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. πŸ˜‚πŸ‘πŸ»βš“οΈπŸ’—)

Weird pick ups.Β 

I’m sure I’m not the only one who- after completing a basic level  Navy Wife MOT has driven like a bat out of hell to some isolated lay by, or petrol station, or middle-of-nowhere train station, to await the arrival of the fabled sailor. 

Sitting there with the hot air blowers on, checking your phone and trying to look really casual, yet stunning, making sure there’s a cool song on the CD player, and trying (and failing) to not gaze into the headlights of every approaching vehicle like some lip glossed, perfumed rabbit.  

Oh yes, and if it’s early evening, in the summer, on a Friday night, in Somerset, in a lay by at the side of the A303, waving along creepy men in white vans who obviously think you are a dogger. Seriously, this actually happened to me.

Eventually, after a few texts of “where are you?!” With no reply, you give up and start playing candy crush with your mouth hanging open and/or start pulling stupid faces in the mirror whilst inspecting your eyebrows and makeup. You wonder if you’ve got time to do a fart and air the car out before he turns up. If I’m in a risk taking mood, I let rip. If not, it’s lockdown for the foreseeable future. 

Of course this is the time that the passenger door opens, and he appears before me (imagine a choir singing “hallelujah!”). 

I, of course, jump out of my skin, swear, drop my phone down the side of the car seat, blush and (if applicable) release the trapped guff. Great first impression Olive. 

He doesn’t mind of course. And I use my blush as a reason to wind down the windows, or jump out to help him get his stuff in the boot. Further creating air circulation. 

This account is not including the drop off at Official Scary Navy Gates. Where they have giant guns and think it’s absolutely hilarious to wave them around next to my open window and say things like “don’t worry love you wouldn’t get far”. And then stare at you whilst you park up. 

The fear I have felt when pulling into the wrong gate at the Yeovilton Base cannot be underestimated. 

There are three gates at Yeovilton, all along the same road. And all open and shut at seemingly random different times. I’m sure these times make perfect sense in navy land but not to me. I used to shit myself when picking Popeye up from there in our early years because the people on the gate were just plain mean and used to laugh at me freaking out, sweating, stalling the car and stammering when they waved their guns around and told me off for coming to the wrong gate. Again.

(Also why is there a gate that leads no where in both HMS Collingwood and one of the entrances in Portsmouth?! Why do they exist???)

The weirdest place I’ve waited to pick up Popeye is probably at the side of a lake in a country park in Devon (probably prime dogging territory). In the pitch black in the middle of nowhere. I could literally hear crickets. 

Where’s the weirdest place you’ve had to go meet your sailor? 

And how much did it feel like you were doing a drug drop/ were a gangster? (I bet quite a lot). 

Also if anyone else gets the heebie jeebies from picking up by Official Scary Navy Bases please tell me. I feel like a right wimp. 

Muchos love




PARPs in Pompey, sweet goodbyes.Β 

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. 

Deep man.  

Anyone else have a PARP? Or just me that likes to let rip at certain landmarks around the south coast?

Muchos love

Olive x