The Darling Buds Of May & Slightly Too Much Rosé.

May has been a whirlwind, even if April was fairly low key (although someone did have her birthday… guilty). The kind of month where I felt like I was hopping from one scene straight into another—rosé-stained lipstick still on from the weekend while packing a blazer into my tote for midweek corporate glamour.

Birthday Chaos.

We’ll look back on my birthday with a mix of nostalgia and mild trepidation. It started innocently enough: a long brunch with the girls, plenty of flat whites, avo toast, and chatter about skincare routines and the latest Zara drop. By mid-afternoon, it had spiralled into rosé in the sun, then espresso martinis, and finally—somewhere grimy in Tooting that smelt like spilled beer and bad decisions. At one point, we were swapping lipsticks in the loos and convincing ourselves we looked like Love Island contestants. It was fun, it was messy, it was wild. And let’s just say… I don’t actually remember his name. The London night out operates on a spectrum that starts at chic rooftop bars and ends in questionable dance floors. Mine went full spectrum—and then some, with blistered feet and smeared mascara as souvenirs.

Mayfield Escape.

The month kicked off with the May bank holiday in the countryside—Mayfield, to be exact. It was a trip away with the wider Kiwi crew which, of course, meant my ex was there. Still as awkward as ever. He’s now best mates with one of the main organisers in the group, the guy who corrals us all into weekends away and European trips. Honestly, I sometimes wish my ex would just blend back into his English friendship group, but apparently, fate isn’t that kind. Cue me practising my best “I’m totally fine” smile while reapplying lip gloss.

That aside, Mayfield was perfect: pubs with flower boxes spilling over, long walks through fields, bike rides that left me sore but smug, and sun-drenched barbecues. A visiting mate from NZ took over the grill—lamenting the whole weekend that he couldn’t get a Lion Red in England. The nostalgia was strong. Despite what we hear back home, the English summer can absolutely turn it on. We spent our days exploring quaint places with names like Morridge Slide, Bottomhouse, Lowe Hill, and Basford Green, each more charming than the last. By the time the long weekend was over, I was refreshed, even if the relief of leaving my ex behind again was the bigger win. And yes, I did manage to sunburn my nose even with SPF—classic Kiwi move.

Cinque Terre Dreaming.

The following weekend? Cinque Terre. A pastel dream clinging to the Italian coastline. We started with a night in La Spezia—seafood, spritzes, and cobbled streets glowing under fairy lights—before spending the weekend hiking between the five towns: Vernazza, Corniglia, Volastra, Manarola, and Riomaggiore. Each village was a postcard—washed-out fishing boats, gelato shops, and balconies dripping with bougainvillea. We compared gelato flavours like we were on a judging panel (pistachio always wins, sorry not sorry).

One path was closed for repairs, but we still made it through all five before hopping on a boat to Monterosso al Mare, where we rewarded ourselves with buckets of mojitos and daiquiris at a beach bar. Bliss. The vibe was exactly my kind of holiday: sun, swims, cocktails, and just enough walking to justify it all. Of course, no trip here would be complete without Pisa. Watching tourists contort themselves into increasingly bizarre “holding up the tower” poses was worth the entry fee alone. I resisted doing it… barely. The photos might suggest otherwise after my third Aperol spritz.

Corporate Glam. 

On the work front, I scored an invite to the RICS annual awards night—a full black-tie event. (On a Wednesday. London, why are you like this?) It felt like such a nod of recognition to be asked to attend with the Partners and one of our other rising star PMs, Jen. She’s leading a huge regeneration project in West London and is basically the definition of a rock star in heels. The whole thing felt very Devil Wears Prada goes corporate real estate—me in a borrowed dress, hair in soft curls, trying to look like I belonged. I even squeezed in a last-minute blow-dry at lunch, which was both impractical and the best decision of the week.

Naturally, I balanced out all that corporate polish by hosting a wine tasting night for our team later in the month. It started civilised, ended with us ordering bottles at £90+ a pop, and left me very grateful that two Senior Managers stepped in to pay. (Though, in fairness, they were the ones egging on the sommelier by 9pm.) I’m fairly sure my palate has not improved, but my ability to talk about “notes of oak” with a straight face has.

So, May: messy birthdays, awkward ex encounters, pastel coastlines, corporate gowns, streaky fake tan, and a whole lot of rosé. Honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Jess x