Sunday 4th January

Today I went to my parents’ house to collect their DNA.

Yes. I know. They are my parents. Before anyone asks.

This isn’t about questioning who they are — it’s about finishing my family tree. I already have thousands of DNA relatives around the world, but without my parents’ DNA I can’t go any further back. I’m basically stuck halfway through the puzzle, waving a tube of saliva at the universe.

So… DNA it is.

The highlight? My dad genuinely thought he was getting a box of chocolates.

I handed him the gift bag and watched his joy evaporate in real time. Turns out, a DNA kit is not the treat he was emotionally prepared for. Honestly, I ruined his day and I don’t even feel that bad about it.

I’d ordered the kits during a Black Friday sale — half price, very smug — then completely forgot about them. Weeks later, two mysterious packages arrived.

No card. No label. No branding. Nothing.

I fully thought they were bombs.

And I wish that was dramatic, but it isn’t. That’s the world we live in now. Something turns up unlabelled and your brain doesn’t go “Oh, something I ordered”, it goes “Well, this is how I die.”

Turns out it wasn’t terrorism. Just a DNA company with absolutely shocking packaging etiquette. Still… if you’re posting people tubes to spit in, maybe add a label? A note? A single word to say this is not an explosive device?

Also, the diet started on Sunday, which, of course, meant I immediately overate fruit and vegetables to emotionally compensate for the industrial amount of chocolate I had inhaled last week. I’m fully aware that six apples do not cancel out half box of Celebrations, but I live in hope.

I swear I only need to look at sweet treats and I put on half a stone. No chewing required. Just eye contact. Meanwhile, other people eat chocolate like it’s a personality trait with no physical consequences.

January diets aren’t about weight loss. They’re about guilt management. And I am elite level.

Monday 5th January

Because January refuses to enter quietly, Monday kicked off with a pre-op assessment phone call at 8:15am.

Eight. Fifteen. On a Monday.

My daughter is still on school holidays. In fact, this would have been her last proper lie-in before reality returned. Instead? Alarms. Phones charged. Everyone awake for a medical call that absolutely could not have waited until after coffee.

I woke at 6:30am to find it was -2°C outside and the heating was already on. Not because we’re extravagant — but because freezing to death feels unnecessary. I genuinely cannot imagine what the heating bill is going to look like this month. January energy bills should come with emotional support.

Then I went to the supermarket.

Even the fruit and vegetables looked tired. Not end-of-day tired. January tired. Limp broccoli. Depressed peppers. Apples with the enthusiasm of someone back at work after Christmas. If produce could sigh, it absolutely would.

Outside: arctic. Inside: warm but financially reckless. Mood: already done with the year.

January doesn’t ease you in. It kicks the door down and demands your will to live.

Tuesday 6th January

I went over to my business partner's office to do some work and it was snowing.

At first I was like, I can do this. It’s only a flurry. Cute. Festive.

Two hours later, the snow had fully arrived in London and I realised I am not built for icy hills. I drove home with my foot permanently hovering over the brake, crawling down every slope like a woman who has suddenly aged into a nervous pensioner. No bravery. Just survival.

I was very proud of myself for making it home in one piece.

The weather has been stuck between -1, 0 and 1 degrees for days. Not crisp. Not magical. Just aggressively cold. The kind of cold that makes stepping outside feel like a personal attack. No “fresh air”, no “brisk winter walk”. Just frostbite and regret.

Then the hospital called.

Pre-op assessment team. Nurse. Calm. Efficient. “Have you had your assessment?” Yes. “You are booked in for surgery on the 9th.”

We had an idea, but the pre-op instructions listed three different hospitals, so naturally I had no clue where we were actually meant to be or at what time. I asked. She cleared it up.

I messaged the family: Operation booked for Friday.

Which immediately triggered a barrage of phone calls: Where is it? What time? What happens next? 

And all I could say was: “I don’t know anything until we arrive. They’ll tell us on the day. Apparently this is how the NHS likes to keep us emotionally unstable.”

Then, ten minutes later, the phone rang again.

Another hospital call.

“Your daughter has been approved for surgery on the 9th.”

Yes. We know. We literally just discussed this.

“And she’ll be staying in for a few nights.”

Oh.

How many? “At least a few.”

Honestly? I felt relieved. Not because I want her stuck in hospital, but because it means they’re taking this seriously. Not a quick in-and-out. Not a shrug and a paracetamol. Proper care. Proper monitoring.

After weeks of waiting, pain and admin gymnastics, it finally felt like someone was actually doing something.

And THEN — because my body demanded its own subplot — Tuesday night became Hot Flush: The Musical.

I was up half the night, sweating, throwing covers on and off like I was in a personal sauna. I did eventually work out why.

Earlier that afternoon I’d treated myself to one of the coffees my daughter bought me for Christmas: Coffee Gift Set, 9 Flavoured Ground Coffees.

I chose French Vanilla. Hands down the best one.

But did I stop there? No. I added vegan whipped cream and rainbow chocolate chips. Because apparently I hate myself.

Except the coffee is already full of sugar. So that was a double hit. Then I ate sweet and salty popcorn for good measure.

Sugar. Caffeine. More sugar. More chaos.

This unholy combination was an absolute menopause nightmare. Around 2am I was drenched in sweat, questioning every decision I’d made since lunchtime.

At some point I gave up entirely and spent the rest of the night with the window wide open, freezing on one side and overheating on the other like a malfunctioning thermostat.

Snow outside. Hospital in my head. Hormones in full rebellion.

January, you are doing far too much.

Wednesday 7th January

The 7th disappeared in a blur of admin. Emails. Messages. Lists. Forms. One of those days where you sit down for “five minutes” and suddenly it’s dark.

The weather, however, decided to show off. A positively tropical 6°C. Balmy. I nearly opened a window. Nearly. Heating still on because I enjoy warmth and financial ruin equally.

Thursday is officially hospital packing day.

She’s staying in for a few nights and we don’t actually know how many, so I bought a new hospital bag. Because nothing says “calm parent” like panic-buying luggage.

I have to take all her medication, which alone could fill half the bag. Add in vests, clothes, and the hospital’s official advice:

• Dressing gown
• Sliders
• Something warm

Which obviously means the Oodie is coming too. If you’re going to be in hospital, you might as well be wrapped in a wearable duvet.

We have to be out the door at 6:45am on Friday. I don’t know what the traffic will be like, but I would rather arrive three hours early than be stuck in a queue, watching the clock, having a quiet meltdown.

And because January never misses a chance to escalate, the UK is now bracing for Storm Goretti. Snow, Wind and 90mph Strong winds. Of course it is.

I am quietly praying it’s just rain for us. I do not need ice, cancellations or added chaos on top of an already emotional week.

So tonight: Pack bags, medication, clothes, Oodie. Friday: early start, deep breaths, and whatever comes next.

Please, universe… just don’t let it snow.