The Darling Buds Of May & Slightly Too Much Rosé.

May came in swinging like it had something to prove — chaotic, sun-drunk, and absolutely not interested in letting me rest. April was quiet-ish (minus my birthday, which we’ll get to), but May? May felt like I was being yeeted between scenes like a character in a low-budget Kiwi soap (no shade, Shortie Street!).

Rosé stains on my lips, blazer shoved into my tote next to a half-eaten croissant, hair doing its own thing — the usual Gemma aesthetic.

Birthday Chaos

My birthday will absolutely go down in history as a perfect blend of glamour, delusion, and outright filth. It started innocently: brunch with the girls, flat whites stacked on the table, avo toast, sunscreen being passed around because half of us are melanomas waiting to happen.

Cut to three hours later and we’re knocking back rosé like we’re on commission.

Cut to five hours later and someone is ordering espresso martinis we did not need.

Cut to midnight and we’re in a sticky-floored Tooting bar that smells exactly like broken dreams, spilled beer, and Lynx Africa.

At one point we were all swapping lipsticks in the loos, convinced we looked like Love Island bombshells. We did not. But the confidence? Unmatched.

And yes… I went home with someone whose name I could not, for the life of me, tell you now. I think it started with a J? Or maybe it was Dan? Whatever — it’s London. The roster refreshes itself.

Feet blistered, mascara halfway down my face, kebab in hand — elite birthday.

Mayfield Escape

The month kicked off with the May bank holiday in the English countryside — Mayfield. Gorgeous. Quaint. Idyllic. Except for the fact that my ex was there.

He’s somehow wormed his way into the inner-circle of the dude who organises every Kiwi weekend away, so I can’t escape him. Honestly? I sometimes wish he’d just… toddle back to his English mates. But fate loves to bully me.

So I spent the weekend reapplying lip gloss and perfecting my “totally unbothered queen” smile.

Awkward ex aside, the countryside was chef’s kiss. Flower boxes spilling over pub windows, long rambles through fields, bike rides that nearly killed me, endless BBQs. A visiting Kiwi mate took over the grill and spent four days moaning that he couldn’t get Lion Red in England. Love him.

We explored places with names like Morridge Slide, Bottomhouse, Lowe Hill, and Basford Green — all sounding like characters from a children’s book but absolutely charming.

I left sunburnt (SPF means nothing to me apparently), slightly hungover, and weirdly proud of myself for not pushing my ex into a hedge.

Cinque Terre Dreaming

The following weekend? Cinque Terre.

A literal pastel fever dream.

We started with a night in La Spezia — seafood, spritzes, cobbled streets, the whole European-summer starter pack — then spent the weekend hiking between the five towns.

Vernazza, Corniglia, Volastra, Manarola, Riomaggiore.

Each one looked like Pinterest had a baby with an Italian postcard.

Gelato everywhere. Bougainvillea on every balcony. Old men yelling happily at each other across the street. Me taking photos like my life depended on it.

One of the trails was closed but we powered through them all anyway, then hopped on a boat to Monterosso al Mare to reward ourselves with buckets of mojitos.

Yes, buckets.

Pisa on the last day was pure comedy — grown adults twisting their limbs like contortionists to get the perfect leaning-tower shot. I judged them… until my third Aperol spritz. The photos will never see daylight.

Corporate Glam

Work decided to switch up the vibe by inviting me to the RICS annual awards — full black-tie, midweek, peak London chaos.

I rolled in wearing a borrowed gown, hair freshly blow-dried into soft curls that made me look far more put-together than I actually am.

Jen — the other PM invited, total goddess, absolute powerhouse — floated in like she lives on a red carpet. I followed behind like a Kiwi girl who somehow blagged her way into the Oscars.

But honestly? Felt good. Felt legit. Like maybe I am meant to be here.

Then, to balance out all that corporate polish, I hosted a team wine-tasting night later in the month. It started civilised. It ended with us ordering bottles over £90 because the sommelier told us a story about "subtle oak undertones" and two Senior Managers started showing off.

Bless them for footing the bill.

Did my palate improve? No.

Did my confidence in swirling a glass dramatically? Immense.

So, May: chaotic birthdays, countryside awkwardness, Italian coastal fantasies, corporate gowns, questionable tan lines, and enough rosé to pickle a small horse.

Would I change a thing? Absolutely not.

Gem x