine-reset energy is calling me — and planning a September detox: less negroni, more skincare.

If 2019 has taught me anything so far, it’s this:

Life will absolutely fling chaos at you — but babes, you get to decide how cute you look while dealing with it.

Gem x