Day 80-83: The Bingo, the Bed, and the Barf - basically a four-day rollercoaster of laughter, laziness, and liquid noses...

Apologies for the radio silence, my fellow Jabbers!

I have been under the weather - and not in a poetic, “moody raincloud over a Paris café” way.

More like Mounjaro-meets-gastro-meets-viral-chaos.

I also may or may not have been reconsidering my relationship status with our beloved jab. (It’s complicated. We’re on a break. Ross and Rachel style.)

So, let’s rewind to the cheeky bingo night - a.k.a. the last time I felt alive. Oh. My. God.

I laughed so hard my stomach felt like it was doing an ab workout it definitely didn’t sign up for.

We were in stitches.

There were numbers, lights, and absolutely no dignity involved.

My orange dabber was working harder than me on a Monday, and somehow, miraculously, I won three lines! THREE!

Thank you, bingo gods, and thank you, orange dabber - my lucky wand of chaos.

We danced, we howled, we probably frightened the locals.

My boyfriend - a.k.a. DJ McFreestyle - even jumped on the decks and absolutely smashed it. I nearly cried from pride (and maybe from the Prosecco fumes).

He was that good.

So good, in fact, that for about five minutes, I forgot I was on a weight-loss injection that makes my stomach turn itself inside out.

Then came Saturday and Sunday, a.k.a. The Great Couch Merge.

I achieved absolutely nothing.

Nada.

Zero.

My Fitbit probably thought I’d died.

The only movement I did was from bed to washing machine and back to bed again - like a lazy domestic boomerang.

Enter my latest obsession: Sullivan’s Crossing.

Oh my word. Why did no one tell me about this sooner?!

It’s giving Heartland meets Virgin River, with just enough drama to make you yell “WHAT NOW?!” at the TV every 20 minutes.

I am emotionally invested.

I want to move to a cabin, wear plaid shirts, and have meaningful conversations beside a river.

The cats were overjoyed because this meant maximum duvet time with mummy.

Ruby was purring like an old diesel engine, and I’m pretty sure Molly claimed the TV remote at one point.

Bliss.

Pure, lazy bliss.

Food-wise?

Couldn’t tell you.

My 7.5mg dose was out here auditioning for The Exorcist 2: Jabatha’s Revenge.

The retching was Olympic-level.

My poor stomach is so done, it’s considering unionising.

So yes - I made an executive decision: finish this pen, then downgrade back to 5mg.

Because clearly, 7.5 and I are not a love match.

Then came Monday. The dreaded 5am alarm.

How I can do nothing for 48 hours straight and still wake up more exhausted is a mystery for science.

Maybe the retching burns calories and energy?

Honestly, is this all worth it?

(Yes, future me whispers, but present me is unconvinced.)

Half a bircher muesli with yoghurt for breakfast.

Half a Pret falafel salad for lunch.

My appetite was somewhere between “meh” and “non-existent.”

Then came a bittersweet moment - meeting my lovely friend who’s moving permanently to sunny Spain.

I’m already missing her and she hasn’t even boarded the plane.

She’s swapping grey skies for sangria while I’m left here, clutching my Pret salad and wondering why I didn’t apply for a job in Alicante.

Tuesday rolled in like a snotty freight train.

I woke up with a stinking cold - my nose was Niagara Falls, my cough echoed across Canary Wharf, and I’m pretty sure half of London heard my “productive” lungs.

But I soldiered on.

I even fancied something hearty - sausages and sourdough from the work canteen.

Brave choice, considering my digestive system was already on strike.

Did a couple of meetings, then called it: Cab home.

Stat.

And the second I stepped through the door, breakfast decided to make a surprise reappearance… via toilet.

I absolutely HATE puking.

Is it gastroparesis?

Is it Mounjaro?

Is it my cold?

At this point, it could be the ghost of bingo past for all I know.

Worked from home the rest of the day - tissues, tea, and self-pity galore.

Tomorrow I’m back in the office (because why not suffer publicly?) for my arm ultrasound, since my arm’s been hurting like it’s trying to send an SOS in Morse code.

Fingers crossed it’s nothing dramatic.

Tonight’s plan?

No food, no effort, no retching (please, universe ).

Just me, the sofa, a bit of easy TV, and cuddles with my man - the hero who DJs, tolerates my whining, and hands me tissues mid-meltdown.

So that’s me, Jabbers - 4 days of chaos, coughs, cuddles, and contemplation.

Until next time, may your dabbers stay lucky, your stomachs stay calm, and your Netflix queue forever overflow.

Keep jabbin’, keep laughin’, and for the love of God, avoid the 7.5!

With Love,

JABatha Christie