Honestly, though… Sunday morning I woke up feeling crap again. This cold genuinely doesn’t know whether it’s coming or going, and I am officially bored of it now.  Either arrive properly or jog on.

It’s birthday eve eve, I’ve got a blow dry booked for 2pm, and the pressure is on. Except this week my hair has decided it no longer respects heat. Every time I’ve straightened it, it’s somehow come back more curly. I swear I’ve been living in a rainforest with the amount of rain we’ve had lately, and my straighteners have basically waved a white flag and given up entirely.

At this point the weather is winning, the cold is lingering, and my hair is doing whatever it wants. Honestly though, if the blow dry doesn’t hold, I’m blaming humidity, February, and the general audacity of this week.

While lying in bed, I was thinking… how exactly am I supposed to make any sales while horizontal, watching MAFS NZ, with a tissue in one hand and zero motivation in the other.

Spoiler alert: I’m not.

So I forcibly removed myself from the bed on a Sunday, powered by guilt, caffeine, and the quiet panic that businesses do not run themselves. Up I got, cold still lingering, hair still feral, and I started emailing potential customers like a responsible adult who definitely hadn’t just watched strangers argue about feelings and toothbrush etiquette.

Honestly though, nothing says small business owner quite like dragging yourself out of bed mid-reality TV binge to chase sales, because if you don’t do it… no one else is going to.

Monday morning...

Monday morning at 3am, like clockwork, I was wide awake. Window open, freezing air blowing in, and me having a full-blown hot flush like my body had scheduled it in advance.

There I was, half sweating, half shivering, questioning every life choice I’ve ever made, staring into the darkness while the rest of the world slept peacefully. Why does this always happen at 3am? Not 11pm when I could at least give up and go to bed properly. No. 3am, the hour of overthinking, menopause nonsense, and silent rage.

Honestly though, nothing humbles you quite like lying in bed at stupid o’clock, window wide open in February, wondering if you’re too hot, too cold, or just personally victimised by your own hormones.

Menopause.

That’s it. That’s the sentence. No explanation needed, no further context required.

One minute you’re freezing with the window open, the next you’re on fire at 3am like your body’s running its own illegal boiler. Sleep becomes optional, patience disappears, and your hormones are clearly freelancing with no manager in sight.

Hot flushes, brain fog, random wake ups, moods swinging harder than British weather, and the audacity of it all happening just when you’d quite like a decent night’s sleep.

Honestly, though, menopause doesn’t knock. It just lets itself in, rearranges the furniture, wakes you up at stupid o’clock, and dares you to cope.

Birthday morning, Tuesday

Woke up at 12am, 2am, 4am and 7.30am, each time greeted by a fresh new hot flush, like my body was setting alarms just to check I was still absolutely roasting.

Things have to change. And the first thing on the chopping block is my mattress.

Here’s where past-me really stitched present-me up. When I was married, we bought this amazing mattress, the kind that gently heats your body as you lie on it. The more asleep you are, the warmer it gets. In my 40s? Absolute dream. Toasty, cosy, luxurious.

Fast forward to divorce, moving house, new bed… and like an idiot fueled by nostalgia, I bought the exact same mattress because I remembered it being incredible.

Reader, it is no longer incredible.

Instead of a comfortable night’s sleep, I am tossing, turning and actually burning. Window open. Covers off. Covers on. Legs out. Legs in. Internal thermostat set to “surface of the sun”. Welcome to my 54th year, waking up every two hours in the middle of February because my bed thinks it’s helping.

Add to that:

• I hurt my back yesterday, so I had to sleep on my back (which I hate).
• I had Greek yoghurt with chocolate shot and a sneaky Biscoff as my last meal.
• Which, yes, was absolutely another mistake.
• But it was birthday eve, so I regret nothing. Mostly.

By 7.30am I gave up pretending I’d slept, opened my cards and presents, and actually felt really happy. Even though I opened them alone, I had this quiet moment of thinking, this is a good morning. Hot, painful, exhausted… but good.

Despite my back hurting, I went for an amazing massage with The Massage Room (Lucie Gilbert), which had already been booked, and honestly… it was incredible. I floated out of there feeling relaxed, looser, and slightly less like a human radiator.

Then I went to a bakery on the way home and bought a giant chocolate rugelach for my daughter and me.

Absolutely delicious. Zero notes. Back home, I made myself a coffee with vegan cream, rainbow sprinkles and marshmallows, because if there was ever a time for unnecessary joy in a mug, this was it. And it was all delicious. And it was all necessary. Honestly though… I am only 54 once a year, even if my mattress is still living in my 40s. 🎂🔥

Birthday was actually lovely.

Despite the fact I could barely move.

The backache started the day before, after a funeral where, in a moment of questionable decision-making, I wore my furry boots. In my defence, it has been raining since the beginning of time, and everything was mud. In reality, trainers would have been the sensible option. But no. Fashion met funeral met poor life choices, and my lower back has been filing complaints ever since.

In the evening, my boyfriend and I went out for dinner to the most amazing local bistro, Bistro 101. I can highly recommend it. We both ordered Wagyu fillet steak, and it was genuinely the nicest steak I have ever had. It was like eating butter. No chewing required. Just joy.

For dessert I had apple pie with ice cream, a pornstar martini that did not even touch the sides, and a glass of prosecco because at this point we were fully committed to the birthday theme.

Despite the back ache, the menopause night sweats, the questionable footwear, and abandoning soup for pastry, I thoroughly enjoyed my birthday. I received lots of lovely presents that I genuinely wanted, I ate beautiful food, and I am officially another year older.

Honestly though, 54 feels pretty good. Even if my back disagrees.

And just when I thought my digestive system might get a small break…

Wednesday ...

On Wednesday morning, I went to the funeral of someone who had been part of our lives for years, and I saw family friends I have not seen in such a long time. The kind of friends you grow up with from zero, whose parents have been friends for over 50 years, whose houses you ran in and out of without knocking. It was one of those surreal moments where you stand there in black, hugging people you once shared prams, playgrounds and teenage holidays with, and suddenly decades collapse into minutes. We reminisced and laughed and were sad, all rolled into one bittersweet morning. It was emotional, nostalgic and strangely comforting all at once. A reminder of how intertwined our beginnings were, even if adulthood scattered us miles apart.

                                                                    ***

After picking my daughter up from college, we came home and I finally faced the butternut squash that had been sitting in the fridge for two days silently judging me. Along with the carrots and onions and fresh parsley that were clearly wondering what they had done wrong. Enough was enough. I chopped, roasted, blended and redeemed myself in one domestic comeback. The house filled with that cosy smell and I felt briefly like the organised, wholesome version of myself who makes soup on purpose, not just after a few days of pastry and prosecco. It was warm, comforting and exactly what we needed after a week of chaos, rain and Biscoff. Honestly though, nothing says reset like rescuing slightly neglected vegetables and turning them into something glorious.

                                                                 ***

Picked my parents up and it was absolutely pouring with rain. Not drizzle. Not light showers. Proper sideways, umbrella’s pointless, hair ruined rain.

I dropped my parents and my daughter at the restaurant door like some kind of birthday Uber driver, then drove up the road to find parking. Miraculously, there was a space. Right there. Waiting. I almost felt chosen.

Earlier in the day I had very efficiently booked a table by the window, specifically away from the door. Strategic seating. No cold blasts every time someone walks in. No awkward squeezing past strangers. Thought it through. Planned it well.

Walked in… and everyone was sitting at a completely different table.

Of course they were.

When we sat down properly, we had to keep inching the table further and further back because every time the door opened new people couldn’t get in. Our chairs were basically forming a human barricade. Subtle chaos. Chairs scraping. Apologising to strangers. My mother pretending it wasn’t happening.

Then my sister arrived, surveyed the situation, no one looked particularly thrilled, and we all finally moved to the table I had originally booked.

Which, shockingly, worked perfectly.

Honestly though, is it even a proper family dinner if: • It’s raining. • Someone ignores the original plan. • Furniture has to be rearranged mid service. • And there’s mild tension before the starters arrive?

Wouldn’t have it any other way.

After the Great Table Relocation of Wednesday night, we finally sat down and had a lovely dinner.

Now, I am someone who reads the menu in advance. I analyse. I shortlist. I mentally pre order. I have been to this restaurant about a hundred times, so I usually play it safe. But this time I decided to be spontaneous. Wild. Different choice. And do you know what? I actually really enjoyed it.

Growth at 54.

Unfortunately, the BBQ sauce had clearly been watered down. So when I confidently squeezed it onto my plate, it shot out like it had been waiting for freedom. Straight over my boyfriend’s elbow and onto my mobile phone.

Honestly. Typical.

Nothing says romance like wiping diluted barbecue sauce off someone’s arm while apologising to your own screen.

Then came dessert. Normally there are four choices. Four. A sensible amount.

Tonight? One.

Biscoff something or other. That was it. So we all essentially ordered the same dessert but customised it like we were in some kind of Biscoff tasting workshop.

Because I am completely nut free, I had ice cream with just Biscoff. Others had Biscoff with mousse and ice cream. Someone had Biscoff ice cream and sauce. It was basically the same dessert wearing different outfits.

And you know what? It was still lovely.

In the end, despite the rain, the table drama, the rogue BBQ sauce incident and the Great Biscoff Monopoly of 2026, it turned into a really nice evening celebrating my mum’s birthday.

Honestly though, family dinners are never smooth… but they are always memorable.

Sugar, hot flushes and now apparently chamomile betrayal

So there I was on Wednesday night, confidently telling my sister that eating sugar late brings on hot flushes.

Fast forward to Thursday morning, 2.45am.

Wide awake. On fire. Again.

Window open as usual. Covers half on, half off. I took a few calming sips of my double chamomile tea, feeling smug about my wholesome bedtime routine.

And then… my tongue started burning.

Itching. Tingling. That unmistakable this is not going well feeling.

Honestly. Of all the things to turn on me.

I rummaged through my bag in the dark for my endless supply of antihistamines… only to discover they were gone. Empty. Betrayed twice in one night.

So down the stairs I went, half asleep, clutching my phone torch like I was breaking into my own kitchen, hunting for a tablet at nearly 3am. Found one. Took it. Waited for the burning to calm down while simultaneously cooling down from a hot flush.

Menopause meets mild allergy. What a combo.

So now, apparently: • Sugar brings on hot flushes. • My mattress is trying to cook me alive. • And chamomile tea, the supposed queen of calm, has decided we are no longer friends.

Honestly though, I now need to find something else that will send me off to sleep tonight… preferably something that does not cause internal combustion or an allergic reaction.

Any suggestions that do not involve relocating to the Arctic?