Day 78: Weigh-In Wonders, Cat Butts, Cold Germs & Grand Designs Madness

Oct 3
3 min read

Weigh-in day, baby!

The alarm went off and before I even opened my eyes, I knew today was the day of reckoning.

First, though, I had to peel off the furry prison guard glued to my body.

Yes, Ruby the Serial Purrer, aka The Cat With Opinions, had parked her entire butt on me again.

Honestly, my mornings now come in podcast form: The Ruby Butt-Cast, divided into thrilling segments.

Episode 1: Purr until human stirs.

Episode 2: Give detailed commentary on why breakfast is late.

Episode 3: Strategically place bum-hole in prime camera angle of my face. Sometimes I think she’s auditioning for Radio 4.

Anyway, feline removed, I approached the sacred scales.

No, I didn’t leap onto them like some Olympic gymnast - please, I value my floor tiles - but I stepped on gently, with all the gravitas of a contestant waiting for Ant and Dec to announce the winner.

And guess what?

Another 2.2 lbs gone!

Which means… wait for it… nearly 24 lbs down in total!

Now, I had to figure out what exactly 24 lbs equates to, because numbers alone mean nothing to me until I can compare them to real life:

That’s the weight of a full microwave oven. I’ve basically yeeted an entire kitchen appliance off my body.

Or two and a half bowling balls. Strike!

Or a toddler that’s just discovered how to throw tantrums in Tesco.

Goodbye, screaming child, I never needed you anyway.

Or, for my cat people, about ten Ruby butts.

Which, frankly, feels accurate because she does weigh like a furry sack of cement.

So yes, I am well chuffed.

If I had the energy (and not this stinking cold that has my nose running like the Thames), I’d do a celebratory dance.

But alas, I’m currently more “Victorian heroine coughing into a hanky” than “TikTok dancer in hot pants.”

Since I was working from home, I treated myself like the queen I am: a silky smooth Nespresso coffee (yes, I own two machines, because I like to keep one for the weekdays and one as a backup in case of global bean shortages).

Naturally, I added collagen, because I am now one scoop away from being an influencer who starts sentences with “guys, you NEED this in your life.”

Breakfast was elegant: two tiny slices of soda bread with smoked salmon. That’s right, tiny.

Because I am a dainty, portion-controlled goddess.

And the best part?

No retching.

NONE.

A miracle on Day 78.

I almost rang the Pope.

Work then swallowed me whole.

Emails again flying faster than Harry Potter’s Hogwarts letters, meetings stacked like Jenga, and me, still coughing into tissues like I’m auditioning for a tragic role in Les Misérables.

Midday rolled around and it was jab time - 7.5mg straight into the thigh. I swear the jab itself is fine, but that weird metallic taste after?

Sometimes I’m convinced I’ve licked a spoon I left in the radiator.

Back pain made a guest appearance too - thank you, heels at work.

I should sue fashion.

But I self-medicated in the evening with the holy grail of recovery: a boiling hot bath with 17 types of salts, potions, and lotions.

Honestly, my bath shelf looks like I robbed Lush, Elemis, and a medieval apothecary in one go.

Dinner (or was it lunch? Or was it second lunch?) was chicken plus a third of Waitrose’s finest minestrone soup.

Side note: why is it always a third?

Why can’t I ever finish it in one go?

Am I accidentally pioneering the art of “fractional eating”?

Evening came, and with it, peak adulthood: Grand Designs night!

Brand spanking new episode.

This time featuring a bonkers eccentric artist trying to build her dream house with £3.50, no structural engineer, and a Pinterest board full of lies.

Cue Kevin McCloud’s disappointed dad face: “They had £200k, and yet somehow… the toilet alone cost £199k. And still isn’t finished.”

People are MAD.

Honestly, who decides to build a 3-piece eco-palace with hempcrete and no prior building knowledge?

I can’t even hang a picture frame without it looking like modern art.

And then - oh sweet joy - the Grand Designs podcast.

Kevin and James Gray chatting absolute gold.

If you’ve not heard it, picture Kevin letting his inner sass out while James tries (and fails) to be the sensible one.

I laughed so hard I nearly snorted Lemsip out my nose.

Highly recommend.

Finally, bed. I curled up, tissues nearby (for the cold, don’t be filthy), and thought: today was a good day.

A very good day.

No retching, just a sniffly nose, slightly aching back, 24 lbs lighter, bathed like Cleopatra, entertained by maniacs with unfinished houses, and tucked up with Ruby the Butt-Caster ready for Episode 79 of “Meow: The Early Hours.”

Bring on Friday.

With Love,

JABatha Christie

Weigh-in day, baby!

The alarm went off and before I even opened my eyes, I knew today was the day of reckoning.

First, though, I had to peel off the furry prison guard glued to my body.

Yes, Ruby the Serial Purrer, aka The Cat With Opinions, had parked her entire butt on me again.

Honestly, my mornings now come in podcast form: The Ruby Butt-Cast, divided into thrilling segments.

Episode 1: Purr until human stirs.

Episode 2: Give detailed commentary on why breakfast is late.

Episode 3: Strategically place bum-hole in prime camera angle of my face. Sometimes I think she’s auditioning for Radio 4.

Anyway, feline removed, I approached the sacred scales.

No, I didn’t leap onto them like some Olympic gymnast - please, I value my floor tiles - but I stepped on gently, with all the gravitas of a contestant waiting for Ant and Dec to announce the winner.

And guess what?

Another 2.2 lbs gone!

Which means… wait for it… nearly 24 lbs down in total!

Now, I had to figure out what exactly 24 lbs equates to, because numbers alone mean nothing to me until I can compare them to real life:

That’s the weight of a full microwave oven. I’ve basically yeeted an entire kitchen appliance off my body.

Or two and a half bowling balls. Strike!

Or a toddler that’s just discovered how to throw tantrums in Tesco.

Goodbye, screaming child, I never needed you anyway.

Or, for my cat people, about ten Ruby butts.

Which, frankly, feels accurate because she does weigh like a furry sack of cement.

So yes, I am well chuffed.

If I had the energy (and not this stinking cold that has my nose running like the Thames), I’d do a celebratory dance.

But alas, I’m currently more “Victorian heroine coughing into a hanky” than “TikTok dancer in hot pants.”

Since I was working from home, I treated myself like the queen I am: a silky smooth Nespresso coffee (yes, I own two machines, because I like to keep one for the weekdays and one as a backup in case of global bean shortages).

Naturally, I added collagen, because I am now one scoop away from being an influencer who starts sentences with “guys, you NEED this in your life.”

Breakfast was elegant: two tiny slices of soda bread with smoked salmon. That’s right, tiny.

Because I am a dainty, portion-controlled goddess.

And the best part?

No retching.

NONE.

A miracle on Day 78.

I almost rang the Pope.

Work then swallowed me whole.

Emails again flying faster than Harry Potter’s Hogwarts letters, meetings stacked like Jenga, and me, still coughing into tissues like I’m auditioning for a tragic role in Les Misérables.

Midday rolled around and it was jab time - 7.5mg straight into the thigh. I swear the jab itself is fine, but that weird metallic taste after?

Sometimes I’m convinced I’ve licked a spoon I left in the radiator.

Back pain made a guest appearance too - thank you, heels at work.

I should sue fashion.

But I self-medicated in the evening with the holy grail of recovery: a boiling hot bath with 17 types of salts, potions, and lotions.

Honestly, my bath shelf looks like I robbed Lush, Elemis, and a medieval apothecary in one go.

Dinner (or was it lunch? Or was it second lunch?) was chicken plus a third of Waitrose’s finest minestrone soup.

Side note: why is it always a third?

Why can’t I ever finish it in one go?

Am I accidentally pioneering the art of “fractional eating”?

Evening came, and with it, peak adulthood: Grand Designs night!

Brand spanking new episode.

This time featuring a bonkers eccentric artist trying to build her dream house with £3.50, no structural engineer, and a Pinterest board full of lies.

Cue Kevin McCloud’s disappointed dad face: “They had £200k, and yet somehow… the toilet alone cost £199k. And still isn’t finished.”

People are MAD.

Honestly, who decides to build a 3-piece eco-palace with hempcrete and no prior building knowledge?

I can’t even hang a picture frame without it looking like modern art.

And then - oh sweet joy - the Grand Designs podcast.

Kevin and James Gray chatting absolute gold.

If you’ve not heard it, picture Kevin letting his inner sass out while James tries (and fails) to be the sensible one.

I laughed so hard I nearly snorted Lemsip out my nose.

Highly recommend.

Finally, bed. I curled up, tissues nearby (for the cold, don’t be filthy), and thought: today was a good day.

A very good day.

No retching, just a sniffly nose, slightly aching back, 24 lbs lighter, bathed like Cleopatra, entertained by maniacs with unfinished houses, and tucked up with Ruby the Butt-Caster ready for Episode 79 of “Meow: The Early Hours.”

Bring on Friday.

With Love,

JABatha Christie

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