Day 85: Cat Podcasts, Cold Weather Dilemmas, and the Great 26lb Triumph

Oct 10
5 min read

Ah, Day 85.

A day that began with feline chaos, ended under a duvet, and somewhere in between involved a monumental personal victory, a jab-induced gamble, and an existential debate about central heating.

Let’s begin at the only logical starting point: the cat podcast that wasn’t just in my ears - but in my face.

Morning Madness: The Cat Podcast, Live and Unfiltered:

As per usual, my cat decided that today’s episode of “Purrcast: The Morning Edition” would be broadcast directly into my face.

No microphone needed.

The rumble of a thousand tiny engines at 4:47 a.m. was my wake-up call - accompanied by an affectionate tail slap and some whisker-to-nostril contact that could rival a lie detector test.

Apparently, she had things to say.

Urgent things.

Possibly about breakfast.

Possibly about the tragic emptiness of her food bowl.

Either way, I was not the intended co-host so much as the unwilling sound technician.

Still, I can’t be mad.

This is our daily ritual.

She purrs.

I sneeze.

We bond.

Working From Home, Sniffling Edition:

Today was a work from home day, thanks to my glamorous new accessory: a cold. Not COVID, not flu, just that bland, annoying sort of cold that makes you question every life decision, particularly ones involving sitting upright.

Between the tissue pile and the laptop, I resembled a sad Victorian orphan trying to do digital marketing.

But I soldiered on.

Because dedication.

And also because I was too tired to email HR about a sick day.

The Morning Weigh-In: A Drumroll Moment:

Now, here’s the headline news:

Nearly 26lbs down.

That’s nearly 12 kilograms. Nearly two whole stone.

And yes, I am very happy. Euphoric, even. The scale blinked the number like it was proud of me, and I stood there like a victorious gladiator who had slain an entire cheesecake.

It’s surreal, honestly.

The clothes fit differently, the mirror looks less judgmental, and even my cats seem to regard me with new respect (or maybe just hunger - it’s hard to tell).

There’s something magical about seeing those numbers drop.

Every pound gone feels like a small rebellion against the “meh” version of myself from a few months ago.

And no, it hasn’t been easy - there have been food noise days, retching days, and why-am-I-like-this days.

But this?

This is the payoff.

If anyone needs me, I’ll be updating my internal monologue to include the phrase: “I’m down 26 pounds, thank you for asking.”

Boots, Jabs, and the Ongoing Saga of Gastroparesis:

Then - ding!

A message from Boots: my 5mg pen is ready to collect.

A round of applause for small miracles.

Because once I finish my current 7.5mg pen, I am marching back to 5mg like a defiant hero in a slow-motion movie montage.

Why?

Because I am officially done with the gastroparesis.

Done with feeling like I’ve swallowed a bowling ball.

Done with food hanging around in my stomach like a teenager who won’t move out.

I love the results, but the side effects?

Not the vibe.

I even had a bit of food noise today - those little whispers from the carb devil saying “go on, have another crumpet…”

The Food Log of Champions:

Breakfast: Two crumpets. Perfectly toasted. Buttered with precision. A spiritual experience.

Lunch: One-third of a tomato soup. Not half. Not a whole. Just a polite third, because apparently that’s the portion my body accepts before staging a rebellion.

Dinner: Two tiny slices of pizza stolen from my boyfriend’s plate like a culinary raccoon. Delicious. Worth the risk.

The Work Grind (and the Countdown to Friday):

Work was, in a word, busy. The kind of busy that makes you blink and suddenly it’s 4 p.m. and you haven’t moved since 9 a.m.

But the good news?

Tomorrow is Friday.

That tiny golden light at the end of the corporate tunnel.

By mid-afternoon, I jabbed.

The weekly ritual.

The anticipation game of “will I get the rash or not?” began.

No rash yet, but the night is young.

Joy Delivered: The Pom Pom London Bag:

Then, salvation arrived in a cardboard box.

My Pom Pom London bag - green (my favourite colour), with the most gorgeous lattice pattern you’ve ever seen.

Chic.

Elegant.

The sort of bag that says, “Yes, I drink matcha and own a diary.”

I genuinely gasped.

It’s so lovely I almost forgot about my blocked nose.

If happiness could be delivered by courier, it would look like this bag.

The Calm Before the Retch:

Surprisingly, no retching today!

I almost feel betrayed by my own expectations.

I just know tomorrow will bring its revenge when the jab peaks.

The retching always comes.

It’s like a badly scheduled guest appearance on the world’s worst sitcom.

At this point, I’m just bored of it.

Can we skip to the part where my stomach behaves like a normal organ again?

The Great Heating Dilemma of Day 85:

Speaking of internal temperatures - it’s bloody freezing.

So here’s the debate: do I turn the heating on now or wait until tomorrow? Because the first time you put it on for the season feels like a serious commitment.

Like saying, “Okay, winter, you win.”

It’s a psychological line you can’t uncross.

And yet… my toes are crying.

Comms, PowerPoints, and the Sweet Escape:

The rest of the workday was a blur of emails, PowerPoints, and endless Teams calls. At 5:31 p.m., I shut the laptop with the satisfaction of someone slamming a courtroom gavel.

Straight under the duvet I went, laptop swapped for Netflix.

The modern-day equivalent of lighting a fire and staring at it for warmth and meaning.

Evening Entertainment: The Beckham Chronicles:

First up: the Victoria Beckham documentary.

Let’s be honest - she came across as desperate to be liked.

The whole production screamed “rebranding attempt” wrapped in designer beige.

A slick montage of luxury, sadness, and humblebrags.

There’s only so much “I’m just a normal girl who happens to be married to David Beckham” a person can handle.

To be fair, she’s polished, funny at times, and clearly hardworking.

But overall? It felt like a glossy self-promotion campaign, the kind that could use fewer tears and more actual content.

I gave it 2.5 pouty poses out of 5.

NFL Time: America’s Team and the Jerry Jones Universe:

Then, I joined my handsome NFL fanatic for a documentary about America’s Team - the Dallas Cowboys - and their ever-theatrical owner, Jerry Jones.

If you’ve never seen Jerry Jones in action, imagine a billionaire oil baron crossed with a motivational speaker and a Bond villain who insists on narrating his own legend. The man oozes charisma, chaos, and cowboy energy.

The documentary itself was slick, dramatic, and full of that quintessential American bravado - flags waving, guitars twanging, and endless talk of “legacy.” It’s fascinating, ridiculous, and oddly moving in parts.

Jerry might be polarising, but one thing’s certain: he loves that team more than most people love their families.

And So Ends Day 85:

So here I am: under the duvet, surrounded by tissues, one green Pom Pom London bag proudly displayed on the chair like a trophy.

My cat is asleep beside me (probably dreaming of crumpets).

My stomach is calm for now.

And I’m basking in the quiet joy of being 26 pounds lighter, one jab stronger, and one step closer to the weekend.

Tomorrow?

Who knows.

Maybe I’ll finally turn the heating on.

Maybe I’ll finally stop retching.

But tonight, I’m just grateful - for progress, for cats, for pizza thefts, and for Netflix documentaries that remind me: at least I’m not Jerry Jones.