Paris, Projects & Peace at Last.

Gemma Medforth
Dec 3, 2019
4 min read

Alright babe — December was an epic mix of chaos, wins, dramas, near-breakdowns, career flexes, travel moments, and the small tiny detail of me moving house after World War Ben. It’s giving big-year-finale energy, and honestly? I survived it with a surprising amount of gloss.

Let’s dive in.

Rugby: The Emotional Damage Edition.

Let’s start with the heartbreak: the World Cup.

One weekend I’m in an Angel pub surrounded by Kiwis, screaming with joy as the boys absolutely levelled Ireland — I swear that pub had the structural integrity of wet cardboard, the way we were jumping.

The next weekend? England handed us our own asses.

And look — I’d spent all week at work giving my English colleagues shit. Light shit, cheeky shit, fun shit. But still shit.

And then THAT performance happened.

I’ve never seen the All Blacks so completely outplayed. Ardie normally turns into some kind of mythological creature when the game gets tough, but even he couldn’t save it.

After the match I linked up with mates in Kensington, all of us sitting there like someone had announced a national shortage of Sauvignon Blanc. Grim.

But I will say — English fans? Surprisingly classy. Barely rubbed it in. Which almost made it worse, somehow.

The Final Showdown with Ben.

If my year had a villain, it was Ben.

Finding the Tulse Hill flat felt like divine intervention. Ground floor, cute as anything, short walk to Brockwell Park, and my new South African flatmate Fiona? Instantly obsessed with her. She works in finance for a massive US developer and does pottery. POTTERY. I’ve already decided it’s my next era.

I went back to Brixton to deliver the good news to Ben — a moment I’d been fantasising about since the day he first stomped around like a drunk elephant.

I checked my lease twice: the landlord has to give him notice, but I don’t have to give anything. Perfect.

I emailed the landlord, explained I didn’t feel safe, and he was an absolute angel — apologised for Ben, supported my decision, even offered to help me move.

Ben did NOT take it well.

The next morning he cornered me in the hallway before work, raging about how I “couldn’t just move out” and how I’d need to give him three months to find another tenant because he “couldn’t afford the rent.”

Sir, that is not my problem.

I calmly told him the landlord had already accepted my notice and that he needed to discuss the rest with him.

Cue meltdown.

He snapped. Loudly. Aggressively. Repeatedly calling me a “fucking bitch” like he was doing a dramatic reading of his own red flags.

I avoided him for the rest of the week — breakfasts at work, dinners with friends, sneaking home like I lived in a spy thriller.

Then Saturday morning came.

I opened my bedroom door with my suitcase ready… and BAM. Walked straight into Ben and the landlord. In the hallway. Together.

The landlord immediately dragged Ben out of the flat (bless him), apologised again, and kept watch so I could pack in peace.

I swear that move-out day aged me five years.

Dropped the keys in the mailbox and made a silent vow never to set foot in Brixton again.

New Job, New People, New Me (Kind Of).

Honestly? Work became my emotional support animal.

My induction weeks were chaos in a good way — diving straight into strategies for marketing suites and multi-block basements, sweating through a heatwave, and learning the client-side mindset, which is basically:

every penny matters,
don’t waste time,
consultants get zero free passes.

Refreshing.

Then I got invited on my first official “jolly” — to Helsinki.

We stayed in a converted 5-star PRISON. Which sounds grim but was actually chic as hell. Thick walls, dramatic lighting, Scandi everything.

The vertical transport supplier took us to their MASSIVE manufacturing campus an hour outside the city — full robots, testing shafts in old limestone mines, the works.

Did I know lift speeds have limits because the human body literally can’t cope beyond a certain velocity? No. Do I now bring it up constantly to seem smart? Yes.

Paris: Solo & Stunning, With Minor Flooding.

Now THIS was the December reset I needed.

I took the Eurostar out after work on a Friday — landed in Paris to a cold, crisp evening that felt like stepping into a perfume commercial.

Montmartre was magic. The Sacré-Cœur lit up like a film set.

Then I returned to my hotel and immediately flooded the bathroom.

Turns out their shower trays are roughly the size of a baking sheet.

I spent 90 minutes blow-drying the carpet like a deranged Airbnb host.

Saturday I hit the Louvre — SIX HOURS and I still barely covered a third. I got the audio guide because I’m a nerd like that now.

Rushed to the Musée d’Orsay after (equally iconic), then spent Sunday morning drinking café lattes in a Montmartre square watching Parisians be effortlessly chic.

I get it now. The hype. The romance. The way Paris makes you feel like your life should have a soundtrack.

I’m 100% going back — ideally with a man who owns more than one set of sheets.

Google Kings Cross: The Groundscraper Tour.

Finished the month with a tour of the Google project in King’s Cross — and babes, it’s insane.

CLT floors, seven lift cores, views that stretch the entire length of the building, which is basically the length of Europe.

It’s a monster. A beautiful, complicated, ridiculous monster.

My inner construction geek was FEASTING.

Blonde Again, Baby ✨💛

Also — important end of post plot twist — I’ve officially abandoned my moody brunette era. Enough was enough. The dark hair felt powerful at the time, but lately? Too heavy. Too serious. Too "girl going through it" coded.

So I booked in with my colourist, surrendered myself to the foils, and walked out blonde again — bright, soft, warm, fresh. The kind of blonde that makes London feel a little less grey and makes me feel like myself again. Fiona literally screamed when I walked through the door.

It’s amazing what hair can do.