Day 145 - 147: Snots, Eggs, Poland PTSD, and the Rise of Ruby’s MeowCast

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, slightly green, germ-fuelled cartoon character.

Let’s start with Monday - Day 145 on the jab.

Monday was officially my coma day, the first day of this tragic trilogy.

I woke up feeling like a deflated balloon with limbs.

The jab on Sunday - pushed back from my Friday schedule (previously Thursday) - apparently decided to join forces with the virus in a diabolical tag-team.

I staggered to the kitchen for breakfast and, in a moment of sheer domestic heroism, managed toast.

Lunch?

Jacket potato with butter.

Dinner? A polite “no, thank you” from my body, followed by an epic nap that might have lasted until Tuesday.

Except actually it didn’t - because I was working from home all three days, so the only napping I did was in my imagination.

My teams status was green, but my SOUL was horizontal.

But could I sleep?

No.

I sat through every meeting like a mildly sentient wet sock, dreaming of duvet time while pretending to write notes.

And in the middle of all this, I decided to run a bath.

Not just a bath - a LONG, HOT, overly ambitious bath.

I pictured healing steam, relaxation, my pores opening in gratitude.

Instead I boiled myself like pierogi.

I nearly had to call for evacuation.

I got out looking like a cooked ham wrapped in despair.

Did it help?

Yes.

For six minutes.

Then the virus slapped me again.

Tuesday - Day 146, was slightly more eventful in terms of productivity -mainly because the virus was less polite.

Meetings back-to-back meant I didn’t eat until 1 pm, at which point I forced down toast.

Then came the heroic BOL Thai green chicken protein soup.

I call it heroic because it’s basically soup for people who have lost all will to chew.

Dinner again was a big fat nada.

By the end of the day, I had the emotional range of a soggy paper towel and the energy levels of a snail in slow motion.

Also, somewhere between Teams calls and blowing my nose 47 times, I scrolled Instagram - and honestly, I am DONE with people clearly on jabs pretending they’re “lifting heavy” in the gym.

Please.

Your arm is the size of my ankle, your dumbbell weighs less than my cat, and you’re giving “pharmacy-core,” not “fitness journey.”

Just say you’re chemically assisted and go.

The only thing you’re lifting is the syringe.

And I STILL need to get better at drinking water.

I swear I’m physically incapable of remembering to hydrate.

I pour water, take one sip, put it down, then instantly forget water exists like some kind of dehydrated goldfish.

My kidneys must be filing HR complaints.

And then came Wednesday - Day 147.

Oh, Wednesday… the day of digestive betrayal.

I decided, in my infinite wisdom, to have scrambled eggs on toast.

I clearly enjoy punishing myself because these eggs promptly sent me racing to the toilet, courtesy of my non-existent gallbladder and bile acid malabsorption condition.

Honestly, I love eggs.

I really do.

And yet every time I eat them, it’s like my digestive system is staging a protest.

I’m convinced my gallbladder haunts me from the afterlife, whispering, “Eat more eggs.

Suffer more.

Repeat.”

Amidst all this biological chaos, I did manage a small victory: a shower.

Yes, a shower.

The warm water temporarily lifted me from the depths of misery into something resembling human life.

Hair slightly less like a nest of rabid squirrels, face washed, if not exactly glowing…momentary hope.

And then the virus reminded me who’s boss.

Meanwhile, the news is full of terrifying updates about a superflu outbreak. Fantastic.

Because what I really needed while sniffing my way through life was a reminder that Christmas might descend into full-scale viral apocalypse. Lockdowns?

Please, no.

My mental health cannot survive another round of enforced isolation with only Gogglebox and panic baking for company.

Speaking of Christmas, prezzies are…well, let’s call them chaotic optimism. I’m nearly there, but there’s still that nagging issue of the Christmas tree. Last year’s wobbly, migraine-inducing tree has been banished to the recycling bin after it tried to kill me on multiple occasions.

This year?

I need a tree that stands upright, preferably one that doesn’t plot my death in its spare time.

Panic is setting in because I am already late.

Very, very late.

JABatha is usually punctual, organised, prepped for every eventuality…except this year, apparently.

While we’re on Christmas - Christmas jumpers.

I have OPINIONS.

They’re emotional-support garments.

You either look adorable, deranged, or like you’ve lost a workplace bet.

The uglier the better.

If it doesn’t make a toddler cry or a pensioner clutch their pearls, is it even festive?

I like Christmas pyjamas though!

Work has been relentless, mostly because my email inbox apparently multiplied while I was away.

I returned to a tsunami of messages, Zoom calls, and panicked colleagues asking for updates on things I didn’t even know existed.

Add post-trip fatigue and viral delirium, and you have me: a slightly green, slightly weepy, but mostly determined mess of a human trying to act professional.

Speaking of returning - can we talk about RYANAIR.

Ryanair has the NERVE to pretend their carry-on measuring cages are the same size they’ve always been.

They are NOT.

Those boxes are shrinking like my will to live.

My suitcase used to fit.

NOW?

It wouldn’t go in even if I buttered the sides and prayed.

The staff hover around it like bouncers waiting to charge you £75 for existing.

Thankfully I did not have to pay but those poor people.

Honestly, I need therapy after that gate experience.

And then there’s Ruby.

Oh, Ruby.

Her meowcast has escalated to levels previously thought impossible.

I can’t tell if she’s missed me that much or if she’s just suddenly landed a podcast pay rise, but sleep has been obliterated.

Completely.

My nights now involve listening to her communicate with someone - or something - through the airwaves.

Ghosts?

Invisible house people?

Vecna, perhaps?

Because apparently the Upside Down now has an interest in feline podcasts.

I am genuinely not sure what is real anymore.

She may be plotting to take over the world, or just critiquing my singing in the shower.

Either way, I am alarmed.

Entertainment has been my only salvation.

I watched The 1% Club last night and confirmed that yes, there are people out there who make your head spin with their sheer brilliance (or lack thereof).

Comforting.

Then a bit of Gogglebox, because nothing makes you feel more normal - or less tragically alone - than watching strangers scream at a TV screen for 45 minutes.

Tonight?

MasterChef, and possibly some Grand Designs, because watching someone else’s life fall apart in stylish ways is oddly comforting when you’ve spent three days in a snotty fever coma.

Poland remains firmly in my memory as a highlight: Gdansk, Sopot, the Xmas markets.

Yes, it was worth it, but crowds were a new level of chaos.

People were literally elbowing each other over roasted almonds.

I may have accidentally headbutted a stranger in the battle for mulled wine supremacy.

Sorry, random human!

But honestly, who has no self-awareness?

Humans, apparently.

AND TOMORROW IS WEIGH-IN DAY.

And I swear to God, if I haven’t lost even HALF a toast crumb’s worth of weight after three days of barely eating, feeling feverish, sweating in a bath, and running to the toilet courtesy of egg sabotage - I WILL RIOT.

I will email the universe.

I will escalate to management.

Three days of snots, fever, egg-induced toilet marathons, and viral despair later, I am still standing (if wobbly).

I am still laughing at the absurdity of life, still terrified of Ruby’s nocturnal broadcasting, and still hopeful that Christmas will somehow survive me.

With any luck, I will soon recover enough to eat something beyond toast, reclaim my gallbladder’s peace of mind, and maybe even find a Christmas tree that doesn’t try to assassinate me.

With Love,

JABatha Christie