Silly Season Sparkle ✨

December was a total whirlwind—the kind where your diary looked like a rainbow explosion and your liver quietly begged for mercy. ’Tis the silly season, after all. Every weekend felt double-booked, every weekday blurred into “just one drink after work,” and my sequins-to-pyjamas ratio has never been higher. London in December is the ultimate contradiction: magical and exhausting in equal measure.

Parties, Parties, Parties

Work Christmas do’s are basically a competitive sport here, and this year I went two-for-two. First was a divisional away day at a hotel in Lewes that got very raucous—think endless prosecco, questionable dance moves, and the shocking revelation that half my new colleagues thought I was Australian, not Kiwi. (Unforgivable, but fine, I let them live.) The karaoke machine made an appearance, and yes, I may have butchered a Taylor Swift song, but somehow I still got a standing ovation.

Then came the pièce de résistance: a company-wide masquerade ball at the Savoy. Yes, the Savoy. Finally, I dusted off the Venetian mask my ex once bought me on a European weekend away. Naturally, I lost it after one too many glasses of bubbles, but honestly? No great tragedy. The dress, the hair, the makeup, the glamour of hiding behind a mask—it was all deliciously dramatic, even if it was on a Tuesday night. (Seriously, who schedules corporate Christmas parties midweek? London, explain yourself.) I even had a Carrie Bradshaw-worthy shoe moment, strutting across the marble lobby in stilettos I had absolutely no business wearing for more than two hours. Blisters aside, it was pure magic—the kind of evening that made me feel like I’d slipped into someone else’s glamorous life for a night.

Of course, no December would be complete without too many after-parties. From Soho cocktail bars to spontaneous stop-ins at sketchy late-night clubs in Clapham, I danced more in two weeks than I had all year. My poor hairdryer worked overtime, as did my concealer.

Festive Catch-Ups

The rest of December blurred into a kaleidoscope of catch-ups. A Kiwi Christmas dinner at St Katharine Docks (scheduled early before everyone fled to Europe) felt like a warm hug from home, complete with pavlova, lamingtons, and the usual debate about whether pineapple belongs on pizza. Then there was a night at Tobacco Docks with one of my best friends and her partner—our “halfway” meeting point since they’re based in Essex. Bonus: they brought their dog. DOG. CUDDLES. The serotonin boost was real, and I left that night convinced every pub should allow golden retrievers.

There were also spontaneous mulled-wine stops at Southbank Market, a chilly evening walking down Regent Street under the angel lights, and a brunch in Notting Hill where we spent more time photographing our flat whites than actually drinking them. I leaned heavily on my camel coat, oversized knits, and a bold red lip to survive the social marathons—London winter chic with a side of under-eye concealer. It’s funny how much armour a coat and lipstick can provide when you’re running on four hours’ sleep and instant coffee.

Christmas Day itself? An “Orphans” party with a gaggle of unsupervised Kiwis in London. Absolute carnage. Think endless food, bottomless wine, and me completely bedridden on Boxing Day. Traditions look different now. For the first time, I wasn’t at Hyde Park Winter Wonderland with my ex and his crew, steins in hand, belting out carols in ugly jumpers. Yes, there were tears when that hit me, but I’ve made a pact: next year, I’ll start my own Winter Wonderland tradition—something unapologetically mine.

Post-Holiday Calm

After the chaos, I craved balance. Wandering through the Newport Street Gallery for Dan Colen’s Sweet Liberty exhibition gave me exactly that. London over Christmas is blissfully quiet, and seeing art without elbowing through crowds felt like a small luxury. The works themselves—absurd, cartoonish, unexpected—were the perfect antidote to both my lingering hangover and my restless brain. I lingered over a coffee afterwards, people-watching out the window, finally breathing without glitter stuck to my eyelashes.

Evenings slowed down too. I rediscovered the joy of skincare as ritual: double cleanse, serum, moisturiser, and a glass of wine while my favourite candle burned. Between photo walks along the Thames and evenings curled up editing snaps, I realised how much I value slowing down. The city sparkles in its own quiet way when everyone else has gone home. Even simple rituals—fresh pyjamas, journaling before bed—felt like a small rebellion against the chaos of December.

New Year, Same Me (Sort Of)

And then came New Year’s Eve. We don’t talk about it, but let’s just say: Fu Manchu in Clapham, too much champagne, too many emotions, and more tears than glitter. I started 2018 in joggers, clutching peppermint tea, swearing off prosecco for the tenth time this year. Spoiler: I won’t keep that resolution.

Still, there’s something about January’s clean slate that feels irresistible. My notebook is already dotted with resolutions: take more photos, keep writing, lean into London rather than hiding from it, and buy fewer “emergency” Zara outfits (I can dream). I also want to carve out more space for the little rituals that keep me sane—skincare, coffee walks, photo wanders—because in the end, they matter just as much as the big milestones.

So here’s to waving goodbye to the madness of 2017 and leaning—heels first—into 2018. May it be full of new traditions, better bubbles, sharper wardrobes, healthier rituals, and a little more balance.

Jess x