Author: oliveoylnavywife

Mr LH Valentine 💝

~ oliveoylnavywife ~ 1 Comment

I wanted to write a Valentine’s Day blog post to cheer you all up but then I realised I’ve never spent one with Popeye. Not one. In 8 years. 

Hmm. 

Kinda outside my sphere of experience. 

So here’s to all of us staying in and watching pretty woman with a bottle of wine! Huzzah! 

Let’s give civvy wives V day. Let’s let them have it and hold no grudges. After all we get homecoming and let’s face it that’s like 1000 times better! 

Seriously I’ve decided I pity those civvys having to pin all their romance on one day of the year. Such hope. Such stress. Such potential for disappointment. Such pressure on all parties. Think about it, we get:

  1. Homecoming kiss.
  2. Homecoming sex.’nuff said.
  3. All the times they’re at sea for a few weeks then they get weekenders and come home all randy and appreciative and want to take us out for dinner and dancing.
  4. And mid deployment flowers.
  5. And really cool presents from around the world. 
  6. Soppy emails and voicemails we can reread or re listen to over and over. (Beats a card in my books.)

So we basically get Valentine’s Day several times a year. Except for the card. 

All that being said I’d still quite like to have him home for just ONE Valentine’s Day. 

Until then it’s just me and this lothario 😂 

  
Have a good one ladies! 

X

Wife Operational Sailor Trials (WOST) 

~ oliveoylnavywife ~ 2 Comments

Whilst my Popeye and his shipmates faff around (not) going on BOST (basic operational sea trials FYI)- myself and the other wives and girlfriends of their ship have had enough. 

We have had enough of them going then not going, it’s not our fault everything keeps breaking on their ship. 

So we’ve decided that we need to get Deployment Ready too. 

We are going on WOST. Wife Operational   Sailor Trials. To get us primed and ready for when they actually deploy. (It’s totally for girlfriends/fiancés and boys too btw but WGFBOST didn’t have the same ring to it).

We are going OUT (and when we say we are going we are actually going to GO. Unlike certain sailors I won’t mention. Ahem.) 

To be authentic we need to go to Plymouth and not answer our phones or ring our sailors unless it’s on the way to the taxi before we go out. 

We obviously all have to get absolutely steaming drunk as quickly as possible AND we all have to get up and go to work the next day as if nothing had happened and we’d all had a glorious 12 hour sleep.

I have volunteered to take one for the team and be the groups mandatory person who gets in a fight and gets arrested/brought back by the (non military) police. 

  
Other essential WOST roles include, but are not limited to: 

Someone to call their sailor at 2am to tell them “how mush I love you, I raally raally do, you dahhnt understan” -waking everyone around their sailor. The group as a whole will then shout things down the phone to them before a rousing singsong- sung with gusto, but completely off key. 

Someone will lose their phone, glasses and/or purse containing ID and credit cards. 

One of us needs to have no self control at all and completely trash their (hotel) room. They will rack up a MASSIVE bill for the mess they’ve made (you might even call it a “mess bill”- lol see what I did there?!). The more disgusting and random the better. 

Ooh yes – another person needs to come out with us and not drink, then go back early muttering about how they’d “rather be back with my sailor than here with you bunch of idiots”. Or similar diatribe.

We need a “wanderer”- someone in the group who wanders off at some point in the night- possibly to fall asleep in a storage  container or other random location. We then don’t hear from them for the remainder of the night. They have no idea where they went and use their bank statement as indication of what they got up to. Only to be thwarted because, when on WOST, you have to only take out cash with you.

On that note- we all have to withdraw far far too much money than we can afford and spend it. All. We will then have to use our bank card to pay for our kebabs at the end of the night. 

We may split into two groups, half will stay in a small Irish bar debating and arguing over anything and everything until the wee hours. The other half will go to an increasingly crap number of nightclubs where we will effectively cock block each other for a laugh. This group will end up in either a strip club or a casino or both. 

Also we will organise to have WOST at the most inconvenient time possible- preferably on the ONLY night our sailors have free so we don’t get to spend any quality time together before they deploy. Splendid. 
Finally if we come home at all we will come home approximately 5 hours later than we said we would and leave dominoes pizza in the living room for the kids to find at 6am. 

WOST complete. 

Muchos love, 

Olive

X

P.s BIG thanks to the ladies from Popeyes ship for inspiring this post! 

P.s 2-BIG thanks to the ladies from Popeyes old ship for the photo- it’s from the night I went into labour with Sweetpea! 

P.s 3- if you can think of any other essential WOST roles I’ve missed- please let me know. No one wants to be underprepared for a deployment after all. 

Coming clean: my secret NFF shame. 

~ oliveoylnavywife ~ Leave a comment

Today I went down to my local Royal British Legion “Pop In” centre to meet some of the lovely people working with the Naval Families Federation (NFF).

Before I get on with all that- just as a side note- WHEN did the Royal British Legion get all hip and trendy and- dare I say it- cool? The centre in Southampton was all swanky and smart and brightly lit. And modern. And the staff there were young, friendly and normal.

I’m not gonna lie- I went there thinking it would be a run down social club, with years of fag smoke ingrained in the wood chipped walls. Possibly with a well trod dark plum carpet and dimly lit booths hiding old veterans eyeing me in my pink Vans and baby sling with suspicion. 

I was so so wrong. I have been on a reccy and I can report back- the Royal British Legion is NOT just for (grumpy) WWII veterans anymore! It’s for those youthful hipsters who have served or are serving! Spread the word! Their bars have cheap drinks! Oh yes, and they do a bit for charity too, by the by. 

  
Anyway. The actual point is that I have found out what the NFF do and who they are.

Now, admitting this is quite embarrassing considering I have been a navy wife for a good few years now, and that I’ve read their magazine Homeport for a good few years longer. Aaaaand also because I’m now writing in said NFF magazine. But I am putting my ignorance/stupidity out there for the greater good, the bigger picture, the grand scheme; I.e you lot. 

Yes I had no idea what they were about. I thought they were a bit possibly welfare-y, knew they had good competitions in their magazine, they explained to me a lot about what the Royal Navy actually do (apparently there’s more to it than breaking down again and again and getting drunk-who knew!) and that they talk about  the mysterious “Armed Forces Covenant” a lot. 

  
(You know when you start a new job and your new boss tells you a co workers name- you instantly forget that name. You see them every day at lunch or whatever and have a quick chat. Time goes by and soon it’s been waaaay too long and it would be waaay to embarrassing to ask their name so you just pray to god that someone else at work will ask them something using their name before you get found out? Yeah well basically that’s how it was between me and the NFF. Awkward.)
So what do the NFF do?

Basically we (as in us super duper navy families- or any forces family for that matter) cannot and should not be discriminated against because our loved one is in the Armed Forces. This can be obvious or accidental discrimination.

Like how if you move to a new area because of a draft you shouldn’t have to go to the bottom of a waiting list for a treatment on the NHS, or how mortgages shouldn’t screw us over if we have to rent out our homes because “ooh goody we’re off to live in gib for X years- what fun” or to make sure we’ve all heard of and applied for Pupil Premiums so our kids get what they’re entitled to from their school. It’s anything means you are at an unfair disadvantage because of your Popeyes job. 

The NFF have the welly, clout, guts, moxy and balls to take issues higher and higher up with companys or the actual proper government until such problems are rectified. All because of the Armed Forces Covenant says that we shouldn’t have to encounter stupid unfair crap from the rest of the world when there is enough official unfair crap flung our way courtesy of the Royal Navy. Or Army. Or RAF. 

(Note: The Armed Forces Covenant does not word it like this. This is the gist of it because I can’t remember exactly how Nicola from the NFF explained it.) 

The NFF is just for RN and RM families though. They are totally independent of the Royal Navy or Royal Marines. So they are really really on our side. 

The Army and the RAF have their own equivalent crack teams on the case. Like CSI Las Vegas, CSI NY and CSI Miami. 

I’ve totally gone off on a tangent. 

So yes the NFF are there to sort unfair stuff out, to fight on our behalf if needed and generally be a voice to us families to stop us getting screwed over in a civvy world. 

  
So now you know. Get in touch with them if you’ve got an issue that needs resolving. It will help other families who have come a cropper in the same situation. 

Hope this was interesting for you- I can now officially join in serious grown up conversations about government policies, society, the Covenenant and the NFF and not just nod/shake my head along with everyone else! Huzzah! No more blagging it for Olive! 

Home

http://www.britishlegion.org.uk/

Deployment Detectors™: The hidden menace in your house. 

~ oliveoylnavywife ~ 2 Comments

This is a washing machine. Fairly normal right? Just a run of the mill bog standard white household appliance.

  
 
But wait! Look a little closer.

That washing machine is in the house of a service person!

Recent research has brought to light a startling discovery, brace yourselves:

All household appliances built post WWII have built in Deployment Detectors™. 

Deployment Detectors™ are a microscopic nano technology, invisible to the naked eye, that can easily be incorporated into motherboards, microchips, petrol caps, fridge lights and electrical plugs. These teeny weeny microchips can fit literally anywhere and in any piece of equipment you need to use in order to carry on as a functioning member of society.

  
Yes, I hear you cry, but what do they do?! 

Well, after extensive and thorough testing at Oyl Labs we have found that Deployment Detectors™ use sophisticated sensors to monitor the environment. And in the house of a military family their true purpose is revealed.

  
 

When a deployment has begun, a chain reaction of drinking wine, having a good old cry, installing a countdown app on your phone and sleeping in “his” dirty t shirts causes certain pheromones to be emitted by the partner of said service person. 

These deployment pheromones are picked up by household appliances fitted with a Deployment Detector™  which springs into life, randomly shooting out electrical/mechanical/spiritual signals into the appliance. 

Deployment Detectors™ cause the appliance to break without warning. But only when your service person has left on deployment. 

  

Note: They are at their most effective when you are late for work, have looked forward to something all day and/or have too much month left at the end of the money. 

Why do Deployment Detectors™ exist?

Good question. Here at Oyl Labs we can only surmise that it was some evil Nazi plot to drive military wives and girlfriends over the edge during deployment. A second, more modern theory is that Isis have in fact infiltrated most high street retailers and they are doing this because they hate to see women (and men) kick ass coping with deployment. Further research is needed to determine the true origins of these devices. 

All I can say for now is be vigilant, and don’t fight it. Expect for household appliances to break as soon as your Popeye sails over the horizon. And expect it to break at the most stressful time with the most stressful repercussions.

Knowledge is power.

(Olive Oyl is in no way affiliated with Deployment Detectors™. All associations mentioned herein are coincidental. Research carried out under strict laboratory conditions at Olive Towers Laboratorys (Inc) and adhered to health and safety regulations (2005). All published data is attributed to Olive Oyl Labs©.)

Sleepy sailors

~ oliveoylnavywife ~ 1 Comment

Is it just my sailor that has some navy induced narcolepsy syndrome or is it ALL sailors?!

How is it that they can fall into a deep deep sleep at the drop of a hat, mid sentence- no matter where they are or what is going on?!

Even if it’s a very important relationship type convo, even if you are annoyed with them. Even if you are at the IOW festival and there are wheelie bins flying past your tented head at a gazillion mph. 

With a “yes dear” and a small nod of the head, his eyelids close and no amount of talking or poking will wake him up. Even after 8 hours of solid slumber. 

I’ve only once resorted to putting on my loud speaker voice and saying authoritatively  “Leading Hand Popeye report to the galley, Leading Hand Popeye-Galley”.

He shot out of bed looking v v confused, then v v pissed off as he realised he was in fact at Casa del Oyl and not in his pit onboard.

How very mean of me indeed. 

Worked though. 😉

X

  

Bedtime leave revolution 

~ oliveoylnavywife ~ 1 Comment

You wait weeks, months sometimes for them to come home.

You swap emails and have long (but never long enough) phone calls musing about what you will do when you are reunited.

He says things like “I miss you so much, I can’t wait to see you, to hold you, to kiss you.”

Aww.

Why is it then that after about five flipping seconds back at home out comes the Xbox or PlayStation from the BBKB and you don’t see beloved Popeye again for hours.

  

Once more you are going to bed by yourself. Ears ringing with empty promises of “I’ll be up in a minute babe, just let me finish this level/check out this vault/this round”. 

You know it’s not true and that they will creep up to bed at 4am and fall asleep with their mouth wide open and snore all night until a well aimed elbow stops them.

But still, optimistically, you peck them on the cheek and climb the stairs to your cold bed. 

It’s either that they are lying or that they have forgotten how much they missed you.

Or they literally lose all sense of time and place as soon that bloody loading screen lights up.

To be honest it takes the piss a bit. 

I’m declaring we all do the same and start playing Spyro the Dragon or The Sims with slack jaws, one hand down our pants and a packet of share size crisps open on the coffee table. 

All. Night. Long.

Who’s with me?!?! 

  

Memory blindness.

~ oliveoylnavywife ~ 2 Comments

I want to talk about something that has happened to me every single deployment. 

It’s not something I’m proud of but its still a thing that happens time and time again so I’m hoping that it is therefore, normal and healthy. And sane. 

It happens when they’ve been gone for a good chunk of time. 2-3 months maybe. The longer they’ve been gone the worse it is.

Im going about my day to day fabulousness and I’m generally coping and looking pretty fly whilst doing so.

It hits me.

The crippling, genuine fear that I’ve actually forgotten what Popeye looks like and/or sounds like. 

It’s happened. 

I’ve gone memory blind.

  

“Omg omg omg I am the worst wife/girlfriend/life partner ever.” 

I blush and get a hot and cold panicky feeling in the bottom of my tummy. 

Suddenly I pelt my poor deployment beaten brain with such questions as:

“What does his nose look like?!

What are the shade of his eyes?!

Does he have Gaston from beauty and the beast type chin or a Rick from TWD type chin?!

Does he like ketchup or mayonnaise?

Exactly how tall is he?!

WHO IS POPEYE?!?!?!!!!!!!” 

                                     

Sure sure I could just whip my phone out and look at a picture. But that would be cheating. So instead I go for the self torture route. Of course. Very healthy. Very British. 

I test myself. I quiz myself and berate myself for every question my memory can’t answer perfectly and instantly. 

“What are the shape of his lips?

How do I hold hands?

What does kissing feel like?!?!” 

These last two tie me up in knots as I freak out over whether I will remember how to snog on homecoming day. 

Visions of teeth crashing together or accidentally giving him a Glaswegian Kiss sail into my merciless mind as I struggle to remember the slant of his eyebrows.

Cursing my memory to the depths of Hades- I give in and open up Facebook to see Popeyes smiling face. I let myself have a little cry and resolve to study every freckle and hair, every quirk and crease until they are tattooed on my memory. 

And as for the kissing and hand holding I will just have to wing it on the day and hope that he’s feeling as beyond nervous as I am to see each other face to face again.

Besides if I do accidentally nut him in the face it will be one hell of an ice breaker, right? 

Muchos love,

Olive

X

The rank elephant in the room

~ oliveoylnavywife ~ 4 Comments

There are tens if not hundreds of blog posts and articles and memes saying categorically, without a doubt, that your partners rank has no relation to the importance of you, his partner.

They stress that there is no connection  between his rank and your importance. 

  
We are told time and again how it doesn’t matter if he’s the lowliest AB or the kiss hug man! Written articles reassure you over and over that you two gals (as partners of said AB and XO) can get along and soon become best buds. Swapping hilarious stories and confiding in each other over Facebook chat. 

Even if one of your hubby’s spends his days ironing the others blues. 

Even if your hubby is responsible for cleaning out the COs bath. It shouldn’t be awkward at all for you all to sit around and have a good giggle about it over a moderately priced bottle of wine.

“You can all be friends!” Spout such blogs. “Their ranks don’t matter!” They quip. Dripping in positivity and all American wholesomeness. 

Well how come, in reality, it does seem to matter?

Why are these dynamics getting written about, again and again? Surely if it was such a non-issue then they’d be writing about other burning military spouse problems like….

 Erm, like…. I dunno, “10 homecoming haircut tips” or “20 ways to get him to notice the new deployment you” or how about “get a leg gap in just 100 thigh crunching  steps”or “101 ways to sob down the phone without snotting into the receiver”. Or “phone card sex: how to get him off before you’re cut off”. 

(Btw that’s why I don’t ever attempt serious blog posts- they would suck).

Why  do women, wives, girlfriends and parents having the same old cat fights and arguments and name calling and bitching over and over again- the world over?! 

Why? When we are told over and over rank doesn’t matter?

I have a theory. 

Bear with me.

1. We all know it’s completely batshit crazy to think for a second that our Popeyes rank somehow elevates or lowers us in the eyes of other military wives. It’s ludicrous.

And yet we are so. Freaking. PROUD of our sailors. We are proud when they get on the signal and then pass one of those god awful promotion courses. (Those evil promotion courses that turn even the most placid, loving sailor into a complete and utter selfish, tunnel visioned, uncaring twat-yes you know the ones). 

2. We are so proud of ourselves that we didn’t dump them or kick them out (or we’re proud that we let them back into our lives after going on the course- toma(y)to/tomato) .

So somewhere in the back of our mind we want a little tiny speck of recognition. Just a bit. Just a little pat on the back to say “jeez well done. You’ve survived FOUR promotion courses and a boarding party course.” Hardcore wifeydom right there.

3. It makes sense that at some point some peoples wires get crossed. And they start to feel entitled to the respect their sailor gets onboard from us- regular scummy civvies. Doesn’t make it right but it seems foolish to deny that it happens. 

We shouldn’t give women respect based on their hubby’s rank because- well let’s be honest we all have to survive horrible courses. And we all have to do deployments. And we all have to listen to our sailors bitch about the navy over and over but do nothing about it. We all do it. And we all have our own lives to lead. 

              
So what I’m suggesting is that instead of insisting (like other blogs or articles tell you to) that we must all be happy clappy wives and girlfriends holding hands across rank, race and creed- we all just step back for a moment and get along with the other wives and girlfriends that we actually like.

Shocking I know. 

The idea we may genuinely not like the wife of our hubbys boss. 

Or we may really get along with the ships doctors missus. 

Or we may have a blood-feud-vendetta with the girlfriend of the matelot in charge of the gangway. 

Or think one of the engineers wives is so dull you want to poke your eyes out every time you speak to her just so you don’t fall asleep. 

Whatever. We are all grown women who can form our own opinions of these other women. We can judge and think for ourselves based on these women’s actions. Not the actions of their husbands.

I do not think we all should forget about rank. We should be aware it does mean some women may go a bit psycho with assumed power. 

It does effect some (not all!!!) relationships. It makes some women go weird. 

I think less of the women who feel a sense of entitlement or superiority due to their husbands rank. But this is more about their personality than their husbands rank or job. 

To suggest we should all get along is quite patronising and simplistic. And it simply does not happen! 

Argh! 

Saying goodbye. The ugly truth. 

~ oliveoylnavywife ~ 10 Comments

Goodbyes. They ain’t pretty. 

And I’ve got something awful to tell you. Something I’ve only just figured out after almost 5 years of marriage.

They DONT GET EASIER. 

I assumed that they would. Surely they HAVE TO. Right? 

The first goodbye was head spinningly, puke inducingly, hot and cold flashingly – surreal. 

I stumbled back to the car at the train station and sped off before Popeye had even made it over the train station walk way bridge. He turned around (apparently to give me a last romantic wave and blow me a kiss)- to hear wheels screeching, to see me speeding off with clouds of l&b smoke coming out of the drivers window and some probably angry “girl power” music blaring. Just the classy, elegant stage exit I was aiming for. Not. 

Next time round I was a mess. I couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t breathe and got snot on his coat. See this time I knew. I knew how hard it was going to be. 

I knew it was real. I knew it would take work. I knew long lonely evenings stretched out ahead of me. I knew the harsh reality of no contact was not romantic. That sending parcels did not equate to spending time together. 

I knew I was going to have to dig deep. Again. I was going to have to endure side ways head tilts from well meaning people and people telling me how bloody strong I am. Again. 

In short part of my panic and grief was because there was no illusion left. I had done my first deployment. 

The level of shiteness of the goodbye stayed the same to be honest, over the next few goodbyes. It never got easier to be fair. And I would sway wildly between hysterical-crying-snot-monster and dangerous-driver-denial-woman. 

Side note: I’ve always wanted to master the “black and white film star” goodbye. You know, with me standing there on the train platform, or dockside, or even (more likely) car park/lay by. And my makeup is fresh and dewy and my hair is immaculate and I have a hat on. And I wave him off with a kiss and a single tear glistening on my cheek. 

A bit like this:

  
This has never happened. It’s more like when Bellatrix Lestrange loses it in Harry Potter. 

  
Anyway…

So yes the awfulness of the goodbye kind of plateaued for a while. 

Until we had Sweetpea. Then this whole other level of goodbye horribleness opened up like a cess pit hidden under a rubbish tip. 

They are getting harder. So much harder in fact that I am seriously considering telling Popeye to just disappear, to sneak off and not tell us he’s going. I know I would wake up, realise he’s gone and turn into a kraken but by then he would be safely aboard a warship and (fairly) out of my wraths reach. 

At the moment, on his side of things he’s finding it so difficult and heart breaking to look into his daughters baby blues and say the G word, that he’s considering packing it all in and maybe *whispers*- leaving the navy. 

I know, right?!?! 

To be fair he has considered leaving approx 5,285 times since I met him. He mentions it at least once a week. So I don’t think it’s a totally serious idea, yet. 

But what happens when these frankly cruel 9 month deployments start up for us in 2016? Which  we did NOT sign up for ? 

In fact I’m sure there are hundreds of naval families and couples up and down the UK feeling the same. 

Anyway the ugly truth is out. And I’m sorry to be one to break it to you. Unless I’m wrong and I’m just getting wimpier?! God I hope that’s true for all our sakes! 

Still I know I can do it. It’s just usually the more you do something the easier it becomes, right? So how come this law of nature is not applying to our goodbyes? 

Maybe Brian Cox knows.  

Muchos love x

The run ashore

~ oliveoylnavywife ~ 4 Comments

So it’s happening again. A run ashore is imminent.  My response to this varies wildly, so much so Popeye is now pretty cautious about how he tells me. My response SEEMS to depend on whether or not I’m on maternity leave and hormonal  or have work the next day or not. There may be other factors at play here. 

Basically I’m jealous of him and how free he can be. My life is tied down and full of adult responsibility. I have to be (vaguely) sensible. I have to be organised.  His life, when he’s onboard, hasn’t really changed (outside of his job role), since he was 16. 

  

If you have no kids and can go out and party hard yourself at the drop of a hat then good for you (teeny bit jealous here btw) . DO IT. Do it for ME if nothing else.

Forget all about how much fun they are having, who they are with, what super dooper clubs they are in, what exciting shinnanigans they are having and enjoy yourself. 

However. If you cant get rat arsed on a Tuesday or Thursday from lunchtime onwards, because of silly, unimportant, things, like:

  • Have to go to work the next day.
  • You are woken up by small people screaming at you for boobs or porridge at the crack of fecking dawn every day of your life. Forever.
  • You (shockingly) haven’t got stupid amounts of free money wanging around to spend on booze and taxis and casinos and more booze.
  • You actually want to sit in, curled up with a bottle of wine  cup of tea and bag of malteasers and watch new The Walking Dead, Stella or Modern Family or some new box set.
  • Inviting your bestie round for a bitch and gossip  catch up sounds like a much more appealing evening than having punctured ear drums and freshers spilling apple sours on you. 

DONT feel bad. You are not alone. Most of the Navy and Military Wife/Partner population will be feeling the same, whilst skimming through sky+ and checking their phone. 

Its NORMAL to feel jealous. They don’t have the same responsibilities as we do. To be there for our kids night and day 24/7. To go to work not smelling of sambouca and shame. To budget so we don’t, as a family, starve.

We have the luxury of a comfortable house around us, entertaining TV or company for good nights in. They don’t. They have honking pits, and are thrown together with others that, some of the time, are a bunch of pricks. 

When Popeye is deployed and goes on a Run Ashore I try to empathise. And when I thought about it I realised holy crap of I was in the Navy I’d be out having a drink (or ten) too! After being stuck in that metal box for, possibly weeks, working all hours God sends and thinking about home and missing us and seeing our faces smiling down from above his bed whilst he plays the same Xbox game for a few hours of free time. 

  

Shit man, I’d probably be drinking like a fish and dancing on tables in denial by the end of the night. It’s a form of escapism, denial and group consensus we’ve escaped in our normal lives. 

So next time your Popeye lets slip he’s going out for a “quiet few” (obviously code for getting plastered and tattooed and ending up stealing a large decorative fish) try to quiet the inner jealous, wine deprived, pub deprived, eye shadow deprived, grown up conversation deprived, she wolf. 

He’s going out either way so you might as well focus on all the good things youve got around you that he hasnt. 

Bottom line is he would do anything to be sitting there next to you nicking that last malteaser rather than replaying the same night out over and over again for years.

Muchos love 

Olive

X

P.s this does not mean you can’t remind him of all his nights out when he’s home so you can have a girls night out, complete with blackjack, vodka, possibly karaoke and all the glory of the “Mummy Lie In”. Life’s funny that way.