Flat Whites & Fresh Starts: A Kiwi Girl in London.

Gemma Medforth
Sep 10, 2017
3 min read

Updated: Nov 14

So… here we are.

After a break-up so messy it could qualify as a natural disaster, I’ve somehow decided starting a blog is the next logical step. Could be therapeutic, could be delusional — but here we are anyway. Mum said it might “help me process things,” which is exactly the kind of vague advice she gives right before dropping a bombshell like “you should freeze your eggs.” But fine, Mum. I’m writing.

And, look, I may as well admit the obvious: in a moment of heartbreak-induced rage, I deleted my entire social media life. All of it. Years of posts, memories, hot-girl selfies, questionable outfits, brunch pics, deleted with the kind of commitment I’ve never shown at the gym. It was dramatic — but so was the break-up.

So now I’ve got a blank slate. A clean start. A digital do-over.

Weirdly, it feels… good. Writing is more honest than pretending I’m living my Best London Life™ on Instagram anyway. No filters, no pretending I haven’t cried on the Tube recently, just me — a Kiwi girl with a cracked heart, a decent sense of humour, and a flat white within arm’s reach.

A Bit About Me

I’m Gemma. Twenty-seven. Kiwi to the core — which means sunshine, beaches, and coffee that actually tastes like coffee. I grew up in Auckland with Mum, Dad, and two sisters who absolutely still treat me like the middle child stereotype. My natural habitat is barefoot on a deck somewhere with a wine, not fighting strangers for a seat on the Central Line.

Back home, if a café has a queue longer than five minutes, you simply… leave. Londoners? You people queue like you’re lining up for the gates of heaven. For eggs. For coffee. For brunch that costs half your rent. It frightens me.

I genuinely thought I’d never leave NZ. Why would I? The place is stupidly beautiful. Golden beaches, summers that feel like bliss, weekends at the Coromandel, Waiheke trips with nothing but a chilly bin, a baguette, and some sauv blanc. Simpler times. Better tans.

But then life happened. In 2013, I met a British guy in Auckland — charming, funny, decent jawline. The kind of guy you accidentally plan a future with after three dates and a shared bowl of fries. Two years later, we moved to London. Big leap. Huge mistake? Debatable.

At first it was dreamy — a proper summer, the All Blacks winning the World Cup, new friends, new life. Except, over time, the Instagram version of our relationship and the actual relationship started looking like two very different TV shows. One was a rom-com. The other was a slow-motion car crash.

Eventually, we broke up. Loudly.

The Fallout

The break-up was bad. The aftermath was worse. Rent is horrifying when you suddenly don’t have someone to split it with. Losing him was one thing; realising half our mutual Kiwi friend group had quietly picked sides was an unexpected plot twist.

And if you ever book a Croatia sailing trip with your ex and a friend group that doesn’t know how to make eye contact anymore — CANCEL. IT. BABE.

Because otherwise:

You’ll be stuck on a boat pretending you’re fine.
You’ll cry in the tiny bathroom (been there).
You’ll drink too much wine (also been there).
You’ll question your entire existence somewhere between Hvar and Korčula.

BUT — you won’t stay broken.

The sun still rises. The water is stupidly turquoise. Random strangers at beach bars think you’re hilarious. You’ll laugh again, even if it’s through a hangover. You’ll remember the version of yourself that existed before the relationship — and she’s actually pretty mint.

Back home, healing looks like beach walks and fish ’n chips. Here in London, healing looks like crying into a £4.80 flat white at Monmouth and then panic-buying skincare at Liberty like you’re trying to fix your soul through serums. Both work, honestly.

Little Luxuries

This is where I found the tiny things that stitched me back together.

Buying a new hydration serum at Boots (even though the price made me genuinely sick). Chuck on a camel coat and suddenly you’re That Girl strutting down Regent Street. Finding a Kiwi-style café in Shoreditch that doesn’t burn the milk? Practically a spiritual awakening.

Fashion-wise, I went from jandals and frizzy beach hair to layering like I live inside a snow globe. London winter? Rude.

Evenings are different too. Auckland: BBQ on the deck, someone burns the sausages, everyone pretends not to notice. London: pub pints, mascara smudged from rain, shouting conversations over music you don’t actually like. Both have their charm.