Day 104: Jabatha vs. The MRI Coffin, the Katsu Regret & the £66 Uber of Doom

Well, hello darkness my old friend - literally.

Because that’s what greeted me at 5am this morning.

Again.

Dragged myself out of bed expecting to trip over a cat or three… and nothing.

Not a whisker in sight.

Weird, I thought.

Had they finally run away to a better life?

But then it hit me - the heating!

We had the radiators on last night because winter is creeping in, and I bet my last Mounjaro pen those little furballs were welded to them like fluffy hot water bottles.

Honestly, they love heat so much I’m surprised I haven’t found them in the toaster yet.

Got ready, threw on clothes that vaguely matched (or so I think in that 5am brain fog), and off I went.

Driving to the station in pitch-black darkness should be classed as an extreme sport.

The amount of council tax I pay and not a single bloody streetlight!

Dark as Hades out there.

Seriously - where is that money going?

Because it’s clearly not to roads!

The potholes are so bad, I half expect to fall into one and end up in Narnia. It’s a miracle my car still has four wheels and not one corner missing.

Survived the drive, parked up, and jumped on the train.

Zombie mode: activated.

Obviously grabbed my triple shot oat flat white on the way - my bloodstream is 40% caffeine at this point - and treated myself to an almost fry-up from the office canteen.

Ate a third (I’m consistent), but oh those sausages… crispy perfection. 10/10, would risk heartburn again.

Then… work began.

And by “work” I mean endless meetings. Meeting → another meeting → another one that could’ve been an email → and yet another one just because someone likes hearing their own voice.

Honestly, I should’ve just moved my chair into one room and set up camp there.

Throw me a pillow, a blanket, and a PowerPoint and call it a day.

Then came the big event of the morning - my MRI scan.

Because apparently, I’m now part-time employee, part-time hospital exhibit.

Let’s talk about MRI scanners, shall we? Because who designed these anxiety-inducing coffins of doom?!

You lie down, they shove you into this claustrophobic tube, and the machine starts making noises like it’s remixing a 90s rave anthem:

BANG BANG BANG CLANG CLANG WUB-WUB-WUB - Skrillex could never.

Btw, I always imagine I am at the rave, raving and dancing to that most ridiculous sound!

Meanwhile, I’m lying there, trying not to panic, thinking: If I move even a millimetre, will it explode?

Will I get trapped?

Should I’ve written my will?

Honestly, they should just make standing MRIs.

Let me pose like I’m in a photo booth - “say cheese!” - zap zap zap, done. But no.

Instead, I’m shoved into a metal sausage roll, heart rate at 250, convincing myself I’m fine when internally I’m halfway through composing my own obituary.

MRI: done.

Anxiety: high.

Appetite: questionable.

Grabbed katsu curry noodles from Itsu because, in theory, they sounded divine. In reality?

A mistake of national proportions.

Way too rich.

By the time I got halfway through, my stomach was sending distress signals. You’d think after 104 days I’d learn that my stomach and creamy sauces do not get along, but apparently not.

By the time I got back to the office, the gastroparesis had clocked in.

Oh, the joy.

That charming condition where your stomach decides digestion is optional. Bloating, nausea, retching - the glamorous trifecta.

I felt like a deflating balloon walking down the corridor.

Heading to the tube, I was genuinely worried I’d redecorate the shopping mall floor in front of everyone. My stomach was staging a protest and I was the unwilling spokesperson.

Then - Jubilee Line Chaos.

Of course.

Couldn’t even get down to the platform because it was packed like a tin of human sardines.

Escalator queues backed up, people shouting, elbows flying.

It was like The Hunger Games: TFL Edition.

After 20 minutes of breathing in other people’s armpits, I said, “Sod this,” and ordered a green Uber to the train station where my car was parked. Sixty.

Six.

Pounds.

SIXTY-SIX.

For 40 minutes of nausea in traffic.

I nearly threw up just seeing the receipt.

Honestly, if my arm wasn’t already frozen, I’d have thrown it in despair.

Finally reached my car, still retching, still dizzy, and crawled home in one piece (barely).

Straight into PJs.

No dinner.

My stomach had issued a full shutdown notice.

Curled up on the sofa with the boyfriend for some Gogglebox and Bake Off - the ultimate British therapy combo.

Both had me in stitches.

Poor Toby and his collapsed framboisier - the man made a puddle, not a pastry.

Bless him.

And Jasmine - please, universe, let her win.

The woman is a baking goddess.

Oh, and yes - weigh-in Thursday.

Week 3.

No weight loss.

Again.

Of course I weighed myself this morning because I love emotional damage before coffee.

Move, scales. MOVE!

Tomorrow I’m working from home which means - HALLELUJAH — a lie-in!

Until then, I’m signing off as your favourite mildly nauseous, MRI-surviving, bacon-loving, £66-poorer detective of daily chaos.

Night, my beloved Jabbers.

May your stomachs behave, your roads be smooth, and your MRIs silent.

With Love,

JABatha Christie