Day 16: The Bruges Affair & The First Class Felons

Choppy night - classic case of “not our bed” syndrome.

Woke up every 45 minutes like I was being interrogated by MI5.

Honestly?

I’d have slept better on a Ryanair seat with my legs in the overhead locker.

Conclusion: I miss my 6 pillows. They understand me.

My morning support group remains unchanged:

Coffee - triple shot, or don’t bother!

DulcoEase - a whisper of chaos and the Holy Trinity of vitamins, collagen and biotin, because if Mounjaro tries to make me bald I will sue it emotionally.

Breakfast drama - Greek yoghurt and blueberries for me. For my boyfriend, same - because we forgot the Marmite and the Airbnb had no toaster.

A national crisis.

Small aside (but also not): my other half runs a blog dedicated to taking a pot of Marmite around the world and photographing it with airline staff. I love him, but he is a deeply strange man. Sadder still? He has readers. And one of them might be my mother.

Today’s mission: Day trip to Bruges!

We boarded a train like the innocent, carb-deprived duo we are…And sat down in first class… with second class tickets.

We are now officially wanted in Belgium.

Did we get caught? No. Are we rebels? Yes.

Should we be allowed in charge of anything more serious than a Tesco Clubcard? Debatable.

And Bruges?

Absolutely stunning. Like if a medieval town had a baby with a fairy tale and raised it on beer, cobblestones, and artistic lighting.

I would happily swap it for Brussels any day.

Brussels gave me dodgy trams and a suspicious attitude from a pigeon that my boyfriend thought was a Flemish chicken.

We were tempted to go to Lizzie’s Waffles (rumoured to be the size of a car battery), but in a surprise twist, we went savoury:

Boyfriend: Steak and chips.

Me: Tuna, burrata, pesto salad… or rather, half of it, because my appetite has packed its bags and gone to Ibiza.

I did try a bite of his steak.

Verdict: dangerously good.

Feeling: betrayed by tastebuds.

My proudest stat?

50,000 steps over two days.

That’s not a walk, that’s an alibi.

Picked up an obscene amount of chocolate for the man and my work colleagues. As promised.

I will not be showing receipts.

If any of it mysteriously disappears in transit? That’s between me and Belgium.

We’re now back at the Airbnb, curled up watching Top Gear from around 2005, as it’s the only English programme that was in English, arguing over which of us would be Jeremy Clarkson if our relationship was a car show.

(Spoiler: Neither. We’re both the Stig. Emotionally unavailable and always dressed for a funeral.)

Tomorrow: The Tintin Museum, one last bout of panic-shopping, and the Eurostar home.

I miss the cats.

My babies. My floofy, judgmental roommates.

And btw I am not weighing myself until Thursday.

And I will be asking my boyfriend to hide the scales like they’re a nuclear device.

With Love,

JABatha Christie