Day 64: The Tale of Two Butts, Cold Tea, and Expensive Stabbings

Sep 18
3 min read

Again, slept like a baby – which in my world apparently means waking up tired, confused, and wondering who swapped my body for a sack of potatoes overnight.

No idea why I’m so freaking exhausted, but today the universe decided to bless me with not one but two butts in my face.

Yes, Ruby and Molly coordinated a synchronised backside parade across my pillow like I was some sort of feline Airbnb.

And honestly?

It must be love.

Because if you don’t start your day inhaling eau de cat arse, are you even living?

Now, brace yourselves, because today was the dreaded Week 9 weigh-in. I stepped on the scale like a brave gladiator entering the Colosseum, ready for cheers, glory, and confetti cannons.

Instead?

That little digital bastard flashed up +1.5 lbs.

Excuse me??

I’ve been stabbing myself with liquid gold that costs more than a second-hand Ford Fiesta, eating like a nun with IBS, and THIS is the thanks I get?

I swear, either my scale is on strike, possessed by a poltergeist, or just sick of my nonsense.

Probably all three.

I wasn’t pissed off exactly, but I was definitely hoping to smash that 20lbs milestone.

Instead, I’m here in the Plateau Lounge, sipping disappointment with a side of food noise.

Meh.

Onwards and upwards, Jabbers.

(Or should I say sideways and squishy?)

Breakfast was an adventurous choice: a slice of sourdough, fried eggs, and beans.

Delicious, yes.

Smart for a gallbladder-free woman?

Absolutely not.

I basically sat at my desk afterwards like a ticking time bomb, waiting for the inevitable gastro fireworks.

Spoiler: they haven’t gone off yet, but I live in constant fear.

Work?

CHAOS.

Emails breeding like rabbits, tasks multiplying like gremlins after midnight.

My brain nearly imploded, but I did manage to hydrate like a good girl – litres of water down the hatch, plus a mint tea I promptly forgot about until it turned into Arctic swamp juice.

Glugged it anyway because waste not, want not.

Then came The Stab.

Around 1pm, I jabbed my thigh with the second dose of 7.5mg, earlier than usual.

Felt smug.

Until my phone pinged with a Boots message: “Your prescription is ready for collection.”

Lovely.

£268, thank you very much.

Two hundred and sixty-eight bloody quid to stab myself with something that may or may not just make me cold, tired, and hairy in weird places.

Honestly, the manufacturer must be having a laugh.

Speaking of hair – oh, the paranoia is REAL.

Every strand I find on the bathroom floor is a fresh horror film moment.

Is it mine?

Or is there a ghost lurking in my house with a secret Rapunzel complex? Because if it isn’t mine, we need to talk about exorcisms.

Lunch/dinner at 3pm was two bits of chicken and salad, and sweet mercy, I was stuffed like a Christmas turkey. At this point, I’m convinced the jab worked today because there was zero appetite after that.

Suppression strong.

By 5pm, I’d clocked off work and was ready for a nap the size of Europe.

Still no idea if this is lingering virus vibes, low energy from the weather, or just me morphing into an 87-year-old woman with no will to move.

Either way, I’m over it.

OH – and let me just drop this in here because it sent me spiralling yesterday. Read an article about people suing MJ manufacturers for all sorts of terrifying side effects. Like, actual lawsuits. Cue instant panic, sweaty palms, and the thought: “Am I basically paying £268 a month to audition for a Netflix documentary called Jabatha: The Fall of a Diva?” But let’s not dwell.

We’re ignoring it.

La la la.

Moving swiftly on.

Evening entertainment? MasterChef, obviously. And who should appear but my culinary crush, Heston Blumenthal. That man is a wizard, a mad scientist, a genius in glasses. Seeing him whip up magic while openly battling bipolar was both inspiring and heart-breaking.

Bittersweet, really.

Still, 10/10 would let him serve me snail porridge while wearing a monocle. Absolute legend.

So here I am, snuggled in bed, writing to you fine people.

One more day of work and then it’s officially the weekend. Praise be!

Until tomorrow, Jabbers – may your scales be kind, your cats keep their butts to themselves, and your tea never go cold.

With Love,

JABatha Christie

Again, slept like a baby – which in my world apparently means waking up tired, confused, and wondering who swapped my body for a sack of potatoes overnight.

No idea why I’m so freaking exhausted, but today the universe decided to bless me with not one but two butts in my face.

Yes, Ruby and Molly coordinated a synchronised backside parade across my pillow like I was some sort of feline Airbnb.

And honestly?

It must be love.

Because if you don’t start your day inhaling eau de cat arse, are you even living?

Now, brace yourselves, because today was the dreaded Week 9 weigh-in. I stepped on the scale like a brave gladiator entering the Colosseum, ready for cheers, glory, and confetti cannons.

Instead?

That little digital bastard flashed up +1.5 lbs.

Excuse me??

I’ve been stabbing myself with liquid gold that costs more than a second-hand Ford Fiesta, eating like a nun with IBS, and THIS is the thanks I get?

I swear, either my scale is on strike, possessed by a poltergeist, or just sick of my nonsense.

Probably all three.

I wasn’t pissed off exactly, but I was definitely hoping to smash that 20lbs milestone.

Instead, I’m here in the Plateau Lounge, sipping disappointment with a side of food noise.

Meh.

Onwards and upwards, Jabbers.

(Or should I say sideways and squishy?)

Breakfast was an adventurous choice: a slice of sourdough, fried eggs, and beans.

Delicious, yes.

Smart for a gallbladder-free woman?

Absolutely not.

I basically sat at my desk afterwards like a ticking time bomb, waiting for the inevitable gastro fireworks.

Spoiler: they haven’t gone off yet, but I live in constant fear.

Work?

CHAOS.

Emails breeding like rabbits, tasks multiplying like gremlins after midnight.

My brain nearly imploded, but I did manage to hydrate like a good girl – litres of water down the hatch, plus a mint tea I promptly forgot about until it turned into Arctic swamp juice.

Glugged it anyway because waste not, want not.

Then came The Stab.

Around 1pm, I jabbed my thigh with the second dose of 7.5mg, earlier than usual.

Felt smug.

Until my phone pinged with a Boots message: “Your prescription is ready for collection.”

Lovely.

£268, thank you very much.

Two hundred and sixty-eight bloody quid to stab myself with something that may or may not just make me cold, tired, and hairy in weird places.

Honestly, the manufacturer must be having a laugh.

Speaking of hair – oh, the paranoia is REAL.

Every strand I find on the bathroom floor is a fresh horror film moment.

Is it mine?

Or is there a ghost lurking in my house with a secret Rapunzel complex? Because if it isn’t mine, we need to talk about exorcisms.

Lunch/dinner at 3pm was two bits of chicken and salad, and sweet mercy, I was stuffed like a Christmas turkey. At this point, I’m convinced the jab worked today because there was zero appetite after that.

Suppression strong.

By 5pm, I’d clocked off work and was ready for a nap the size of Europe.

Still no idea if this is lingering virus vibes, low energy from the weather, or just me morphing into an 87-year-old woman with no will to move.

Either way, I’m over it.

We’re ignoring it.

La la la.

Moving swiftly on.

Evening entertainment? MasterChef, obviously. And who should appear but my culinary crush, Heston Blumenthal. That man is a wizard, a mad scientist, a genius in glasses. Seeing him whip up magic while openly battling bipolar was both inspiring and heart-breaking.

Bittersweet, really.

Still, 10/10 would let him serve me snail porridge while wearing a monocle. Absolute legend.

So here I am, snuggled in bed, writing to you fine people.

One more day of work and then it’s officially the weekend. Praise be!

Until tomorrow, Jabbers – may your scales be kind, your cats keep their butts to themselves, and your tea never go cold.

With Love,

JABatha Christie

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