New Love, Old Streets & a Ticket Home.

So 2019 has gotten off to quite the start — the kind of start everyone hopes for when they promise themselves that “this will be the year everything comes together.” It’s been one of joyful mornings, lazy Sundays, frosty sunshine, and a fair amount of time spent tucked away in Notting Hill — which, to be fair, sounds a lot more glamorous than it probably is when you’re padding around in your boyfriend’s oversized hoodie with yesterday’s mascara still clinging on for dear life. But still — it’s a new season, a softer rhythm, and I can’t quite remember the last time I felt this content.

Enter Charlie.

This, of course, is because of Charlie. The ex-rugby player I met over Christmas at Embargoes. Picture me drunkenly ordering espresso martinis for the girls, spinning around with a tray like I was auditioning for a Waitrose advert, and practically walking into him. Six-foot-five, blonde, broad-shouldered, and with a smile that could thaw glaciers — the man is impossible to miss. Oh, and he’s Welsh. The accent alone should be illegal.

He’s also got the most ridiculous French bulldog named Duke — equal parts adorable and high-maintenance. Between Charlie, Duke, and his Notting Hill flat that looks like something out of Architectural Digest, I’ve basically been a squatter since early January. Every red flag in my brain is screaming — he’s too charming, too sweet, too perfect in bed (sorry Mum) — but here I am, ignoring them all and learning how to make poached eggs in a kitchen that costs more than my student loan ever did.

We’ve done all the cliché early-couple things — late-night Deliveroos, walking Duke through Hyde Park in matching puffer jackets (unintentional, I swear), and spending hours arguing over whose Spotify playlist is superior (mine, obviously). There’s been lazy Sundays with bacon sandwiches and Netflix, and midweek dinners where we somehow drink a whole bottle of Malbec “just because it’s open.” It’s been easy in the best way, and that scares me a little. I’ve even met his parents out in West Humble — proper Surrey countryside vibes. His mum is the sweetest, his dad calls me “the Kiwi girl,” and the whole family has that effortless warmth that makes you want to stay just one more night. Duke now has his own Instagram (courtesy of me), and honestly, I think he might be getting more likes than I do.

And now, with my sister’s wedding coming up in March, I’m actually debating whether to invite him as my plus one. Too soon? Almost definitely. Will I do it anyway? Probably. My flatmate’s already rolling her eyes at how much I talk about him, but it’s fine — it’s called being happy. For now, at least.

Small Town Weekends.

Most of January was spent wrapped up in that honeymoon haze, but February’s been full of little adventures. We spent a weekend out near Box Hill, walking Duke, stopping off at Broadwood’s Tower, and ending the day at a pub called The Running Horses to watch the Six Nations (how good were England?!). The next weekend, Charlie insisted on taking me to the Brooklands Museum — basically the UK’s answer to MOTAT. I didn’t think I’d care about old planes and cars, but the Concorde exhibit was oddly fascinating — and very Insta-worthy. He was like a little kid explaining every model and engine spec, and I swear I’ve never seen a man so excited about a jet.

On the drive home, we stopped for coffee at this tiny café that looked like it had been plucked from a Nancy Meyers film — all vintage chairs and freshly baked lemon drizzle. I sat there watching him, thinking how strange it is that someone can enter your life so suddenly and make the familiar streets feel brand new again.

It’s funny how quickly you fall into someone’s world. His family, his mates, his routines — it all feels new but familiar, like slipping into a rhythm you didn’t know you’d been missing. I’m learning how to share space again — the way his socks mysteriously multiply on the floor, or how he somehow always leaves the bathroom door open mid-conversation (men). And yes, I’m aware I’m in full “smitten kitten” territory, but I’m not fighting it. Not this time.

Solo Sundays & Cultural Fixes.

Eager not to lose myself completely in coupledom (I can hear Mum’s voice already), I’ve been making time for solo days too. One of my favourites was a Sunday at the Design Museum — David Adjaye’s Making Memory exhibition and the Design Ventura showcase. I grabbed an oat flat white from the museum café, wandered through the galleries, and spent a good hour in the gift shop convincing myself I needed a minimalist notebook I will almost certainly never use. London has this knack for making you feel inspired and broke in equal measure.

On another Sunday, I walked through Portobello Market — vintage stalls, warm churros, and that buzz of Londoners pretending it’s not 4°C. I found an old silk scarf that reminded me of Mum’s wardrobe in the 90s and decided it was fate. It’s silly, but I think that’s how I know I’m in a good place — when I start noticing small, lovely things again.

There’s something really grounding about carving out those days alone — a reminder that I can adore someone and still hold space for myself. I’m learning that balance again, one almond croissant at a time. Evenings now end with skincare rituals and candles, tiny pockets of calm that make city life feel almost gentle.

A Ticket Home.

Now, the countdown’s on — I fly home next week for my sister’s wedding! She’s the first of us girls to tie the knot, and honestly, I couldn’t be prouder (or more emotional). It’s in Tauranga, which means sunshine, vineyards, and that distinct Kiwi feeling of being barefoot on warm grass with a glass of bubbles in hand. I haven’t been home in over a year, and I can already picture the long hugs, the smell of Mum’s cooking, and the inevitable “you look tired, darling” from every auntie in attendance. There’s something about a New Zealand summer that hits differently — the air smells cleaner, the laughter comes easier, and the sunsets linger longer than they should.

I’m also quietly excited (and terrified) to show everyone how much I’ve changed — London has toughened me, softened me, shaped me. But another part of me just wants to sit in the backyard, listening to the cicadas, and remember that I’m still the same girl who left Auckland with a suitcase and a heart full of maybes. I already know I’ll cry at least twice before the vows even start.

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll bring Charlie. Or maybe that’ll wait until next time. Either way, this trip feels like more than a holiday — it feels like a little reset, a reminder of who I was before life got so wonderfully complicated.

Can’t wait. Truly.

Jess x