Paris, Projects & Peace at Last.

So, lots going on to close out my year — and as usual, it’s been a rollercoaster. The kind of months where you’re grateful for caffeine, concealer, and your closest girlfriends. There’s been the highs and huge lows of the Rugby World Cup, a couple of cheeky European trips, moving chaos (again), and finally — a bit of calm. Well, as calm as life in London ever gets.

Rugby Heartbreak & Pub Therapy.

Let’s start with the rugby. After watching our boys trounce the Irish with absolute glee at a pub with my Kiwi crew in Angel, it all came crashing down the following week. England. Semi-final. Disaster. I’d spent the week gently ribbing all my English colleagues at work — memes, banter, the whole thing — and it absolutely backfired on me.

Still, credit where it’s due: the English are surprisingly gracious winners. The atmosphere in the pub was more “sympathetic pint” than “rubbing it in,” which honestly impressed me. I’ve never seen the All Blacks so comprehensively outplayed. Even our Ardie — normally superman when the game gets tough — couldn’t save us that day. We ended up in Kensington afterwards for commiseration drinks, all of us still in black jerseys, looking like a funeral procession. It stung, but we laughed it off the only way Kiwis know how — pints, hugs, and promises that we’ll be back stronger next time.

The Final Flat Drama.

Then came the flat saga. One final showdown with Ben before I could officially close that chapter. I found the loveliest little ground-floor flat in Tulse Hill with a South African girl named Fiona. She’s brilliant — works in finance for a big American developer, loves pottery, and makes the best banana bread I’ve ever tasted. We bonded instantly over shared trauma from men named Ben and a mutual obsession with ceramic mugs. The flat’s a short walk from Brockwell Park, which is a dream on sunny days. Think dogs everywhere, yoga mats, and couples sunbathing in deckchairs. Peak South London bliss.

Telling Ben I was moving out was, predictably, a disaster. Despite my lease being totally flexible, he went full drama queen. I tried to keep it professional, informed him I’d already spoken with the landlord, and was moving the following week. He called me every name under the sun (favourite of the month: “bitch”), slammed a few doors, and stomped out. I spent that week avoiding him entirely — dinners out, late nights at the office, the full stealth exit routine.

By Saturday, I was packed and ready. I opened my door that morning only to find Ben and the landlord standing in the hallway. My heart dropped. But honestly, the landlord was amazing — calm, apologetic, and quick to escort Ben out before things could escalate. Within an hour, I was gone — keys dropped, zipcar packed, freedom reclaimed. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so light driving to my new home.

Work, Wins & a Whirlwind to Helsinki.

Once I’d moved and could finally breathe again, I threw myself into work. The new role’s been a revelation. My first major task? Overseeing delivery strategies for marketing suites and basement coordination for a new residential block — proper project management kind of stuff. It’s been intense, but the exposure is incredible. My new client-side colleagues are razor-sharp, with a totally different mindset to consultancy life — more ownership, more accountability, and absolutely no patience for waffle. I weirdly love it.

In August, I even got whisked off on a work trip to Helsinki to visit a vertical transport supplier’s factory. We stayed in a five-star converted prison (yes, really) — thick stone walls, tiny windows, and the kind of moody Nordic lighting that makes everything feel cinematic. The next day, we toured their manufacturing campus an hour outside the city. Picture robots, engineers in pristine overalls, and a 200-metre testing shaft in an old limestone mine. It was surreal — the kind of geeky thrill only a property nerd could love. And the best part? The sauna session afterwards with the Finnish engineers, who insisted it was “non-negotiable cultural bonding.” Say no more.

Paris in November — A Love Letter to Myself.

Fast forward to November, and I finally ticked off something I’ve been dreaming about for years — a solo weekend in Paris. I booked a last-minute Eurostar ticket on a whim, packed my best trench coat, and arrived at Gare du Nord on a crisp Friday evening. The air smelled like croissants and possibility. My little hotel in Montmartre was impossibly chic but absolutely tiny — I managed to flood the bathroom on night one after washing my hair in a shower roughly the size of a shoebox. I spent the next ninety minutes blow-drying the carpet and laughing at my own chaos.

Saturday was perfection. I wandered through Montmartre with coffee in hand, spent hours at the Louvre with an audio guide (pro tip: get one — life-changing), and cried a little in front of Winged Victory of Samothrace (complete lies, but still). From there, I dashed across the Seine to Musée d’Orsay, which completely stole my heart — the Impressionist paintings, the architecture, the light. I even managed a solo dinner at a tiny bistro where the waiter insisted I try the house wine “because you look like you’d appreciate it.” He wasn’t wrong.

Sunday morning, I sat in a little square, sipping café crème, people-watching, and journaling. It was one of those still moments where you realise you’ve built a life that feels entirely your own. I’ll go back someday — hopefully with someone I love — but for now, it was exactly what I needed: a quiet reminder that I’m doing okay.

The Google Groundscraper & a Year of Growth.

One of my final highlights of the year came this week — a site tour of the new Google headquarters in King’s Cross. It’s a beast of a building: multiple lift cores, cross-laminated timber floors, and a footprint so incredibly long but one you’ll be able to see straight through from end-to-end it once it’s done. Standing on site, hard hat and all, I felt that rare rush — that mix of awe and pride that reminds you why you do what you do.

So yes — 2019, you’ve been wild. The heartbreaks, the flat dramas, the flights, the career wins — all of it. I’m tired, but I’m proud. This little blog has become my way of remembering it all — the chaos, the calm, and the growth in between.

Here’s to more lessons, more stamps in the passport, and absolutely fewer Bens.

Jess x