Sunshine, Peak District Chaos, & Centre Court Dreams.

Right. So clearly I’ve fully abandoned June — sorry Mum, but if London can just skip seasons whenever it feels like it, I can skip a month on the blog. Besides, June and July rolled into one long blur of sweat, SPF negligence, rosé regret, and me pretending I’m holding my life together with more than just dry shampoo and iced lattes.

This is peak London summer: hay fever, parks overflowing with half‑naked strangers, offices at 30% capacity, and everyone behaving like they’re the main character in a BBC Three comedy. Honestly? Iconic.

Peak District Misadventures

June’s big moment was the 42km charity walk in the Peak District for Mind — which sounds wholesome until you remember that my team rocks up to everything like it’s pres drinks.

We arrived with:

• prosecco

• more prosecco

• and one tent that turned out to be… half a tent

  
  

Chris (Essex lad, bless his soul) proudly reveals his "new tent." I ask where the fly is. He looks at me like I’ve just asked him to recite Shakespeare.

“What’s a fly?”

Mate.

So the construction boys MacGyver a rain cover using bin bags and pegs. It looked like a Year 9 science project but honestly? It held up better than Chris.

Once we’d settled, the campsite was low‑budget magic: damp grass, warm wine, someone’s JBL blasting throwback bangers, and that familiar smell of Lynx Africa mingled with shame. With a bottle of vino and two blokes acting as human hot‑water bottles, I actually slept alright.

Bavesh, on the edge, woke up soaked and broken. He spent the entire 42km walk with his back spasming like a dying insect but refused to quit out of pure stubborn pride. Kiwi spirit? No. Group pressure.

By the end we were feral, blistered, soaked — and absolutely buzzing. British countryside does that.

Makes you question your life choices, then hands you a pint.

Wimbledon, Baby

July kicked off strong with my first ever Wimbledon. We queued from 5:30am because apparently that’s the British way: queue at dawn for the privilege of more queueing later.

We turned up with bubbles, SPF, sunglasses, and, in my case, unrealistic expectations about British UV levels. By 6:30am, we were tipsy and sweating.

Wimbledon is basically:

• white outfits

• generational wealth

• overpriced strawberries

• men called Rupert explaining backhand techniques they absolutely do not possess

  
  

I didn’t get Centre Court tickets (next year, manifesting), but I did almost buy a pleated white tennis skirt because everyone looked so hot. I have no business wearing one. I was still tempted.

Naturally I forgot to reapply sunscreen, so I came home with a faint, uneven chest burn and the kind of moisturising routine usually reserved for crocodiles.

We finished the day sprawled on Henman Hill with Pimms, chatting about dating apps and pretending we understood tennis scoring. British summer excellence.

Thames, Football & Collective Meltdown

Work hosted a boat party on the Thames the night England played Croatia in the World Cup. Picture this:

• 28°C heat

• cold rosé

• skyline glittering

• grown men clutching pints like emotional support animals

  
  

England lost 2–1 in extra time and the whole boat just… deflated. I’m not a football girl but even I felt the heartbreak.

We hit a riverside pub afterwards, where some bloke started singing Sweet Caroline, and suddenly the entire pub joined in like we were at a cult meeting. I told them Kiwis know the pain — 2007 is still a wound — and that earned me a few sympathy pints.

Dating: A Case Study in Bad Decisions

And then there’s Sam.

Some days he texts like he wants to wife me. Other days he disappears like he’s been drafted into the Navy.

Dating in London is madness. Everyone has a roster. Ghosting is cardio. Plans require three weeks’ notice and a Gantt chart.

I keep trying to embrace the single in London fantasy — you know, the empowered hot girl doing self‑care and thriving — but honestly? Half the time I’m moisturising at 11pm listening to a podcast about attachment styles and wondering if I should just move to a farm.

I miss Kiwi dating: fewer games, fewer red flags, fewer men who describe themselves as "emotionally unavailable but working on it."

So instead I’m leaning into:

• Sunday facials

• hair masks

• long walks

• pretending everything is fine

  
  

Rosé helps. So does laughing about it all with the girls. My flatmate’s motto this month is romanticise the chaos, and honestly? She’s onto something.

Here’s to August: hotter days, fewer blisters, less emotional whiplash, and maybe — MAYBE — a text back from Sam.

Gem x