Fifty Posts Deep: Sore Legs, Winter Lights & a Tiny Bit of Ski-Flirting

Fifty posts in, and still going strong—although my thighs are absolutely not after what I can only describe as a religious experience at Frame King's Cross. If you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to lose all use of your lower limbs from an LBT (legs, bums, and torture) class, I highly recommend popping in for the full-body existential crisis. I hobbled around like Bambi on ice for three days straight. It hurt to sit. It hurt to stand. It hurt to laugh. But honestly? Loved every minute. Painful, sweaty, deeply humbling bliss. And slightly masochistic joy, if I’m being honest. Nothing like DOMS to remind you you’re alive, right?

Work has been buzzing too. New clients, new goals, and a few who are really keeping me on my toes—in a good way. The January energy is real, and it feels like everyone’s ready to shake off the cobwebs. There’s something so satisfying about that new-year-start-fresh momentum when it’s actually being channelled into lifting heavier, eating better, and being more present. I’m here for it. Everyone’s got that ‘I mean business’ glint in their eye, and my inbox is starting to resemble a motivational Pinterest board. Slightly chaotic, highly ambitious, mildly triggering. It’s like watching a wave rise and trying to ride it before it crashes—which is exactly the energy I thrive on.

And in amongst it all, I’ve still carved out tiny windows to breathe, to stretch, to people-watch from my favourite cafe with a coffee the size of my head. Because balance, babes. Always.

Courchevel, I’m Coming for You

Booked a ski trip with the girls for February and I cannot explain the level of giddy excitement it’s already giving me. Courchevel, darling—we’re doing it properly. There’s something so satisfying about getting all your thermals sorted, browsing the bougie salopettes, and pretending like I don’t already have a Pinterest board for après-ski chic. (Spoiler: I do. It’s extensive. There are mood boards for lip balm.)

There will be vin chaud. There will be ski goggles. There will, inevitably, be a fall or two that I’ll pretend was deliberate. But mostly? I can’t wait for that crisp mountain air and that unbeatable combination of physical challenge and luxury lounge breaks. The idea of waking up to mountain views, then flinging myself down a slope in the name of leisure, followed by fondue and flirtation? Utter bliss.

I’ve also committed to being that girl in the chalet—face masks packed, candles in her suitcase, playlist prepped. I want spa energy between ski sessions and a little flirty fun at après. Let’s be honest, half of us are just there for the outfits, and I will be putting in effort. Think puffers, furry headbands, and a healthy amount of ‘French girl on holiday’ delusion.

Manifesting: great snow, excellent lighting, and a man with nice cheekbones and low emotional availability to flirt with over a hot toddy. If nothing else, at least I’ll come back with a ski goggle tan and a few stories I probably shouldn’t tell my mum.

The Date That Almost Was (But Really Wasn’t)

Speaking of mild flirtations, I gave another finance guy a go. I know, I know—but in my defence, he suggested the Canary Wharf Winter Lights, which did seem vaguely romantic in a London-corporate-meets-magic kind of way. And to be fair, the lights were gorgeous—if you squinted past the small talk. It had potential. We were bundled up, walking past glowing installations, and he even bought the first round of mulled wine without hesitation.

But then. THEN. He snapped his fingers at a waiter.

I could’ve melted into the floor. No, babe. No. It’s giving ‘I peaked in my internship’ energy. Instant ick. You can have a good job and decent shoes and still be absolutely void of charm. I did that thing where you blink twice to make sure you’ve seen what you think you’ve seen. Yep. Finger snap confirmed. I was mortified on behalf of every woman he's ever spoken to and every waiter he’s ever snapped at.

What started as a softly-lit evening ended in a flurry of second-hand embarrassment and the silent decision to remove his contact info with Olympic-level speed. Safe to say I ghosted with no guilt. We don’t entertain men who treat waitstaff like Alexa. I didn’t even have to pretend I was busy afterwards—I simply vanished like a classy ghost with a moral compass.

Also, side note: can we normalise calling out bad manners instead of politely sipping through them? 2024 is not the year for tolerating finger-snapping behaviour.

Netball Nostalgia & Fan Girl Feels

On the wholesome end of the spectrum, I caught the final of the Netball Nations Cup and absolutely lost it supporting England. They played so well—fast, focused, fierce. I was fan-girling hard from my sofa, in full trackies, living for every pass and pivot. The coordination, the energy, the sheer power—I was hooting like it was the World Cup.

It also reminded me (cringe incoming) of my own brief netball phase in secondary school. I was more ‘strategic floater’ than team MVP, and my coordination had the energy of someone constantly three beats behind. I was the player who always had a fabulous hair ribbon and absolutely no idea where the ball was. But it was still fun—mostly for the camaraderie and the post-game biscuits. Always biscuits.

Now, years later, I feel like I finally understand the power of being in sync with your body. I’m not launching into pivots anymore, but every deadlift, every lunge, every perfectly timed exhale in a workout makes me feel more powerful than that netball bib ever did. Watching the girls play so fiercely genuinely made me want to get back into something team-based again—maybe not netball, but who knows. Dodgeball, anyone?

Book Corner: Heartstrings & Wartime Wreckage

Finally got round to reading All the Light We Cannot See, and oh my god. Absolutely floored me. The writing, the emotion, the devastating quiet moments—it’s all stayed with me. Total tearjerker. If you’ve read it, you’ll know. And if you haven’t—grab tissues.

I sobbed at least four separate times and I’m not even a ‘book crier.’ The characters haunted me in the most beautiful, tragic way, and now I can’t stop thinking about that ending. I'm genuinely still not over it. Now obviously I need to watch the series, even though I know it’s going to wreck me all over again. But sometimes a little emotional destruction is just what we need to feel alive, right?

Also, I’ve started a new rule for 2024: always be reading something. Doesn’t matter if it’s a novel, a memoir, or the back of a cereal box. Keep the brain fed. I’m even flirting with the idea of starting a mini book club—just a few girls, some wine, and stories that make you feel something. Preferably ones that destroy you gently.

Next up on the list: something a bit lighter. Probably something rom-com adjacent with a bright cover and predictable ending. Emotional balance, darling.

So here we are: new clients, sore legs, emotional novels, and a countdown to Courchevel. A very January start to the year, complete with red flags, iced coffee, and a quietly growing sense of momentum. Not dramatic, not chaotic—but deliciously hopeful. The kind of vibe that whispers, “Let’s see what happens.”

I’ve got a gut feeling February’s going to throw a few twists, and I’m weirdly excited for it. For now though? It’s skincare, strength sets, and Googling snow boots like it’s a full-time job.

Sophie x