Promotions, Positano & Proper Grown-Up Things.

Gemma Medforth
Sep 30, 2018
3 min read

Updated: Nov 19, 2025

Right. Let’s get one thing straight: if anyone asks why my blog posts are suddenly operating on a “whenever Gemma remembers she has a blog” schedule, tell them to mind their business. I’m a working woman with a social calendar, a skincare routine, and a problematic attachment to last‑minute flights. Consistency is for Pilates instructors and people with joint savings accounts.

Anyway — September. Strap in.

Work Chaos.

Work has been feral. My inbox is giving me hives, my Teams notifications are basically trauma bonding at this point, and yet — somehow — your girl has been promoted.

PROJECT. MANAGER. BABY.

Not Assistant. Not “supporting role.” Full PM. Big‑girl boots. Clipboard authority. High-vis realness.

Honestly? I could’ve screamed. I have worked my absolute Kiwi arse off for this — fighting imposter syndrome, overthinking every email, pretending I understand contract clauses while actually Googling them at my desk. And because I took that weird detour into recruitment (don’t ask, I was lost), I’ve always felt a couple of steps behind everyone else.

London doesn’t help — everyone here owns three flats by age 28 and acts like it’s normal. Meanwhile I’m in Pret deciding whether I’m allowed to buy two snacks.

So yes. This win? Massive.

And the cherry on the cake? I’ve landed a project in Kensington. A very boujee basement‑plus‑everything build for a Singaporean client who only responds to emails at 3am. The site has a FOUR‑storey basement — the propping looks like the set of a sci‑fi film. The architects are all gorgeous, intimidating, Brixton‑based creatives who look like they moisturise with crushed pearls. I walk in wearing my Zara blazer and feel like an extra.

My Essex project is wrapping up too (contractor hit practical completion — thank the construction gods), and the grad shadowing me is actually a little gem. He keeps calling everything “mad” in that enthusiastic British-boy way, and I’ve decided it’s adorable.

Gemma? Thriving.

Amalfi: Chaos, Lemons & Questionable Decisions.

August dragged me to the Amalfi Coast and honestly? It was giving Kiwi girl in a Dulux colour chart. Sorrento and Positano were ridiculous — gold light, lemon trees, rich Europeans who look like they haven’t sweated since 1998.

We hiked the Path of the Gods and let me tell you: I have never perspired like that in my life. Sweat in places that should not sweat. The views were worth it — cliffs, blue water, the whole travel‑influencer starter pack.

Pro tip from your unhinged guide: taxi up to Bomerano and walk DOWN, unless your goal is to tear your quads clean off the bone.

We finished at Arienzo Beach Club which is… heaven. Aperols. Sun. Rich people pretending they’re not watching each other. At some point, the boys convinced a barman to ferry us back to Positano on his boat. Typical.

I spent the ride home barefoot, salty, tipsy, and extremely pleased with myself.

Gelato for dinner. No regrets.

Rugby, Netball & Trying to Be a Functioning Adult.

Back in London, I’m weirdly on a health kick. I’ve been playing mixed touch rugby on Wandsworth Common, which mostly involves me yelling "BACKING!" like I'm on the Olympics team. My passing is mid. My enthusiasm? Off the charts.

Netball with the work girls has also started up — a beautiful balance of fitness, competitiveness, and passive aggression. Nothing bonds women like a badly umpired match.

I’ve also been trying to keep tiny routines going:

Sunday skincare resets
Meal‑prepping like I’m auditioning for MasterChef
Long walks that accidentally turn into therapy sessions with myself

London is chaos, but the little rhythms help.

Dating: A Marathon of Mild Disappointment.

Oh babe… the situation continues.

Sam is still being… Sam. Half romance, half ghost. One minute he’s messaging about taking me to a rooftop bar, the next he’s vanishing like he’s been kidnapped by LinkedIn.

At this point, I don’t know if he wants to date me or haunt me.

In true Gemma fashion, instead of making rational decisions, I’ve added two new roster members:

Cycling Guy (owns too much lycra, but has great arms)
Banking Guy (chaotic, beige apartment, probably needs therapy)

Have I gone on any actual dates? No. Did I flirt aggressively at the pub after All Blacks vs. South Africa? Yes.

London dating is just a carousel of men with commitment issues and girls pretending they’re unbothered.

One Friday, we ended up at a bar in Battersea where the floor was sticky enough to classify as an adhesive. A man approached me wearing boat shoes and confidence he absolutely did not earn.

He opened with: “You look like trouble.”

Sir, I am. But don’t say it like it’s a compliment.

I let him buy me a drink anyway because feminism is complex.