If Part 1 was about getting my life back… Part 2 is about the moment life looked at me and said, “Cute. Now watch this.” Because this was supposed to be the bit where I carried on losing weight. Another few pounds. A few smaller clothes. A couple more ridiculous weigh-ins involving comparisons to farm animals and kitchen appliances. Instead… my body decided to release what I can only describe as the Director’s Cut. It actually makes me laugh now because if you’d asked me at t

Honestly… The last couple of weeks particularly but I would stretch as far as few months (- the temp), have felt like I’ve accidentally been selected for some new reality TV show called “Survive If You Can.” Temperature? Approximately 100 billion degrees. Sleep? Cancelled. PoTS? Thriving. Shoulder pain? Operating on a level previously only achieved by medieval torture devices. I genuinely think these have been the worst three weeks I’ve had in a long time. You know it’s bad w

Ok let's talk about it. So I officially have PoTS. Excellent. Now what? This is the bit nobody tells you. Getting a diagnosis feels like crossing a finish line. You spend months trying to work out what’s wrong with you, finally get an answer and think… “Right… brilliant. Now fix me.” Except… There isn’t really a fix. There’s management. There’s learning. There’s trial and error. There’s discovering your body has become more high maintenance than a Range Rover. Nobody actually

So… Apparently I have PoTS. And Orthostatic Hypotension. Brilliant. Tiny problem… I hadn’t got the faintest idea what either of those actually really meant and how those conditions are going to affect my life going forward. When the cardiologist first said “PoTS”, I genuinely thought he’d said pots. As in… Flower pots. Plant pots. The sort of thing you buy from B&Q because you’ve convinced yourself this is definitely the year you’re going to become a gardener. Spoiler alert…

Weekly Weigh-In: Week 27 - AKA: The One Where My Brain Took Annual Leave and My Body Kept the Receipts Well hello there. It’s me. Alive. Mostly. Emerging slowly from the fog like a Victorian child with a fainting couch and a dramatic sigh. Yes. SIX WEEKS. Six whole weeks since my last blog post. Week 21 feels like a previous era. A different season of life. Possibly a different government. Before anyone panics: I did not fall off the planet, I did not rage-quit the internet,

Ahhh yes… Thursday and Friday. Days 148 and 149. Two days so weird and chaotic they deserve their own Netflix mini-series. Or at least a three-part BBC documentary narrated by David Attenborough: “Here we observe the modern woman in her natural habitat… at home… staring blankly at her laptop… praying for WiFi stability.” Because babes, I worked from home BOTH days. Me. WFH. Back-to-back. THURSDAY: DAY 148 — Emails, Retching & Riveting Glamour I woke up like a Victorian child

WEIGH-IN WEEK 21: THE POLISH PIEROGI PARADOX (aka: How I Lost 0.5 lbs While Acting Like a Competitive Eater in Kraków) Week 21. 10 mg jab. 0.5 lbs down. Total loss: 32.2 lbs / 14.6 kg. And honestly? After the last week, I should’ve been gaining the weight of a mid-sized toddler, not dropping half a pound. Because let’s be very clear: I did not behave like someone on a weight-loss journey. I behaved like someone unleashed into Poland with the emotional stability of a toddler a

Oh, where do I even begin? These last three days - Monday to Wednesday - have been a swirling tornado of snots, fevers, Zoom meetings, digestive rebellion, and existential dread. Apparently, I brought home a little souvenir virus from my recent Poland trip, because why wouldn’t I? Christmas markets are basically human anthills, and somewhere between dodging drunken Santas and elbowing my way to the mulled wine stall, I caught something that has now turned me into a sad, sligh

A very very long blog post, featuring: Poland, pierogi, panic, over 20k steps a day, history, sausages, ancestral ghosts, and one terrified British boyfriend meeting The Parents. My loves, gather close. This is the Holiday Edition of The Mounjaro Chronicles. The Odyssey of JABatha Christie. The almost 9-Day Polish Whirlwind Tour, where I: dragged my British boyfriend across four cities, walked more steps than a Fitbit employee on a performance review, ate more food than shoul

My darlings, welcome to Week 20, also known as: “The Episode Where JABatha Christie Cannot Weigh Herself Because She’s Been Busy Dragging Her British Man Across Poland Like a Cultural Hostage.” Yes. For the first time in 20 weeks of obsessively stepping on a scale like it’s a personality test, there is no weigh-in. None. Zero. Zilch. Even my Apple Watch was looking confused like, “Girl? Are we… done? Is this freedom?” But listen - this week was a special one. THE GRAND POLISH

Weigh-In Week 19: The Saga of the Shrinking Woman Who Defied Physics & Still Got Called “Overweight” by BMI Sit down. Pour tea. Maybe fetch a biscuit (for you, not me, I’m living on hope and protein yoghurt). Because today, dear reader, marks Week 19 in my shrinking journey - a journey filled with victories, tantrums, suspiciously long bathroom weigh-ins, and the occasional emotional breakdown in front of a loaf of sourdough. This week I lost… 0.8lbs. Yes. Less than a bag of

Tuesday - Day 132: The Jab Freeze & Pancake Apocalypse Worked from home. Normally that means luxury - a casual 7am wake up, soft housecoat, warm slippers, angelic soundtrack of purring cats. But no. My body said absolutely not and woke me at 5am like I had a train to catch to the Arctic. I laid there blinking at the ceiling wondering why my brain still thinks I’m on commuter duty even when there’s no need. Trauma. Pure trauma. The cats, strangely, were SILENT. No 5am opera. N

Monday. Office day. Also known as the weekly episode of “Will I Survive The Mounjaro Freeze or Become a Decorative Ice Sculpture Found in Zone 2?” Honestly, the way this jab has turned me into a walking glacier should qualify me for some sort of winter survival show. I slept in TWO layers of clothes, plus a duvet, plus a blanket, plus the heating on full blast. At this point I’m basically sleeping inside my own personal Michelin Man cosplay. And STILL I was cold. I woke up at

Saturday began with the kind of early start that makes you question your entire identity. Who books a hair appointment for 9am on a Saturday? I guess… me. Clearly I hate myself. Dragged myself out of bed, muttering something violent in the direction of my alarm, and immediately clutched my collagen coffee like it was an emotional support beverage. Honestly, at this point I don’t even know if collagen works but if it stops one hair from thinking about running away from my head

Thank GOD it’s Friday! And what a Friday it was - the kind of day that starts with you thinking, “Oh, I didn’t drink that much prosecco last night,” and ends with you clutching the kitchen counter like a Victorian heroine fainting at the sight of a corset. I genuinely didn’t think I drank that much. I was fine when I got home! Totally coherent, totally functional, totally not-on-the-verge-of-calling-myself-an-Uber-to-my-own-front-door. But no - the prosecco and all the rich f

Ohhhh buckle up, my darlings, because Thursday – DAY 127 served weather trauma, fashion excellence, public transport emotional damage, and Mounjaro-fuelled digestive foreshadowing. A buffet of chaos. A tasting menu of survival. A chef’s kiss of JABatha-level melodrama. Waking Up: The Ruby Radio Show™ Alarm goes off. Ruby immediately switches into her BREAKFAST BROADCAST MODE, like she’s about to read the 6am headlines on BBC News. Except the headlines are: “Mummy, I want snac

Weigh-In Week 18: The Tale Of The DISAPPEARING JABatha My darlings, gather round. Week 18 has arrived, and once again the scales have spoken, beeped, flashed, and declared: another 2.2lbs has left my body like a disgruntled tenant who finally realised they haven’t paid rent since 2016. This brings the grand total to a deliriously theatrical: 30.9lbs lost 14 entire kilograms evicted from my person - the equivalent of an ENTIRELY UNNECESSARY amount of mass that I will now compa

Buckle up. This one is LONG, chaotic and dripping in that signature Mounjaro-induced madness. Before We Begin: Mounjaro Truly Said “New Phone, Who Dis?” to My Habits Honestly - can we have a moment for the habit rewiring this pen has done? Because 125 days in, I’ve realised Mounjaro is basically that strict but loving Eastern European auntie who smacks the pierogi out of your hand and shouts “NO! Eat half! Better yet, don’t eat at all!!! Drink tea!!! THINK ABOUT YOUR CHOICES!

Ah… 5 am, that blessed/unholy hour when the universe reminds me I exist. Did I wake gracefully, smiling, stretching like a sophisticated human being? HAHAHAHAHAHA. NO. Instead: My phone screamed like a banshee hopped up on espresso. Ruby, my feline overlord, ran her 4–5 am Cat Podcast, featuring: “Mrrrrrp” Intro Theme Keyboard tapping like an office admin on steroids Head-butting me repeatedly (Subscriber Engagement Segment) Emergency Alert: “Mum, I Think You’re Dead So I Mus

By your girl, JABatha Christie - solving mysteries, losing appetites, and surviving cat podcasts since Day 1. Let me take you back… way back… to Friday at 3pm, when I jabbed myself with 10mg and promptly transformed into a medically-induced Sleeping Beauty. Honestly, I slept like a tranquilised otter drifting down a river of dreams, UNTIL the Cat Podcast between 5am and 6am - yes, Ruby and Molly launched their daily BBC MeowLive “Let’s ruin Mum’s REM cycle” episode. 10mg knoc