Woah! Who’s that man in my bed?!

It’s a few days after homecoming, it’s the weekend, the sunlight is shining out of the edges of the curtains, birds are singing, you stretch, yawn and reach over to your phone to check Facebook obsessively, then your foot brushes up against a distinctly hairy *thing*in your bed.

Disclaimer: this is not what i look like when i wake up. Anyone claiming to look like this when they wake up is a massive liar liar pants on fire.

“WTAF IS THAT????” You think, you flip over, iPhone raised heavenward and at the ready- a man is sleeping next to you! One arm raised, mouth slightly open, stubbly chin, and a *you know what* down there, yep definitely a man. Here. In my bed. Now. Doing a little morning fart.

“holy crap there is a man in my bed!” 

(Whoops I mean our bed of course)

It is of course Popeye home after deployment and not some freaky stalker/narcoleptic burglar but if you are anything like me there will be the odd sleepyheaded morning moment when you forget that he has actually come home. 

So (if you are slightly crackers like me) you try to slide out of the bed without showing any of the skin that was showing when you both got into bed the night before. Then I have to manically try to find something to cover said skin without waking him up so he doesn’t actually have to see me naked in the sunlight and be turned to stone. Or something. 

Ahh thats better. This is much more like me when I wake up. Good one google.

This is just one of the weird post homecoming issues I have had to get to grips with, others include:

  • Shower diplomacy. With my own husband. I never knew how annoying it is to have to have the “no no you get the first shower”, “no it’s fine you go for it” with someone who isn’t even a freakin guest. 
  • Being a considerate human being #1. All of a sudden I have to factor in what he likes for dinner and the sad realisation that special k with red berries just won’t do for two.
  • Being a considerate human being #2. Having to decide what to watch on tv in the evening. Together. And like compromise and shit. Eurgh.
  • Washing two peoples worth of clothes and feeling a teeny bit resentful  about it.
  • Forgetting he gets hay fever and buying loads of flowers that are reduced in tesco (my bad, sorry hubby).
  • Letting him drive my (our) car. It’s a bit how I imagine my mum felt when she gave me my first (and last) driving lesson. 
  • He eats all my chocolate. All of it. End of.

Eventually I/we realise we have become a “we” again. It takes time and a lot of reality checks, deep breaths and compromises on both sides to be honest. 

The reality of being an “us” or a “we” or a “them” after so bloody long being an “I” or a “me” takes just a little while to sink in. 

And first thing on a Saturday morning it’s easy to forget that it’s us in our bed after so many days of it being me in my bed. 

So once ive got my head around the fact that he is actually home with me it’s usually quite a good time to refocus my thoughts on what other activities we can do in our bed.

😉

Muchos love X 

No, the time has not flown by, so please kindly STFU.

“Ooh are they coming home already? Wow the last 9 months have really flown by haven’t they?”

The above are probably the two most dangerous sentences you can say to a Navy wife or girlfriend at the final sprint of a deployment countdown. 

To the friend/co-worker or family member with (obviously) good intentions and also a possible death wish:

NO IT HAS FUCKING NOT FLOWN BY.

It has been an almost hysteria inducing, vast stretching of time that has at times has felt swamping and insurmountable.

Time now, at this final push, is threatening to reduce the strong, capable, independent adult from the last few months into a (at times) quivering, adrenaline pumping, vom inducing, panic stricken bag of nerves and self doubt.


The “flying by of time” should be given more appropriate descriptive metaphors such as-

  • Ninja Snail Time- I.e went really fucking slowly then went all stealth ninja-ey and fast right at the end, catching the poor unsuspecting Military WAG off guard.
  • Untrustworthy Time-I.e the homecoming date and subsequent countdown has changed more times than I’ve changed my knickers. Don’t trust it. 
  • Alternative Reality Time I.e time, as a concept, has passed completely differently for you and your sailor. He is expecting home to be some kind of time capsule of half a year ago and you can’t remember what family occasions and days out he has missed because there have been so bloody many he has missed. You are in separate world and separate times.



To all you who dare utter “the two sentences of time” (outlined above, can’t bring myself to type them again) can I just say this:

Time has NOT flown by for us.

We have walked, limped, crawled, carried and been carried to get here. But we have not flown. (We have not sailed through it either before anyone gets punny on me.) 

So please for the love of God and all that is Holy do not patronise us. Do not comment on it. You don’t get it. Don’t pretend to. It’s like a cat trying to understand why a dog likes walks so much when they can go out through the cat flap at any time. 

Different worlds and different times.

Muchos love,

Olive X 

Quiche mum and the tartlettes- my first night out

Those of you who follow me on Facebook will know that Tuesday 17th of May will now and forevermore be known as THE day I went OUT OUT.

Yes me the navy wife-hermit-usually knocked-up-Olive went outside. After bedtime. With eyeshadow on. 

Those of you with sprogs will totally realise the gravitas of this. I was nervous like I had a job interview. My palms were sweaty. In the end I spent half an hour deciding that all my clothes are horrible and wore something I also wear to “tots n tunes”.

Popeye describes me as a “co-op quiche mum”. Meaning that we don’t eat organic, I do not bake, and we do iPad and CBeebies. And when me and the other mums meet up for a “bring a plate” type gathering, I swing into the co-op at the end of the road, leave the kids in the car (shock horror) and dash in for a quiche and bottle of wine. This has become my signature offering at such events. 

Anyway I was at top of my Quiche Mum game on Tuesday. I had my slash neck t shirt I wear ALL the time on, I wiped the baby sick off as we left and had really pushed the boat out by digging out my good bum jeans. You know the ones. We all have a paid of good bum jeans.


We got there. I went in a taxi! I was all wide eyed and heart thumping. (This was partially because of the glass or two of wine I’d had mid wardrobe crisis). Popeye said I looked like I was going to throw up. I possibly was.

We got there! We went to a bar called Drift in Southsea. I have no idea whether it was a good bar or not.

All I know was there there wasn’t a ball pit or soft play area in sight. There were no crayons on the tables and there was no sign for the nearest changing area. Just a sign pointing to the beer garden. The beer garden for crying out loud. 

Cue harp music and cherubs flying about

There were a few points that shook me I admit, but I overcame them navy wife style:

  1. Skinny gorgeous sailorettes wearing basically no clothes. I had no idea that wearing underwear as outer wear was a thing now. Next time I’m rocking up in my nursing bra and support knickers. Pretty fly. I over came *this* by reminding myself I am fucking awesome. And I’d rather have boobs and a bum and clothes on when I’m out and so would Popeye.
  2. I did not know any music. I overcame *this* by drinking spiced rum and dancing with Popeye like a LOON. I have the rhythm in me after all #childofthe90s
  3. I have apparently become deaf since entering motherhood. It was so loud. I overcame this by laughing when people said stuff  and hoping for the best as no one was listening to each other anyway.

We danced, I drank, it was over far far too soon. I forgot how going out with sailors is more a marathon than a sprint. Or a sprinting marathon. Whatever, all I know is I had a good time even if I had a few false starts.

By this point in the evening I had shirked my Tee and revealed my basics vest from primark

I had a great time. Popeye said he hasn’t seen me like that in years, in a good way I hope. In the end all the sailors moved on and we got a taxi back to our car and got lost on the M27/A27. I do not remember this. I was apparently giving Popeye, what I can only assume, were A* directions home, that he obviously was not following. 

Well that’s all for today. Hope you guys get to go out with your sailors and meet all their co-workers. There are very few jobs where you regularly go out on the piss with people you have to see the next day. Like a weekly Christmas Party. 

Muchos love X

P.s Popeye came up with the the title for this post whilst we were out before I’d  properly met anyone. He made me promise I’d use it. I will let you figure out who the tartlettes were.

(Although annoyingly they turned out to be really lovely and fun. Of course. 😂👍🏻⚓️💗)

Same/different. Deal with it.

So Popeye is coming HOME today!!!!!

Yippee! I have officially made it to the end of BOST (Basic Operational Sea Trials) without killing the children or having a nervous breakdown! Go me *proud face*!

I attribute my success in Forces Spouse Parenting to a winning combo of rosé spritzers after the kids bedtime, going out to the park a LOT and lowering my housekeeping standards to just above “slovenly”. 


Popeye phoned last night and because of crap signal we of course got cut off mid conversation (standard). 

I didn’t get to do my usual “Some things are different and some things are the same” potentially slightly patronising debrief. 

Let me elaborate, Popeye, and I suspect many other sailors and service persons out there, find it quite difficult to understand that time has passed here at home.

Some things have (duhn duhn duuuhn!) changed. The house he left does not look exactly the same as when he left. I have (shockingly) kept calm and carried on. Without him.

During the couple of months of BOST par examplé I have-

  • Moved the basket where we keep the towels and swapped it with the laundry bin. (Duhn duhn duuuuhn!)
  • Moved the microwave to under the boiler on the other side of the kitchen. (Omfg I’m a monster)
  • Put black out curtains up in sweet peas room because I was fed of of waiting for him to do it. (Sweet Jesus  the humanity!)
  • In a mad fit of “the good life meet gardeners world” weirdness I dug and planted a veg garden with tomato, courgette and runner beans. (Side note: there is an 80% chance they will all die). 
  • Bought two plants to put next to the front door so we look posher than we are. (They are from lidl. Fucking love lidl and its mystery aisle. )

oh la la its like being at downton here

So stuff has moved around. And there is new stuff in our house.

Popeye does not like this. I can just tell he feels uncomfortable or a bit miffed when he steps in the house and it’s not a photocopy of how it was when he left us.

I swear he thinks the second he departs on that bloody tin can time freezes here. 

Even though I do tell him on the phone that I’ve bought X, Y, Z or I’ve put up a picture or whatnot; he doesn’t really ever seem to register that it has actually happened. What I am telling you on the phone is my real life. Like actually real. 

Im not making it up. I’m not trying to dupe him. I’m not trying to make him feel out of place or confused in his own home. 

I’m running a household. I’m doing exactly what I would have done had he been here.

I won’t put my life on hold, or wait for him to be home in order to get stuff sorted out in Maison de Oyl. 

So I usually have a special “some things are different and some are the same chat”. 

Except I couldn’t this time because we got cut off after talking about the girls.

I guess that’s another different thing. He left me as a blubbering, exhausted, desperate for help mother of two under two asking herself “how am I going to do this with no help?!” 

Instead he will come back to find me a coping, exhausted mother of two under two. Still in need of help but not in that panic zone. Still in love with my Popeye, still hating the navy. 

look at me, freakin coping my ass off here

Because I’ve bloody done it. And it feels amazing. Amazingly different. And amazingly the same. 

Muchos love. 

Olive 

X

P.s if you like reading my blog, or if your wife/partner keeps sending you links to my posts and find yourself lol-ing when reading them onboard how about voting for me in the MAD blog awards? I’m a finalist in the best lifestyle blog category and it would mean SO much to win it. I’m the only forces person in the whole awards (guilt trip guilt trip). It takes 2 mins. Click right here and vote for ME! Ta muchly X 

Popeye couldn’t handle it

The other evening, I was speaking with beloved Popeye about the shocking possibility he might have to spend some time on his own. 

On his own, in our house.

Holy crapsticks.

Now the weirdness of this will not be lost on you dear fellow navy wife or girlfriend or partners or fuck buddy  casual relationship person. 

We are the ones who are alone in the house all the time. We are the ones who might as well have a bachelors degree in Americas Next Top Model or X Factor or whatever. 

Popeye doesn’t know where anything is.

Popeye has only just learnt when bin day is.

Popeye has no idea where any paperwork is kept or filed. He may genuinely believe it all lives in the pile in the kitchen under the boiler, I don’t know.

Anyway this conversation got me thinking. What would Popeye do if he was the navy wife and I was the deploying sailor?
The short term answer (obviously) is that he would play a lot of Playstation, eat a ridiculous amount of dominoes and watch a gross amount of porn watch lots of TV.

“But what would he do after that?” I wondered. 

And then it hit me. And him. 

He couldn’t handle it. It’s not that we aren’t strong enough, it’s that he wouldn’t be able to stand being the one out of control, hanging on my every phone call, waiting for each ping of his email inbox. 

That makes him sound a bit controlling and fifty shades of grey-ish. Trust me, he’s reaaaalllllly  not. For truths.

And he would get so fed up at having to make me parcels and he wouldn’t be able to think of interesting ideas. Accept maybe an entire box devoted to Arnie films. (Can you imagine my glee-not.) The idea of him writing me a letter is bizarre in the extreme. 

He admits he would get v jealous knowing I was visiting all these exotic places whilst he would be stuck flicking through the TV guide with a can of diet coke in his hand. 

(Actually I do get insanely jealous of where he goes but I just try to remind  myself of all the absolute sh*t holes he also has to go to too.)

( I also remind myself that he basically has seen the inside of a handful of pubs a ten minute walk from the dockyard in aforementioned magical exotic locations, and has not  had the spiritual and cultural experience that I am lusting after). 

The dog would probably starve or run away, or have his own dominoes pizza order. 

Our car would mostly like be towed or pulled over at some point. With Popeye looking all bemused when the police officer asks him why he hasn’t taxed/MOT’d/insured it. He has never really had to do these things, at least not without substantial nagging, and it would honestly not occur to him. We once paid no council tax for six months because it was the one bill we decided he would be in charge of. I got a letter saying when our court date was. For real. 

The Royal Navy equips our loved ones with fantastic practical  skills; It picks them up by the earlobes gives them a good shake et voilá! They become a skilled engineer or chef or weapons firer thing. 

In fact, I can say, hand on my heart, that if Popeye hadn’t joined up I would not have fancied him. He admits he used to be just a bit chavvy rough around the edges let’s say. Not Olives type at all.
Instead the Navy took the gobby teen and taught him self discipline, motivation to succeed, how to work hard at a goal, and how to support a team.   It taught him self respect and self worth.

However it did not teach him to sort the colours from whites nor prepared him for encounters with the DVLA. 

It didn’t teach him to pop round to a neighbours on moving day to ask when the recycling and rubbish goes, or to always have a frozen emergency pint of milk in the freezer. Only “real life”, or civvie life let’s say, can teach you stuff like that.

Navy life taught him a lot of things, things that I have literally no idea about (and let’s be honest here, no interest in either).

Civvie life taught me the mundane crap to keep me (hopefully) out of court and with a roof over our heads. 


He really would find it tricky to keep this little Oyl family running smoothly if I was deployed. And emotionally I don’t know how he would cope. Luckily, for him, he won’t have to find out how to. 

Muchos love

X

P.s please if you haven’t voted for me in the Best Lifestyle Category of the MAD Blog awards yet please do just click right here. Huge massive thank you’s and a big snog. X 

I’m a Finalist! 2 of 2

Now that I’ve had the weekend to think about my nomination for Best Lifestyle Blog I’m about 60-80% sure that there’s been some kind of cock up and I will soon receive an email to say “sozzles Olive old girl but actually you’re not up for Best Lifestyle Blog because, let’s face it, your life has no style.”

Seriously. I’ve had a nosey at the other blogs in my category and I’m up against some heavy hitters. They all have HUGE Twitter followings and seem v v professional and clean and cool and trendy and stuff.

Half my blogs have typos and are many are written whilst a semi naked toddler sings “let it gooooo let it goooo” at me whilst perched precariously on an IKEA  value lime green potty. The other half of my posts are written inbetween nappy changes, nose wipes and breastfeeds. I have no uber hip blogster office, no cool blogger friends to have coffee mornings with and I don’t even have my iPad to write posts on anymore because Sweetpea nicked it to fuel her Peppa Pig YouTube clip habit. 

My life has no style! 

I don’t blog about clothes or fashion because I either have no idea of what’s in fashion, or I see teenagers on the street and think they are dressing like I did back in the 90’s (black velvet ribbon chokers and trouser skirts anyone? Since when did that become cool again???)

I am generally wearing the same outfit for 2-3 days and if you ever bump into me there’s a 95% probability I will have baby puke on my left shoulder.

I don’t even brush my hair some days I just tie it up and hope for the best. 

I can’t remember the last time my feet had heels on. I can’t remember the last time I wore an underwired bra and not a nursing bra. There is no such thing as matching knickers and bra sets in my house. Heck there’s no such thing as matching socks in my house.

My life has no style. 

My blog posts don’t have nice stylish photos on them. They either are from the fruits of a 30 second Google search or are the result of a quick snap with my iPhone. I do not look good in these photos. I haven’t got the time or the talent, I wish I did.

Popeye said to me he hopes that if there’s a “Bloggers Biography” or the MAD blog Award team need to use my photo for anything that they use this one, from my post Safety and the Navy Wife – because I look fucking mental.


My life has NO STYLE!

I can’t blog about “normal life” of what I’ve done with my hubby at the weekend because I never sodding see him. 

I’m much more likely to be blogging about sniffing his dirty T-shirt or crying over his snotty tissues, drinking too much wine and eating cereal for dinner or how to kick a full packed kitbag off the bed with minimum effort, in a childish attempt to stop him deploying again than blogging about anything chic or classy. 

Argh! My life has no style! Zilch! Zip! Nada! Zero! Squat! 

Calm down Olive, just pause for a second and think.

I guess I am blogging about a way of life. 

A navy way of life, a military way of life. A way thousands of families are living day in day out, right under everyone else’s noses. 

I guess that that is the lifestyle angle. Hmm, food for thought, no?

My life may not have style per se but, thanks to the Royal Navy, my life sure does have a lot it life in it. 

I guess. 

Tots100

I just want to say a HUGE MASHOOSIVE HONKING THANKYOU to all my supporters, followers and friends for coming with me on this adventure. 

Please, if you haven’t yet just quickly throw a vote my way, and if you have time share this post or one of your other faves, it means the world to me.

You can vote for me as Best Life(without any) style Blog by clicking right here and filling out a little form.

Muchos love, Olive X 

I’m a Finalist! 1 of 2

So I’m now a FINALIST for a MAD blog award. 

(I’m supposed to do clever hashtaggy  things now btw so here goes- #MADblogawards -done). 

I literally don’t believe it!  The timeline from when I found out basically went like this:

0-1 mins:”omgomgomg no WAY!”

2-3mins: Silent screaming, heart thumping and jumping up and down doing  Rocky Balboa arms in my kitchen v quietly so as not to wake the terrible twosome. 

3-4 mins: checked I hadn’t made a mistake by looking at the nomination page a gazillion times.

5 mins- called Popeye. No signal. No answer. Straight to voicemail. Standard, he’s below deck. Be cool Olive, be cool. 

5-30 mins calling my mum (“oh darling I am so proud of you! This is amazing! Is it in London? (Yes) Out of how many blogs?(8 freakin thousand mum) oh wow! Wait hang on *tells everyone on the ward where she works*”.

At some point: – called Popeye. No signal. No answer. Straight to voicemail. Standard, he’s below deck. Be cool Olive, be cool. Seriously BE COOL.

And called my sister “AHHH THAT IS SO COOL! Whaaat are you going to wear???? Will the press be there? You are basically famous now sis- hey wait I get to be your plus one right? RIGHT???”

Tried (again) and called Popeye. No signal. Again. No answer. Again. Straight to voicemail. Again. Standard, he’s below deck. Again. Just breathe, Olive it’s not his fault.

And my little bro: “Wow that’s really cool. I don’t really read your blogs but the ones I’ve seen are quite funny. I’m off out to a Uni Party right now so can’t really talk but yeah totally whatsapp me the link to the nominations page “.

Ok ok, let’s just try again-  called Popeye. No fucking signal. No bloody answer. Straight to twatting voicemail. Standard, he’s below the stupid deck on the bloody arsehole ship. 


So I may have left a slightly shitty, slightly cryptic voicemail for Popeye and then poured myself another glass of Pinot Grigot Blush from Lidl, and posted a HUGE EXCITED post on my Facebook Page to all of my lovely, gorgeous and fantastic followers. 

Then I basically kept pressing refresh on the finalist nominations page in a state of slightly tipsy disbelief, until I realised it was way past bedtime.

Rock and Roll! 

I realised the irony of not being able to contact Popeye as I walked up the stairs with Sproglet on my hip (we have no bedtime routine for her btw- mum fail).

The whole reason I started this blog was because of stupid navy crap like not being able to get in touch with the love of your life when you need to. 

And that’s (maybe) one of the reasons it got nominated in the first place. 

So really I owe Popeye, my dear un-contactable sailor, and by extension, the annoying, heart breaking, heart racing, plan ruining, day making Royal Navy, a bit of a THANK YOU really. 

For messing with my head (and my life) so much I wrote this blog in the first place. 

Tots100
P.s you can totally vote for me as Best Lifestyle Blog by clicking on this link right here 
Muchos love, Olive X 

Why I wish I was still a weekend warrior

I’ve been having a long hard think about which side of the fence has greener grass. Or which side of the bridge if we are going Billy Goats Gruff here.

For the first couple of years of our marriage I was what is known as a Weekend Warrior. A wife, girlfriend or other type of partner who only sees their sailor at weekends, not through the week. On weekdays your Popeye sleeps on the ship, and you sleep (starfish) in your bed.

  
At the time I thought it was a bit rubbish to be honest, so when I was four or five months pregnant with Sweetpea we upped sticks and moved to Southampton, away from all my family and friends, so Popeye could come home every night so I wouldn’t be essentially a single parent. I say “we” but Popeye was deployed so I had to organise the whole move alone, alarm bells should’ve been ringing!

I’m beginning to regret it.

I’m beginning to regret it now we have two babies under the age of two. Double the crying, double the nappies and usually half the parenting.

Popeye is away far far more than we thought he would be. And unlike my Weekend Warrior days I’m now not used to hacking it alone Monday to Friday. Instead some weeks he’s here to help, other weeks I have nothing. There’s no consistency and the main reason we did this, so he wouldn’t miss girls growing up, seems null and void now because he’s missing it anyway!

And I’m sinking. 

I’m in a city where I’ve got no roots, I’ve made some utterly fab amazing friends who are to be honest, keeping me going right now. They come round and help and listen to me moan and then go home to their partners flabbergasted, about how the fuck I am managing and not losing my mind. 

Except that I am sinking. 

I can’t help but feel that if I was away from here and back with family that support me I’d be able to plan my life a bit, feel a bit more in control because no matter what the bloody tin can is doing, alongside, at sea, Popeye on a course, in Portsmouth, Plymouth, wherever, my life and my routine would be the same Monday to Friday. 

I wouldn’t keep feeling like I was having the rug pulled out from under me at a day or twos notice.

I’d have regular dependable help with the Sprogs. I’m pretty much on my todd here with the girls and childcare costs are becoming a strain on us. Being back in good old Scummerset would mean I got more emotional and practical support. 

I’d love to be able to pop round and see my sister or my mum instead of doing FaceTime after bedtime. 

If I revert back to Weekend Warrior the girls could grow up in the countryside like I did, cows moos not police sirens would be the early sounds Sproglet will name, unlike her big sister who knows the difference between the police and the fire brigades sirens. She’s 21 months. 

  
But am I just seeing it all through rose tinted glasses? Was it really that good back then or was that just because I was a navy wife and not a navy wife and a mum then?!

I just feel that we moved here for Popeye and he’s not even bloody here so if I move back it would be for me and the girls. 

He’s basically deploying for a year anyway!!!!

Being a navy wife away from your family is hard. I’m constantly reevaluating my life here to see if this is the best deal for me and my girls. 

And the thing is that this changes on whether Popeye is home or not. I wish I could be in Somerset during deployment and near the ship the rest of the time!

Jill speak

Hey there lovelies, got an idea for you.

How’d you like the put some zing back in your relationship? Become that mysterious lady (or lad) of intrigue and whimsy once more? You would? Well then I have a little game for you! 

 Jill Speak!

Does your Popeye speak to work colleagues in another language? Does he respond to a name that is not his own? Do you sometimes have no idea what on earth he’s on about?

If the answer to any of these is “yes” then Jill Speak is just the game for you! And the great part is that the whole family can get involved too!

   
To play Jill Speak casually start using some of your Popeyes top-secret-navy-life-sailor-code-words into everyday conversation! Then sit back and enjoy the shock, confusion and then (hopefully) amusement on his face. 

I play it with my Popeye all the time and to be honest it annoys him. But who cares when playing it (and the look on his face!) is so much fun. 

P.s another great feature of Jill Speak is that you can modify it for whatever service your partner is in! For example, for my RM readers- don’t walk the dog- say you’re taking the dog on a dog yomp! 

Here are some examples/ideas: 

When asking him if he’s home next weekend- “have you got weekenders?” 

On bin day- “can you take out the gash bag please darling?”

At bedtime- “right I’m off to my pit, nighty night!”

When discussing the shopping list or at mealtimes- “what scran should I get in my love?”

Instead of reading a bedtime story, get your kids to ask their sailor for a “bedtime dit please”. 

When out and about and in need of caffeine, tell your service person to “get the wets in”.

When your sprog does something particularly well, like gets 10/10 on their spellings, make sure to tell them it was “BZ” within earshot of your sailor. 

And finally if he is in need of a compliment, or you’re hoping to get your groove on simply sidle up to him, stare into his eyes lovingly and tell him “hey their gorgeous, looking turbo divs tonight” and watch him glow with amor (or be completely gobsmacked).

  
Another twist on Jill Speak if you truly want to create that Navy Ship feel at home (Kirsty Allsop eat you heart out) is to start calling all family members and friends by a different name!

Base their new Navy Nickname on something they did years ago that no one really remembers, a physical characteristic or (very very) loosely connected to their existing name. So if you have a Great Aunty Audrey she could now and forever be referred to as “Hepburn”, “Hep” or “Burnsy”. 

Remember the more embarrassing the story that inspired the name or the more random and difficult to figure out, the better. For real authenticity dont explain the new name to anyone. Ever.

  
If your Popeye is deployed then you can still play Jill Speak! You can easily sneak phrases into emails or when chatting on the phone. The stunned silence and (usually) string of baffled expletives that follow are well worth the phone card minutes.  It also pretty much guarantees a speedy email reply (unless comms are down of course) along the lines of “how do you know that word? I don’t like you using Jackspeak. You’ve freaked me out Olive!” Good times. 

However you decide to play Jill Speak have fun. Get creative and get the whole family onboard! See how many you can think of and shoehorn into everyday chit chats with your Popeye. 

Do let me know how you get on. 

Lots of love,

Olive X 

Screw your “normal”.

Screw your “normal”.

I don’t want normal.

I want heart racing, pulse hammering homecomings.

I don’t want mundane.

I want treasured kisses, appreciated gestures and hugs in the doorway that squeeze out my breath.

I don’t want “taken for granted”.

I want to feel a thrill when our eyes lock across a noisy family table.

I don’t want to become invisible.

I want tingles up my spine when you watch me walking back into the room. 

I don’t want to lose that lust.

I want you listen to what I have to say, because you respect me and my opinion.

I don’t want “yes dear”.

I want us to keep making an effort with our appearance.

I don’t want to get complacent.

I want to keep you guessing about me.

I don’t want to become predictable and average.

I want you sailor.

I don’t want ordinary.

Give me extraordinary any day. 

Muchos love,

Olive

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