That week.

There are some trips you enjoy, and then the

re are trips that feel almost impossible to fully absorb while they’re happening.

London was the latter.

The preparation started weeks before I even arrived. First there was the invitation. THE invitation. Then there were outfit discussions, emergency online orders, “I definitely need a hat” moments, and the sudden realisation that apparently one nice dress was not going to cut the schedule. My hairdresser refreshed my colour before I left, pinned and styled my hair ready for the first event, and suddenly my calendar looked less “normal person having a few days away” and more “minor celebrity on a press tour.” Honestly, the schedule alone was exhausting.

And then the events began.

The first evening was all glamour, glitter and complete sensory overload. Awards, performances, celebrities everywhere you turned. George Clooney. Benedict Cumberbatch. Idris Elba. Anne-Marie. Craig David. Ronnie Wood. Rod Stewart. And of course, The King and Queen themselves. We were seated in a box directly opposite the Royal Box and at several points I genuinely felt like someone had accidentally let me in through the wrong door.

Imposter syndrome? Thriving.

It was one of those experiences where your brain almost can’t process things quickly enough. I remember thinking, “I need a pause button.” Just five minutes to digest what was happening before pressing play again.

So the next day, I slowed everything down.

I wandered through London’s quieter corners - brunch in pretty little villages tucked into the city, browsing beautiful bookshops, people-watching from benches on little greens, admiring the famous London front doors with their black-and-white tiled steps like they were works of art. After all the intensity and sparkle, those moments grounded me again. They reminded me that excitement lands better when you leave enough space to actually feel it.

There was also a brief venture into a very exclusive members-only club which, if I’m honest, turned out to be deeply underwhelming. The interiors felt tired, the “superfood salad” was not at all super, and the whole thing had the atmosphere of a slightly neglected boarding school common room. Not that I’ve ever attended boarding school, but it felt exactly how I imagine one, full oil paintings and the hushed tones of people who felt they needed to be there to be getting rhe best from life. Proof, perhaps, that exclusivity and quality are not always the same thing.

Another evening brought another theatre trip - this time Moulin Rouge. We had upgraded tickets for access to a separate entrance and private bar area and honestly, avoiding the crowds alone made it worth every penny. The production itself was breathtaking. Every single person on that stage performed like they were born for it. It was extravagant, emotional, chaotic and polished all at once.

And then came the biggest day of all.

Months earlier, a personal.invitation had arrived for a Buckingham Palace King's Garden Party. Even typing those words still feels surreal.

The morning was military-level organised: plenty of time to get ready, a blow dry booked locally, outfit steamed and every part of it laid out. Calm. Controlled. Elegant.

Or at least that was the plan.

As my Uber pulled up outside the Palace gates, I was met by crowds who had gathered hoping to catch a glimpse of royalty or celebrities, I stepped out of the car… and my shoe immediately flew off my foot and rolled away across the pavement. As I bent down to retrieve it, my bag tipped upside down and emptied itself.

So that was my grand Buckingham Palace arrival.

Not regal. But memorable.

After showing invitations and ID, we were guided through security and into the palace gardens - immaculate lawns, enormous marquees, brass bands playing across the grounds. It was all impossibly beautiful. People chatted, took photos for one another and attempted to glide elegantly across the grass in unsuitable footwear. During one photo attempt, someone suggested I twirl. My heel sank directly into the lawn mid-spin and I very nearly collapsed in front of strangers and several expensive fascinators.

A near miss.

After tea and delicious finger sandwiches and cakes that were works of art, everyone gathered near the Palace steps as Beefeaters formed their lines and cameras circled overhead. Familiar faces from the previous event appeared, including Ant & Dec, who stood just along from where I was. Then the National Anthem began and The King arrived.

As he moved along the line greeting guests, I found myself suddenly watching him from only inches away. And oddly, what struck me most wasn’t the grandeur of the moment but his warmth. He was charming, attentive and surprisingly softly spoken. Also - and these felt like important observations at the time  - very small, wearing an extraordinarily long tailored coat, and definitely wearing more makeup than I expected. I remember laughing internally at the absurdity of it all. My second Royal event in a week. What on earth was I doing here?

And then came my personal highlight.

I somehow ended up directly beside Dec.

Now, when I say I love Ant & Dec, I mean lifelong fan levels of commitment. Saturday night television royalty. National treasures. Podcast listener. The lot.

So I took a breath and said, “Dec, I’m such a huge fan. Could I possibly get a photo?”

“Of course,” he replied warmly, leaning straight in for the selfie.

Click.

Then, without fully thinking, I added:

“Eight bananas on the day hey!”

For anyone unfamiliar, this was a reference from their podcast.

Dec burst out laughing.

Actual genuine laughter.

And somehow, in all the glamour and grandeur of Buckingham Palace, that became one of my favourite moments of the entire trip. I’d managed to make Dec laugh at a royal garden party and honestly, I’m not sure where life goes from there.

I immediately sent the photo home with the message:

“It’s happened. I can die now.”

There were more surreal little moments throughout the afternoon - spotting Damian Lewis and Sam Ryder, a brief moment with Fleur East, and accidentally dropping my phone at the feet of Gaby Roslin’s husband while trying to order an Uber. At this point, throwing possessions across central London had become something of a theme for me.

The evening and the theme continued at The Dorchester, where unfortunately my shoe once again launched itself off my foot while exiting the car, this time landing directly in front of the doorman welcoming me inside. As I attempted to recover both the shoe and my dignity, my phone flew onto the floor yet again, leaving me crouched in the foyet balancing one stockinged foot, a handbag, umbrella and loose footwear while trying to appear sophisticated.

Had I not been dressed for the occasion, they may well have assumed I was drunk!

Inside though, everything softened.

I sat alone for a moment, listening to a pianist play dance songs in classical form while sipping a glass of beautiful champagne. And for the first time all day, I stopped.

I replayed everything in my head from the week - the performances, the people, the grandeur and excitement, the sheer improbability of it all - and suddenly I felt emotional.

How did I get here?

But perhaps the better question was:

Why was I so reluctant to believe I deserved to be there?

Because the truth is, none of it was accidental. Every invitation had been earned. Every room I entered, I’d been welcomed into properly. Yet imposter syndrome has a way of whispering that everyone else belongs more than you do.

What I realised by the end of the trip was this:

You do not suddenly become worthy when your surroundings become grander.

Whether you’re sitting at Buckingham Palace, wandering through London looking at front doors, or back home with your own people, your worth remains the same.

And strangely, that was the most grounding part of all.

By the final morning, the whole trip felt a little like Cinderella after the ball. The glamour was over, the dresses packed away, reality returning. But instead of sadness, I felt peaceful.

I got to come home to my beautiful house, to Bert & Ernie, to my family, friends and clients. To a life I genuinely love.

And maybe that’s the real luxury.

Not losing yourself in extraordinary moments - but being able to fully enjoy them, while still feeling grateful to return 'home' afterwards.