Day 15: Jabatha Takes Brussels 🇧🇪
- Jul 31
- 3 min read
ALARM AT 3AM.
Who the hell do I think I am?
A jet-setter? A contestant on Bake Off with a croissant emergency?
No. I’m just a hormonal, jabbed-up woman chasing a Eurostar and possibly her own sanity.
Weigh-in first thing - BOOM. 10.1lbs down!
That’s nearly the weight of a decent house cat.
I could have left one of mine at home and still come out lighter.
Jab number 3, fresh patch slapped onto my derrière like a passport stamp from the Ministry of Menopause, and a sad little coffee with collagen because I am a walking wellness meme.
Fed the cats like the maternal goddess I am (they judged me anyway).
Off we go. Cab at 4, arrived at St Pancras by 5.
First stop coffe shop.
My condiment king, helped himself to Pret’s entire sauce section at St Pancras - HP, ketchup, mayo, the works. Could’ve been arrested.
I’ve never seen him that happy.
Freebies bring out a joy in him I’ve only previously witnessed on Christmas morning or when his roast potatoes come out perfectly crisp.
Honestly, he had the energy of someone packing survival rations for an apocalyptic fry-up.
Got on the train by 6:15 - barely awake, already regretting all my life choices.
Started an audiobook but promptly nodded off like I’d been tranquillised by a sleepy monk.
🇧🇪 BRUSSELS, BABY!
Arrival vibes: Confusion. Excitement. And bladder panic.
I’d pre-booked a storage locker because I am a responsible adult traveller, but plot twist - it was in a boarded-up shop that looked like it had recently hosted a low-budget zombie apocalypse.
No staff. No explanation. Just vibes.
Naturally, I went full Jabatha mode: stern email, dramatic sighs, a bit of shoulder acting.
Refund secured.
Justice served.
Bags schlepped back to the station where we found some decent lockers that didn’t look like they doubled as organ harvest units.
Then came The Walk™️.
From Midi Zuid to Grand Place - aka the Brussels Hunger Games.
We dodged dodgy side-eyes, vague smells, mysterious liquids, and a woman who looked like they’d been awake since 1994.
I now have shin splints and trust issues.
But then - GLORY.
We entered the pretty part of Brussels and oh my Grand Place, it was worth every single weird encounter.
Tiny chocolate shops everywhere, cobbled streets, and the smell of waffles whispering sweet nothings to my soul.
Had a dark Leffe beer - well, a baby one, because my body can’t metabolise alcohol unless it comes in a collagen shot.
My lovely boyfriend (you know, the condiments king),
had a normal one and looked smug.
Then we hit the Chocolate Museum (important research) and the Fries Museum (even more important research).
🍟 Shared a cone of frites.
When I say shared, I mean I had ten, but I chewed them in slow motion so it felt like less.
I am now paying the price via my digestive system.
It is currently in Brussels but my dignity is somewhere near Bruges.
🌧️ Weather turned dramatic at 3pm - thunder, lightning, sideways rain.
I swear I saw a man lose a sandwich to the wind.
Hair ruined.
Socks wet.
Whole vibe: drowned rat in Parisian trench coat cosplay.
Plans for a sexy little bar near the Airbnb?
Achieved!
We rallied, dried off, and headed out again like brave little hormonal warriors in search of Belgian beer.
We found Moeder Lambic - a gorgeous, quaint bar that looked like a Wes Anderson film and smelled like a beer garden in heaven.
My better half went full beer connoisseur. I had little shots of beer like an anxious Victorian lady tasting absinthe for the first time.
We are now back at the Airbnb:
• Pyjamas: on.
• Ginger tea: brewing.
• Boyfriend humming the theme from
Poirot like he’s in a BBC crime drama.
• Me: furiously Googling “how to survive
with one functioning intestine.”
And with that, I bid you adieu.
Day 15 done, 10lbs down, and Brussels semi-conquered.
Stay tuned for more gastrointestinal glamour and emotional instability tomorrow.
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