New Love, Old Streets & a Ticket Home.

Right babes — February has been a lot. And honestly? It’s giving peak Gemma energy: chaotic, smitten, overthinking everything, pretending I’m chill, and absolutely not being chill.

London feels different this year. Softer. Brighter. Still rude, still cold, still overpriced — but with this weird, warm undercurrent I can’t shake.

Spoiler: his name is Charlie.

Enter Charlie 💋 (and yes, I’m already obsessed)

So. The man. The myth. The six‑foot‑five Welsh dream who crashed into my life at Embargoes when I was two espresso martinis deep and behaving like the unofficial hype-woman of Chelsea.

He’s an ex‑rugby lad — broad shoulders, blonde hair, jawline that could slice deli meat — and he’s got this stupidly warm smile that makes you forget your own name. And the accent? Illegal. Should require a licence.

And he has a French bulldog called Duke.

Game over.

Since early January, I’ve basically been living in his Notting Hill flat — which looks like a boutique hotel designed by someone who doesn’t know what financial stress is. Meanwhile I’m padding around in his hoodie with last night’s mascara clinging on like it pays rent.

Every red flag in my body is firing:

• too charming

• too sweet

• too fit (sorry Mum)

• too easy

  
  

And yet… there I am. Making poached eggs in his absurdly fancy kitchen like a woman with zero survival instincts.

We’ve become that early‑couple cliché:

• late‑night Deliveroos

• walking Duke in Hyde Park like responsible parents

• arguing over our Spotify playlists (mine wins)

• Sunday mornings with bacon sarnies and his head on my lap

• bottle of red on a Wednesday “just because”

  
  

I even met his parents in West Humble. His mum is adorable, his dad calls me “the Kiwi girl,” and the whole place smells like money, wood polish, and generational stability. Duke now has his own Instagram because obviously I did that.

And now I’m debating whether to invite him to my sister’s wedding next month.

Too soon? Absolutely.

Will I? Probably.

Countryside Weekends & Boyfriend Tourism.

January was basically one long Notting Hill cuddle-fest, but February? Adventures.

We took Duke out to Box Hill for long walks, did Broadwood’s Tower at golden hour, and ended up at The Running Horses smashing pub chips and watching the Six Nations. (Scotland — obsessed with you.)

The next weekend? Brooklands Museum. Yes, me — Gemma — willingly attending a museum about planes and cars. I thought I’d be bored out of my mind, but the Concorde exhibit went hard. So Insta-worthy I had to physically restrain myself.

Watching Charlie talk about engines and models with childlike joy was stupidly cute. Like, sir, calm down — but also never calm down.

We stopped for coffee at this perfect little café straight out of a Nancy Meyers film. Fresh lemon drizzle, mismatched chairs, the works. He sat there rambling about rugby injuries and how Duke snores louder than his dad, and I had this sudden thought:

Oh no. I like you. Properly.

Terrifying.

Solo Sundays & Don’t-Lose-Yourself Girl Era.

Look — your girl might be smitten, but I refuse to become one of those women who disappears into coupledom like a witness in police protection.

So I’ve been taking myself on little solo dates:

• Design Museum (the David Adjaye exhibit? Stunning)

• wandering Portobello Market eating warm churros

• buying vintage silk scarves I absolutely don’t need

• oat flat whites and pretending I understand architecture

  
  

And honestly? It’s grounding.

There’s something hot about being able to adore someone without dissolving into their life like a Berocca. London always snaps me back into myself — usually with overpriced coffee and a wind chill of -3°C.

Evenings lately have been skincare, candles, and that smug little glow you get when life feels… sorted. Or at least aesthetically pleasing.

A Ticket Home (and the wedding panic begins).

Next week I fly home for my sister’s wedding, which:

• is in Tauranga

• will make me cry

• will probably fry me alive because I’ve forgotten what real sunlight feels like

  
  

I haven’t been home in over a year, and I can already feel the emotional whiplash coming:

• Mum’s cooking

• barefoot champagne moments on grass

• aunties telling me I “look tired, darling”

• cicadas screaming like they own the place

  
  

There’s something about a New Zealand summer that just… resets you.

And yes — everyone will be grilling me about London, about dating, about my “big career” and why I still don’t eat enough vegetables.

And maybe — maybe — I’ll bring Charlie.

But also maybe I won’t, because introducing a man to your entire bloodline is a level of intimacy I am not sure I’m prepared for.

Either way, this trip feels big. Like a little soul rinse. Like visiting the version of me who left Auckland with a suitcase and endless maybes.

I already know I’m crying at least twice before the vows even start.

Gem x