Day 112: The Trauma, The Bagel, and The Brave Return of JABatha Christie

Nov 7
3 min read

Ahhh, the mornings of working from home.

You know the ones - you convince yourself you’ll “sleep in a little” but still end up awake at 6:59am, staring at the ceiling, haunted by flashbacks of Monday’s car hijack attempt.

Yes, THAT terrifying moment when I, JABATHA CHRISTIE herself, nearly became an episode of Crimewatch - all because I dared to drive the most elite vehicle known to mankind: my beloved Mini Cooper.

They clearly picked the wrong woman.

The wrong day.

The wrong car.

Because let me tell you - I can reverse park with one eye closed and a collagen coffee in hand.

If Lewis Hamilton and Miss Marple had a baby, it would be me.

I may have been shaking like a leaf for two days straight after the ordeal, but at least my Mini survived.

She’s traumatised, I’m traumatised, and quite frankly, the hijacker is probably traumatised too.

So, there I was, still mentally clutching my steering wheel, not really in the mood to log on, but like a true hero I did - coffee and collagen in hand, 7am on the dot.

Because trauma doesn’t stop Teams meetings.

Of course, I hadn’t worked for the last two days (I mean, who could, after all this palaver?!), so I had to catch up on emails, chase a few people, pretend to care about metrics, and gently cry into my mug.

Productivity queen, obviously.

Then came the Bagel Incident of 2025.

We’d run out of bread, so I shared a bagel (romantic, right?), except my half decided to lodge itself mid-pipe like a rogue Lego brick.

I genuinely thought this is it.

A bagel is how I go.

Not Mounjaro side effects.

Not the hijacker.

A BAGEL.

Cue a dramatic dash for Gaviscon - my liquid saviour.

The indigestion was giving heart attack realness.

I even considered writing my will between burps.

But alas, I survived.

Because I am resilient.

Work was absolutely mad - meeting after meeting after meeting.

I swear, if I had a pound for every time someone said “just to circle back” I’d have enough money to buy a fleet of Minis.

By midday, I decided to brave the outside world.

Went to the shop (with mild PTSD), got bread and milk - simple missions now feel like spy operations.

Every car that drove past got the side-eye.

I may have even hissed at a van.

But I made it back alive and triumphant, clutching my semi-skimmed.

Lunch was a creamy tomato soup, but I only managed about half before my stomach said, “Nah babe, we’re still processing the trauma (and the bagel).”

So I logged back in, pretended to be professional, and counted down the hours until freedom.

Evening came, and I logged off early like the rebel I am.

Did a mountain of washing and oh. my. god. Tallow + Ash Pistachio detergent and conditioner - WHY is nobody talking about this?!

The smell is divine.

I want my entire house, my clothes, and possibly my boyfriend to smell like it.

It’s giving five-star hotel spa meets nutty dessert fantasy.

Honestly, best buy of the century.

I might start wearing my laundry basket as perfume.

Dinner time arrived, and my lovely other half made hunter’s chicken - it looked (and smelled) chef’s kiss but oh lord, that BBQ sauce was too rich for my poor delicate 10mg-preparing stomach.

I had one bite, said “lovely!” and promptly retreated to my herbal tea.

The man has been absolute saint mode all week - nursing my trauma, making sure I’m fed, and putting up with my dramatic retellings of the hijack about 74 times.

Give him a medal.

We watched The Town with Ben Affleck (who, let’s be honest, always looks slightly constipated but broodingly handsome), but I couldn’t finish it. Fatigue hit.

Or maybe it was emotional exhaustion from surviving both crime and carbohydrates.

Either way, bed called early.

Oh, and before I forget - we watched The Great British Bake Off Final.

My girl Jasmine WON!!!

I practically screamed.

She’s an icon, a legend, and the moment.

Meanwhile, can we talk about Aaron’s shirt??

WHAT was that?

It looked like a rejected picnic blanket from 1972.

Absolute chaos.

So now, as I lie here, mentally preparing for Weigh-In Thursday and my brand new spanky 10mg jab, I can’t help but think: tomorrow marks a new era. It will either be the dawn of greatness or the descent into nausea. But either way - JABATHA CHRISTIE will rise again.

With Love,

JABatha Christie

Ahhh, the mornings of working from home.

You know the ones - you convince yourself you’ll “sleep in a little” but still end up awake at 6:59am, staring at the ceiling, haunted by flashbacks of Monday’s car hijack attempt.

Yes, THAT terrifying moment when I, JABATHA CHRISTIE herself, nearly became an episode of Crimewatch - all because I dared to drive the most elite vehicle known to mankind: my beloved Mini Cooper.

They clearly picked the wrong woman.

The wrong day.

The wrong car.

Because let me tell you - I can reverse park with one eye closed and a collagen coffee in hand.

If Lewis Hamilton and Miss Marple had a baby, it would be me.

I may have been shaking like a leaf for two days straight after the ordeal, but at least my Mini survived.

She’s traumatised, I’m traumatised, and quite frankly, the hijacker is probably traumatised too.

So, there I was, still mentally clutching my steering wheel, not really in the mood to log on, but like a true hero I did - coffee and collagen in hand, 7am on the dot.

Because trauma doesn’t stop Teams meetings.

Of course, I hadn’t worked for the last two days (I mean, who could, after all this palaver?!), so I had to catch up on emails, chase a few people, pretend to care about metrics, and gently cry into my mug.

Productivity queen, obviously.

Then came the Bagel Incident of 2025.

We’d run out of bread, so I shared a bagel (romantic, right?), except my half decided to lodge itself mid-pipe like a rogue Lego brick.

I genuinely thought this is it.

A bagel is how I go.

Not Mounjaro side effects.

Not the hijacker.

A BAGEL.

Cue a dramatic dash for Gaviscon - my liquid saviour.

The indigestion was giving heart attack realness.

I even considered writing my will between burps.

But alas, I survived.

Because I am resilient.

Work was absolutely mad - meeting after meeting after meeting.

I swear, if I had a pound for every time someone said “just to circle back” I’d have enough money to buy a fleet of Minis.

By midday, I decided to brave the outside world.

Went to the shop (with mild PTSD), got bread and milk - simple missions now feel like spy operations.

Every car that drove past got the side-eye.

I may have even hissed at a van.

But I made it back alive and triumphant, clutching my semi-skimmed.

Lunch was a creamy tomato soup, but I only managed about half before my stomach said, “Nah babe, we’re still processing the trauma (and the bagel).”

So I logged back in, pretended to be professional, and counted down the hours until freedom.

Evening came, and I logged off early like the rebel I am.

Did a mountain of washing and oh. my. god. Tallow + Ash Pistachio detergent and conditioner - WHY is nobody talking about this?!

The smell is divine.

I want my entire house, my clothes, and possibly my boyfriend to smell like it.

It’s giving five-star hotel spa meets nutty dessert fantasy.

Honestly, best buy of the century.

I might start wearing my laundry basket as perfume.

Dinner time arrived, and my lovely other half made hunter’s chicken - it looked (and smelled) chef’s kiss but oh lord, that BBQ sauce was too rich for my poor delicate 10mg-preparing stomach.

I had one bite, said “lovely!” and promptly retreated to my herbal tea.

The man has been absolute saint mode all week - nursing my trauma, making sure I’m fed, and putting up with my dramatic retellings of the hijack about 74 times.

Give him a medal.

We watched The Town with Ben Affleck (who, let’s be honest, always looks slightly constipated but broodingly handsome), but I couldn’t finish it. Fatigue hit.

Or maybe it was emotional exhaustion from surviving both crime and carbohydrates.

Either way, bed called early.

Oh, and before I forget - we watched The Great British Bake Off Final.

My girl Jasmine WON!!!

I practically screamed.

She’s an icon, a legend, and the moment.

Meanwhile, can we talk about Aaron’s shirt??

WHAT was that?

It looked like a rejected picnic blanket from 1972.

Absolute chaos.

So now, as I lie here, mentally preparing for Weigh-In Thursday and my brand new spanky 10mg jab, I can’t help but think: tomorrow marks a new era. It will either be the dawn of greatness or the descent into nausea. But either way - JABATHA CHRISTIE will rise again.

With Love,

JABatha Christie

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