Some weeks are productive. Some weeks are peaceful. And then there are the weeks that feel like they were written by a chaotic intern who actively dislikes you.

Welcome to mine.

This week delivered: • sugar withdrawal • admin nonsense • wrong-day decisions • rubbish drumming • accidental iced coffee • bargain trolley victory • traffic-induced rage 

and a daughter going back to college (the actual emotional highlight)  

Let’s begin.

Sugar Dip Tuesday: Apparently I Was Emotionally Attached to Biscuits

By Tuesday, I was officially 1.5 days without sugar.

No chocolate. No biscuits. No “just one” that mysteriously turns into five. What I did have was a headache so intense I could feel my own heartbeat in my skull. Not pain, percussion. Full internal drum solo. Very “is this how it ends?” energy.

I used to think “sugar withdrawal” was just something TikTok wellness girls said for drama.

Turns out… it’s real. Very real. And very loud.

Your body goes: “Excuse me? Where is my emergency glucose supply?” And when it doesn’t arrive… it files a formal complaint directly to your forehead.

I drank water. I lay down. I stared into the void. Still there.

My brain was basically chanting: “Bring me biscuits, bring me sugar"

But here’s the annoying truth…

This is actually a good sign.

It means my body was genuinely addicted to the sugar rollercoaster. High. Crash. Snack. Repeat. And now it’s sulking because I’ve cut off its emotional support biscuits.

So yes, on Tuesday I felt personally victimised by the biscuit aisle. But I also knew that in a few days my body would calm down, the fog would lift, and I wouldn’t be emotionally controlled by a packet of Biscoffs.

Right now I choose to believe: ✨ this headache = progress ✨ this pain = my metabolism re-entering the chat ✨ this drama = temporary

Still… if anyone wants to offer sympathy, electrolytes, or a medal for surviving day two without sugar, I will accept all three.

Because nobody tells you that quitting sugar feels like breaking up with a toxic snack relationship.

And yet… here I am. Head pounding. Water in hand. Refusing to let a biscuit win.

Wrong Day at the Tip: I Booked Tuesday… I Wanted Wednesday

You’d think that in a fragile, sugar-deprived state, I would make sensible choices.

Reader… I did not.

I had booked the recycling tip for Tuesday. But in my head? It was Wednesday. Emotionally, spiritually, logistically… I was living on Wednesday.

So I turn up at the kiosk, feeling very “yes, I’ve got my life together,” only to be told… nope. Not today. Wrong day.

At that point I just looked at the man behind the screen and started laughing. Not nervous laughing. Not polite British smiling. Proper “of course I’ve done this” laughing.

He laughed too.

He told me to cancel Tuesday and re-book for Wednesday, like this is something that happens all the time and I’m just another member of the “confidently wrong” club.

Honestly? Fair.

No judgement. No eye-rolling. Just two people acknowledging that time is fake and admin is out to get us.

I left slightly embarrassed as I had to do the cancelling and re booking while parked in the middle of the road, still sugar-deprived, but also weirdly uplifted. Because sometimes life doesn’t fix your mistake… it just gives you a moment that becomes part of the story.

The Rubbish Orchestra

Inside the site, the staff were playing the drums on the recycling.

Actual drumming. Bins. Metal. Washing machines. Lids. Rhythms.

Like a low-budget eco festival.

So picture this:

• sugar-withdrawal headache • wrong day because I booked the wrong one • paperwork and re-booking • random percussion echoing around the site • me, trying not to cry, laugh, or collapse into a pile of cardboard

My head is already throbbing like it wants a record deal, and now I’m standing in the middle of a rubbish orchestra wondering how this is my actual life.

Somehow, between the headache, the wrong-day arrival, the shared laughter, and the percussion-based recycling experience, I left feeling… oddly fine.

Still sugar-deprived. Still dramatic. But also reminded that sometimes the universe doesn’t fix your problems — it just gives you a funny story instead.

And honestly?

I’ll take it.

Because if I’m going to suffer through a Tuesday sugar dip, it may as well come with laughter… and a bin-lid drum solo.

Seagulls, My Boyfriend-Business-Partner & The Great Bread Scam

After the tip and watching half the seagull population enjoying the latest rubbish like it was an all-you-can-eat seaside buffet — I headed over to my boyfriend’s.

Also my business partner. Because of course he is. I don’t do “simple”.

We did some work (very professional, very adult) and then went for lunch at what has become our winter place. We go about once a month now… mainly because the prices have doubled and we’re not made of money or parsnip soup.

This time, though, the restaurant and bar were closed, and we were redirected into a conference room.

For lunch.

But fair play — they’d tried. Tables. A bar at the back. And one gigantic heater trying to warm the entire building on its own.

We sat down. Opposite us? About eight elderly ladies, deep in conversation, living their absolute best lives. Honestly… goals.

We ordered spicy parsnip soup and ciabatta to share.

What arrived next was… bold.

Not two pats of butter. Not four. Six (Which we asked for)!!

Then when the bread arrived, they brought another three.

Nine. Pats. Of. Butter. For two people.

At this point we were like, “Wow… this bread must be enormous.”

Reader. It was not.

The “ciabatta” was basically one slightly oversized roll, sliced up. That was it. That was the bread we were apparently meant to butter nine separate times.

So there we were: • one modest roll • nine pats of butter • eight ladies opposite still chatting happily • and me quietly rethinking every bread-based assumption I’ve ever made

But we laughed. Because what else can you do?

Between sugar withdrawal, rubbish drumming, seagulls living their best landfill life, business meetings with my boyfriend, and a bread-to-butter ratio that made absolutely no sense… it felt exactly like my kind of day.

Unplanned. Ridiculous. Weirdly perfect.

Thursday: My Car Service (Where Time Is Merely a Suggestion)

Then came Thursday. Garage day.

I arrive at 9:02am, feeling organised, adult, on top of life.

The man says:

“You know your car was actually booked in for 2pm?”

Of course it was.

Because why would I turn up at the correct time when I could confidently appear five hours early and act shocked?

I’m standing there thinking… When exactly was I meant to receive this crucial information? Telepathy? Smoke signals? A carrier pigeon?

I’d told them I needed to pick my daughter up from college at 1:20, so after a bit of discussion they very kindly said they’d squeeze me in now. Absolute legends. Also helps that it’s only a mini service — the car is just a year old, which somehow made my time-travel error more forgivable.

Then I go to make myself an espresso.

Press the button.

And instead of hot water… I hit extra cold.

Ice-cold espresso. At 9am. In a garage waiting room.

Honestly, I just stared at the machine like it had personally betrayed me.

So there I was: • five hours early for my own appointment • drinking accidental iced coffee • mentally calculating college pick-up logistics • wondering how I manage to be both over-prepared and completely wrong at the same time

Another Thursday morning with me.

After the Garage: Retail Therapy, Quavers Temptation & A Trolley Win

After the garage, I went shopping. Because obviously the only logical response to admin, iced coffee and time confusion is… retail therapy.

I bought myself daffodils — because when daffodils are in the shops, spring is officially around the corner. That little burst of yellow felt like hope. Like the universe whispering, “Hang on… it’s about to get lighter.”

Then I found myself staring at the Red Leicester Quavers.

Not buying them. Just… staring.

Like we were in some kind of dramatic standoff. Me, sugar-deprived. Them, orange, cheesy, emotionally manipulative.

Reader… I walked away. Personal growth.

But then — redemption.

I spotted another black trolley.

Half price. £4.99.

Four. Ninety. Nine.

Which is:

• half the price of the last one I bought • and £25 cheaper than the one I once bought online

I stood there, holding it, thinking about the time I paid £30 for essentially the same thing.

Thirty pounds. For a trolley.

What. A. Rip. Off.

So now I’ve got daffodils in my house, a bargain trolley in my boot, and the strange emotional satisfaction that only a good deal can provide.

Small wins. Big feelings.

Thursday Traffic: Park & Driving on the Pavement

And because Thursday clearly wasn’t finished with me yet…

Public service announcement: Avoid this area at all costs. 

It’s pouring with rain, because of course it is.

A bus breaks down on the turn for a really busy road leading to shops, police close the road, and then there are temporary traffic lights in all directions, causing delays that feel less like traffic management and more like a social experiment. Whichever way you went, you were stuck.

And then… on the way home...

A car doesn’t stop at the temporary lights. Just barrels through, like rules are merely decorative, which means a whole load of cars follow her. Which meant traffic on my side of the road has no option but to… drive onto the pavement to get around the traffic van, otherwise we'd all be there until tomorrow! That was definitely a first-time experience!

Yes. The pavement.

At that point, any remaining structure in society quietly packed up and left.

Traffic is now backed up in all directions. Cars stuck. People confused. Everyone inching forward like we’re in a post-apocalyptic driving documentary.

So there I am: • rain hammering down • roads closed • lights everywhere • cars mounting pavements • and me thinking, “Of course this is happening today.”

Absolute chaos. Avoid if you can. 

And the Bit That Actually Matters

Among all the chaos, the comedy, the admin, the wrong days and ridiculous moments…

My daughter is back at college.

After spending the whole of the Christmas holidays in hospital and missing a week of college to recover. waiting, worry…

She’s well enough to go back.

And honestly? That one sentence outweighs everything else.

Because I can laugh at soup in conference rooms and accidental iced coffee. But watching her step back into normal life again?

That’s everything.