Silly Season Survival.

December was an absolute whirlwind — the kind where your diary looks like a rainbow threw up and your liver quietly files for annual leave. ’Tis the silly season, after all. Every weekend felt double-booked, every weekday ended with “just one drink,” and my sequins-to-pyjamas ratio has never been more cooked.

London in December is magic and mayhem mashed together — twinkly lights, freezing wind, festive cheer, and the constant hum of am I having fun or am I just exhausted?

Parties, Parties, Parties

Work Christmas do’s are a competitive sport here, and somehow I got roped into two.

Christmas Do #1: A divisional away day at a hotel in Lewes that escalated fast. Endless prosecco, very questionable dance moves, and the shocking discovery that half my colleagues thought I was Australian. (Honestly offensive, but I let them live.)

There was karaoke — of course — and I butchered Taylor Swift so badly the speakers nearly tapped out. Still got a standing ovation though. Work events are unhinged like that.

Christmas Do #2: A full-company masquerade ball at the actual Savoy.

Me. At the Savoy. On a Tuesday. Who is she?

I dusted off the Venetian mask my ex bought me on some European city break (honestly, should’ve left him behind, but sure, the mask survived). I immediately lost it after too many glasses of bubbles, but whatever — dramatic entrances are more important than exits.

I had a full Carrie Bradshaw moment strutting across the marble floors in stilettos I had no business wearing. My feet hated me. My soul was thriving. It felt like slipping into someone else’s glamorous life for one night — and I didn’t question it.

Naturally, December didn’t stop there. Every second night was another after-party — Soho bars, questionable clubs in Clapham, spontaneous “shall we dance?” moments. My hairdryer nearly burnt out. My concealer worked overtime. My immune system was whispering “please calm down.”

Festive Catch-Ups

The rest of December blurred into a kaleidoscope of catch-ups.

There was a Kiwi Christmas dinner at St Katharine Docks — pavlova, lamingtons, and that eternal debate about pineapple on pizza. Felt like home in a very London way.

Then a night at Tobacco Docks with one of my best friends and her partner, our unofficial halfway point since they’re based in Essex. They brought their dog — DOG — and honestly that was the serotonin hit I didn’t know I needed. I left convinced every pub should have a golden retriever on staff.

There were mulled wine stops at Southbank, a walk down Regent Street under the angel lights, and a brunch in Notting Hill where we spent more time photographing our flat whites than drinking them. London winter chic became my armour — camel coat, bold red lip, oversized knit to hide the fatigue. Concealer did the Lord’s work.

Christmas Day? A full “Orphans Christmas” with a pack of unsupervised Kiwis in London. Absolute carnage. Food, wine, chaos. Boxing Day: I did not move.

It hit me hard, not being with my ex’s crew at Winter Wonderland like every year before. There were tears — real ones. But I made myself a promise: next year, Winter Wonderland is mine. My own tradition. No ghosts attached.

The Date

Alright, let’s cut to the chase. The Swedish guy. Yes — that one.

Honestly? It went ridiculously well.

I’d been noticing Sam around the office — tall, blonde, fit, always in a crisp white shirt chatting to Directors like he owned the place. Very polished. Very green flags. And somehow… he matched with me.

We messaged for two weeks before deciding on drinks at Unwined in Tooting Market (his idea — another green flag). It’s a cosy, zero-pretence wine bar with staff who actually know what they’re talking about. I was already impressed.

Then came my tiny texting disaster:

Me: “I’m really looking forward to this 🙂 Love Unwined, good choice.” Playing it cool. 

Sam: “Me too. Will be fun.” Cooler. 

Me: “And if it doesn’t work out, at least we can share a few drinks and have a bitch about work! x”

And then… silence. Thirty minutes of silence. From a man who normally replies in two.

I spiralled spectacularly.

Eventually:

Sam: “Why would we talk about work?”

Cue internal meltdown. Do I sound like a workaholic? Is he allergic to office chat? Am I being a nerd? What IS appropriate date conversation?

Me: “Because we work together? I’m in Mike’s team.” 

Sam: “Really!? I’ve never seen you round the office.”

Charming. Here I was thinking the fit guy had been quietly pining over me. Turns out he’d barely clocked my existence.

Except he had. He was just being cheeky.

Between my Essex trips and his meetings, we’d only crossed paths here and there. He admitted it on the date — with that smug, playful grin that should be illegal.

The date itself? Magic.

We talked for hours. Went pub-hopping. He walked me home. The kiss was… well. The kind that hits your whole spine. Gentle, careful, warm — none of the pushy London nonsense. When he said he should get home, he actually meant it.

No games. No pressure. Just… lovely.

And yes, the tingling kept me awake for hours.

Post-Holiday Calm

After all the chaos, I was desperate for stillness. So I wandered the Newport Street Gallery the day after Boxing Day for Dan Colen’s Sweet Liberty. London was blissfully quiet — no crowds, no queues, no noise — and it felt like breathing again.

His work was weird, colourful, slightly ridiculous, and exactly what my overstimulated brain needed. I lingered over a coffee afterwards, watching the city slow down, finally letting myself pause.

Evenings became softer too — double cleanse, serum, moisturiser, glass of wine, candle lit. A little ritual I didn’t know I needed. Photo walks along the Thames, editing snaps in bed, trying to reclaim some peace after the glitter-storm of December.

New Year, Same Me (Sort Of)

New Year’s Eve… yeah. We don’t talk about it in detail. Let’s just say: Fu Manchu, champagne, emotions, tears, mascara carnage.

I woke up in joggers with peppermint tea and a deep, personal vendetta against prosecco.

Still — January always feels like a fresh start, and I’m leaning into it. My notebook’s full of resolutions already: take more photos, keep writing, stop hiding from the city, and maybe buy fewer “emergency” Zara outfits. Maybe.

Mostly, I want to keep carving out little pockets of calm — skincare, coffee walks, photo wanders — because those tiny moments matter just as much as the big ones.

So here’s to saying goodbye to the emotional rollercoaster that was 2017 and stepping — heels first — into 2018.

May it be full of better bubbles, better boundaries, fewer blisters, and a little more balance.

Gem x