Day 26: The Great Trousers Escape

Last night, in a move both glamorous and vaguely medical, I slapped a fresh estrogen patch squarely onto my right butt cheek.

Felt like a Bond girl meets HRT brochure.

The full moon had finally packed its bags and left town, but Cat 1 was still talking.

At length. For most of the night.

I’m beginning to wonder if this is a post-moon debrief or the start of some feline political campaign.

Woke up at 5 a.m. because… well, apparently I just do that now.

Grabbed my Oliver Bonas linen trousers - you know, the ones I bought months ago when I couldn’t even zip them up, let alone dream of fastening the button.

Back then they were a sad reminder of my ambitions.

Today?

They slid on so easily that I looked like a children’s entertainer who had borrowed their clown trousers for casual Friday.

Honestly, I nearly lost them somewhere between my front door and the station.

I now require a belt, a drawstring, and possibly a bungee cord.

Train.

Tube.

Office by 7 a.m., swanning in like I was about to do a corporate takeover.

Coffee and a protein bowl for breakfast - very “health influencer”, except I ate it at my desk like a Victorian chimney sweep.

Still nursing this stubborn right-side ear and throat pain, which at this point feels like an unwelcome sublet in my own head.

GP appointment booked.

At lunch, my colleagues dragged me out for a walk, which was actually lovely - mild breeze, city smells, people-watching opportunities.

Returned to the office for what can only be described as a beige crime scene on a plate: a vegetable traybake that tasted exactly like damp cardboard, with grains and grilled chicken plonked on top.

Michelin Guide, please do not call me.

I know I have got to eat but I am really not enjoying food at the moment and I am running out of ideas what to eat.

Train home.

Only one ginger chew consumed all day - personal record.

Feeling rather tired, battery at 14%, emotionally in low-power mode.

Rounded off the evening with a piece of cold chicken for dinner, which felt like the culinary equivalent of a shrug.

Tonight’s plan: another hit of The Assassin, possibly while lying on my bed like a fainting Victorian heroine.

And yes, tomorrow's 5 a.m. wake-up is already booked in.

With Love,

JABatha Christie