Day 71: The Morning Cat Podcast and £20 Farmer J lunch regret

This morning, I had the privilege (read: punishment) of tuning into Meow Cast FM, also known as The Cat Podcast, which aired live from 3 a.m. to 5 a.m..

Two straight hours of commentary, scratching, thuds, and butt-in-the-face guest appearances. Ruby was broadcasting from the Upstairs Studio -rotating between the spare room and my bed depending on which duvet offered superior insulation - while Molly handled Downstairs Headquarters, pacing like a prison guard and occasionally storming upstairs to ensure no peace was had by anyone.

By the time my alarm actually went off, I’d already been subjected to a full season of “Butt in the Face: The Musical.”

Mandatory.

Every.

Single.

Time.

But! It was a weigh-in day, and against all odds (and despite surviving on nausea, cats, and collagen coffee), the scales were kind.

Another 3.3lbs down!

Cue me doing a victory strut in my pyjamas with Molly glaring at me like “Don’t get cocky, human.”

Honestly, I’ll take it.

That makes nearly a toddler’s worth of weight gone at this point.

Of course, 7.5mg is still giving me permanent boat nausea - like I’m trapped on a ferry to Calais in a storm.

Glamorous, no?

I’m over it, but progress is progress.

Dragged myself into the shower, slapped on business-woman clothes (think: Devil Wears Prada with a touch of “Please don’t vomit on the blouse”), and had a couple of retching episodes for good measure.

Then it was into the Mini and off to the station.

Arrived at the office before 7 a.m.

Who does that?

WHO?

Me, apparently.

I am now officially The Office Light Trigger - the first one on the floor, walking like Beyoncé while the motion-sensor lights flick on in my wake.

If someone had set music to it, I could’ve filmed a whole dramatic entrance reel for Instagram.

I treated myself to a Pret bacon roll on the way in.

Or at least, something vaguely bacon-flavoured between two slices of what tasted suspiciously like corrugated cardboard.

Add “cardboard muncher” to my CV.

I also grabbed my coffee at the station instead of Notes today (shock horror!) but forgot my collagen.

Great.

Looking forward to some hair decorating the bathroom floor tomorrow. Love that for me.

I now have PTSD - constant worry about puking on the train is real.

Coffee did not make t easier.

Quite the opposite in fact!

The upside of being an ungodly-early riser?

Peace.

Silence.

Productivity.

I had conquered half my to-do list before colleagues even wandered in blinking like moles seeing daylight.

It was lovely to actually see them, though - almost enough to distract me from the lunch disaster to come.

And oh, lunch.

What devil possessed me?

Food noise.

That little demon on my shoulder whispered: “Go to Farmer J.”

And like the fool I am, I listened.

Ordered myself a grilled hispi cabbage salad with charred flank steak, sweet potatoes, cauliflower AND extra harissa chicken.

Why?

Because apparently I think I’m an Olympic athlete carb-loading for the 10,000m.

Price tag? £20. For a tray of food. TWENTY. BLOODY. POUNDS.

And here’s the kicker: by the time I opened it back at my desk, I wasn’t hungry anymore. Took about four bites, shoved the rest away, and promised myself I’d eat it for dinner.

(Spoiler: more mistakes were made.)

Thirty minutes later, my stomach threw a tantrum. Full-on meltdown. Nausea, anxiety, the works.

Honestly, between the jab and Farmer J, I feel like my digestive system is filing HR complaints against me daily.

To spice things up, I had a GP appointment in the afternoon.

For weeks I’ve had this weird pain in my upper arm (not shoulder), only when I raise it. Then I found a lump there - hard, like it’s attached to the bone.

Naturally, I spiralled into full WebMD panic mode.

GP agreed it’s in a weird spot, said “let’s start with an ultrasound,” and referred me.

Fabulous.

Equal parts reassuring and terrifying.

I’m trying not to catastrophise, but let’s just say my anxiety has already packed its bags and moved in permanently.

Went straight home, reheated my leftover £20 Farmer J “salad,” and - you guessed it - stomach tantrum, Part Two.

Supposed to be healthy, but maybe too much fat?

Or maybe the harissa chicken was harbouring secrets.

Either way: regret.

Jabbed at 7 p.m., out like a light by 9.

Honestly, what is it with the jab that makes you collapse like a puppet with its strings cut?

One minute I’m sitting upright, the next - gone.

With Love,

JABatha Christie