I’ve just said goodbye to Popeye. Again. Not for a big deployment thank god, but long enough when SweetPea has discovered mobility and seems to have a primary objective to try to trip me up by stealth crawling right behind me in near silence. Like a small, squidgy, yoghurt covered ninja. . *mental note: ninja baby-possible Halloween costume idea*.
I dropped Popeye off outside M&S in gun wharf quays, the shopping centre in Portsmouth, because he forgot, as he always forgets, that you can’t turn right at the traffic lights to get to the dock gate. *sigh*. So at 6am this merry morn I was stressed, he was stressed. And. We said goodbye. Again.
In hindsight, driving home listening to Mumford and sons, was, probably a bit of an error. But I managed to hold it together for the best part of the first song, until I got to my Pre Approved Rant Point (PARP).
My PARP is silly really, it’s a point fairly near the dockyard but just far enough away that I can’t turn around and hit Popeye over the head and drag him, feet first, into the trunk-cave woman style.
My PARP is the Eberhardt Signs sign shop along the A3. When I see their neon pink sign, I’m allowed to cry. Or scream. Or vom. Whatever seems best. No matter what time of day or night, what weather or what season, there is the neon sign of my undoing.
Right next to where the A3 turns into the M27 and splits east and west. So, nice and safe then.
Every time I drop him off I think “get to the neon sign Olive, get to the sign. Then you can rant. Not before. Step on it girl!”
That’s the one. The PARP that let’s me know it’s time to lose it, just for a minute, before I have to concentrate on not crashing the tonne of steel I’m in charge of.
Btw I didn’t, like, decide on a PARP. I didn’t even want one. But sometimes, I guess the PARP life chooses you.
Anyone else have a PARP? Or just me that likes to let rip at certain landmarks around the south coast?