Day 76: Mario Kart Minis, Mango Bowls & The Retching Olympics

Another office day.

Another 5am wake-up.

At this point, I feel like I should just legally change my name to “The Human Alarm Clock” because why do I even bother setting one?

Like clockwork, Ruby the Serial Purrer had already plonked herself across my ribcage, purring into my eardrum like a one-cat wellness retreat.

Honestly, it’s cheaper than therapy and more effective than any Calm app subscription - but Ruby, darling, did I ask for AMSR therapy at 4:52am?

No.

But it is lovely though...

Still, the second I sat up, the daily retching routine kicked in.

Ah yes, my favourite ritual.

Some people do morning yoga.

Some people do journaling.

I dry heave into the abyss like a faulty Dyson.

Cute.

Not.

Dragged myself into the shower, slapped some makeup on (let’s be honest, at that hour it’s more Jackson Pollock than Charlotte Tilbury), did my hair, and squeezed into my now-smaller work clothes.

Honestly, putting on smaller business outfits is like a tiny victory march - except my stomach clearly didn’t get the memo and was busy plotting another episode of “Retching: The Musical.”

Headed out into the thickest fog I’ve ever seen - proper spooky movie vibes. If a Victorian ghost had floated across my driveway holding a lantern and whispering “turn back,” I would’ve just nodded politely and carried on to the station.

Priorities.

Train to London: air pods in, deep house music blasting.

Nothing like a little 124 BPM to wake the soul.

I was half-asleep, half-imagining myself on the decks in Ibiza, when in reality I was wedged between a man eating a boiled egg and someone scrolling TikTok at full volume.

Breakfast stop: went wild today - protein bowl with mango from Pret + coffee from Joe Blake’s.

Delicious.

A civilised little office breakfast moment.

Thirty minutes later: retching returned.

I swear Mounjaro is the pettiest ex-boyfriend I never had.

“Oh, you enjoyed that, did you? Not on my watch.”

Work = utter madness.

Deadlines, PowerPoints, Teams pings raining down like confetti at a budget wedding.

But me and my team still managed to sneak out for a walk in the sunshine. For nearly October, the weather was absolutely glorious - although the chill in the air definitely whispered: Christmas is coming, babe.

Lunch? A quick pit stop for sushi, which I inhaled at my desk like a woman possessed before running to my next meeting.

Honestly, chopsticks weren’t even in the picture.

It was Hoover Mode ON.

The rest of the day was just me perfecting PowerPoints, aka trying to make bullet points look sexy.

Eventually, work spat me out, and I began the evening commute: retching, tube, train, and then drive home with music blaring in my Mini.

Speaking of which - let’s talk about my Mini.

I LOVE driving that car.

Honestly, it’s basically Mario Kart on the countryside lanes.

Zipping around bends, dodging tractors, trying not to launch airborne over speed bumps.

Which character am I?

I want to say Princess Peach, but let’s be real: I’ve got the chaos energy of Toad and the dry sarcasm of Waluigi.

Suggestions welcome.

Home at last.

Immediately stole a couple of chips and a piece of chicken off my boyfriend’s plate (because true love is sharing, right?).

That was my dinner.

Romantic.

Except… ten minutes later I was sprinting to the bathroom for another glamorous round of dry heaving.

And THIS one was next-level.

I genuinely thought my intestines had tied themselves into balloon animals. I clutched the sink like I was about to be exorcised.

At one point, I considered drafting my will on the back of a toilet roll. Dramatic?

Maybe.

But my insides were auditioning for Cirque du Soleil.

Eventually crawled back downstairs, pale but alive, to watch The Rookie followed by Bake Off.

Honestly, that’s the perfect combo: crime drama and people crying over underbaked sponge.

Balance.

We called it an early night because both of us were absolutely shattered.

But as I lay there, I kept thinking: is it time to pack the jab in?

Because this retching is no longer funny (well, okay, sometimes it’s funny, but mostly it’s mortifying).

I’ve been through enough hospital procedures, cameras shoved where cameras should not go, and medical merry-go-rounds to last a lifetime.

I don’t want to go back there.

But… the jab is working.

The progress is real.

And that’s the killer - the it’s working but it’s breaking me dilemma. Mounjaro, you toxic little miracle.

Do I love you?

Do I hate you?

Do I need couples’ therapy with my GP?

Probably.

Anyway, tomorrow I’m working from home (praise the sleep gods).

No 5am alarm.

No foggy trains.

Just me, the cats, a slower pace, and hopefully less retching if I try eating slower.

Day 76: chaotic, foggy, retchy, a little terrifying, but sprinkled with sushi, Mario Kart driving, Bake Off, and boyfriend’s chips.

As always: survived.

Sleep tight, jabbers.

And may your intestines remain untangled.

With Love,

JABatha Christie