Copy of Day 55: The Food Noise Files

Sep 9
3 min read

Well, well, well.

Day 55 and I have officially crossed into a parallel dimension: the dimension where food noise exists. Let me tell you, it was not on my 2025 bingo card.

But let’s rewind…

Last night I slept like a log. Not a chic driftwood log you’d find in a minimalist Pinterest living room.

No.

A heavy, damp, lump of bark dumped on the forest floor.

Solid.

Unmoving.

Bliss.

And for once - shock horror - Ruby did not host her usual 3am CatFM Podcast.

No ghostly “meowmeowmeow” interviews, no heated debates with the shadows, just a couple of random “meep-meeps” (think budget Road Runner) and the occasional butt-in-face alarm clock.

Sprinkle in some heavy-duty purrs that sounded like she’d swallowed a V8 engine and voilà: morning in the JABatha household.

Meanwhile, downstairs, poor Molly has transformed into a one-cat NHS waiting room. Cat flu, round 72.

Sneezing, snotting, snuffling - occupying the entire ground floor like it’s her private hospital wing.

Ruby, of course, reigns upstairs like Lady of the Manor, delighted she doesn’t have to share the royal chambers.

Upstairs = Queen Ruby.

Downstairs = Patient Zero.

Breakfast? Shockingly adult of me: coffee with collagen (because we must stay bouncy), AND I actually finished it.

Wholemeal seeded toast with Philly cheese. Gourmet, no?

Am I Gwyneth Paltrow yet?

But then lunch came. And what did I have? Toast. Again. Excuse me… am I becoming a permanent cardboard-chewer?

I swear my bloodstream is now 70% seeded loaf.

Honestly, if I keeled over tomorrow they’d find crumbs in my DNA.

Oh, and let’s not forget the single lime Dorito.

Yes, singular.

Just one triangle.

Who am I?

A restrained Greek goddess of moderation?

Or a woman who accidentally opened the bag and then shut it again like she’s in some kind of twisted Saw challenge?

And then it happened.

Food. Noise.

Day 55 and suddenly, like a stalker ex sliding into my DMs, my brain whispered: “Hey… you might be… hungry?”

Let me tell you!

I was SHOOKETH.

I haven’t had a real hunger pang in nearly two months and now all of a sudden my stomach’s like, “Remember us? We’re back, baby!”

Rude.

I don’t know if this is progress or a curse. Either way: not today, Satan.

Dinner was respectable - baked tofu with veg (tiny portion, calm down, Gordon Ramsay) - washed down with approximately 17 litres of ginger tea and water.

If hydration were an Olympic sport, I’d be a gold medalist by now.

Work? Oh darling, I was a MACHINE. Eyes locked on three screens like some deranged octopus in corporate drag. By 5pm I was seeing double, possibly triple. If you’d asked me to type my name, I would’ve spelled it “Jabbathaaaaa.”

Exercise? Still a fantasy. Yes, yes, I know I can’t use the virus as an excuse forever, but dragging my body outside currently feels like signing up for the Hunger Games.

I must go for a walk tomorrow though.

No excuses.

Even if I collapse halfway and get dragged home by a squirrel.

Now, let’s talk jabs. Thursday is needle day.

Moving up to the 7.5 dose.

Am I terrified?

Absolutely.

Do I think my body is too chill with this dose and needs more chaos?

Also yes.

It’s happening.

Jabatha must climb.

Speaking of climbing - did you know “Mounjaro” is actually named after Mount Kilimanjaro? Apparently it symbolises conquering big health challenges.

Cute, right? And the logo is literally a mountain peak, symbolising the journey to health. So essentially, I’m climbing an invisible medical mountain every week while stabbing myself in the stomach.

Well, well, well.

Day 55 and I have officially crossed into a parallel dimension: the dimension where food noise exists. Let me tell you, it was not on my 2025 bingo card.

But let’s rewind…

Last night I slept like a log. Not a chic driftwood log you’d find in a minimalist Pinterest living room.

No.

A heavy, damp, lump of bark dumped on the forest floor.

Solid.

Unmoving.

Bliss.

And for once - shock horror - Ruby did not host her usual 3am CatFM Podcast.

No ghostly “meowmeowmeow” interviews, no heated debates with the shadows, just a couple of random “meep-meeps” (think budget Road Runner) and the occasional butt-in-face alarm clock.

Sprinkle in some heavy-duty purrs that sounded like she’d swallowed a V8 engine and voilà: morning in the JABatha household.

Meanwhile, downstairs, poor Molly has transformed into a one-cat NHS waiting room. Cat flu, round 72.

Sneezing, snotting, snuffling - occupying the entire ground floor like it’s her private hospital wing.

Ruby, of course, reigns upstairs like Lady of the Manor, delighted she doesn’t have to share the royal chambers.

Upstairs = Queen Ruby.

Downstairs = Patient Zero.

Breakfast? Shockingly adult of me: coffee with collagen (because we must stay bouncy), AND I actually finished it.

Wholemeal seeded toast with Philly cheese. Gourmet, no?

Am I Gwyneth Paltrow yet?

But then lunch came. And what did I have? Toast. Again. Excuse me… am I becoming a permanent cardboard-chewer?

I swear my bloodstream is now 70% seeded loaf.

Honestly, if I keeled over tomorrow they’d find crumbs in my DNA.

Oh, and let’s not forget the single lime Dorito.

Yes, singular.

Just one triangle.

Who am I?

A restrained Greek goddess of moderation?

Or a woman who accidentally opened the bag and then shut it again like she’s in some kind of twisted Saw challenge?

And then it happened.

Food. Noise.

Day 55 and suddenly, like a stalker ex sliding into my DMs, my brain whispered: “Hey… you might be… hungry?”

Let me tell you!

I was SHOOKETH.

I haven’t had a real hunger pang in nearly two months and now all of a sudden my stomach’s like, “Remember us? We’re back, baby!”

Rude.

I don’t know if this is progress or a curse. Either way: not today, Satan.

Dinner was respectable - baked tofu with veg (tiny portion, calm down, Gordon Ramsay) - washed down with approximately 17 litres of ginger tea and water.

If hydration were an Olympic sport, I’d be a gold medalist by now.

Work? Oh darling, I was a MACHINE. Eyes locked on three screens like some deranged octopus in corporate drag. By 5pm I was seeing double, possibly triple. If you’d asked me to type my name, I would’ve spelled it “Jabbathaaaaa.”

Exercise? Still a fantasy. Yes, yes, I know I can’t use the virus as an excuse forever, but dragging my body outside currently feels like signing up for the Hunger Games.

I must go for a walk tomorrow though.

No excuses.

Even if I collapse halfway and get dragged home by a squirrel.

Now, let’s talk jabs. Thursday is needle day.

Moving up to the 7.5 dose.

Am I terrified?

Absolutely.

Do I think my body is too chill with this dose and needs more chaos?

Also yes.

It’s happening.

Jabatha must climb.

Speaking of climbing - did you know “Mounjaro” is actually named after Mount Kilimanjaro? Apparently it symbolises conquering big health challenges.

Cute, right? And the logo is literally a mountain peak, symbolising the journey to health. So essentially, I’m climbing an invisible medical mountain every week while stabbing myself in the stomach.

Bloody adorable.

Also saw today they’re trying to roll out a pill version of Mounjaro.

A pill!

For people scared of needles!

Honestly, it’s a 2mm prick.

Calm down, Susan.

This world is going mad.

Anyway - I’m knackered.

Food noise can do one.

Cats are chaos.

Screens are Satan.

But we keep climbing.

Because that’s what we do here on Mount Jabatha.

See you tomorrow, jabbers!

With Love,

JABatha Christie

Comments