Towards the end of July it became apparent that the best that Puddle* could offer in the way of Summer was in fact … Autumn. Peering out of the landing window both Baby and I would struggle to see the shimmer of grey that was the sea, somewhere down below the rolling crop fields. The sheep stomping past our back garden with an obvious annoyance at having their winter coats shorn off, the lambs cowering beneath their mothers swollen, warm bellies.
Our daily walks through the bustling farm yard and down to the damp, cold sands were often accompanied by fleeces and wellies. Not that Dog minded, it was all the same to him, bounding fearlessly through the hedgerows and somersaulting into the frothing black waves.
On the few occasions that the sun mooched smugly out from behind the tumbling clouds, the whole of Puddle would seemly melt into a typical English village**
The wheat fields, with their chessboard of bales, would glisten against the sky, the calmer waters in the bay would shimmer and gently lap at the shell strewn sands. The breeze would carry the scent of warm hay and dried seaweed, barbecues and soft pink roses as it wandered lazily up through the woods to our kitchen window. The woods, where the trees and the hollyhocks meet in the middle, soaking everything beneath it in a magical soft, green light. The narrow foot path hidden by bracken and nettles. The larks and the bullfinches darting from branch to stream, whilst the dormice scramble back through their tiny front doors as soon as Dog crashes through fallen tree branches and last years forgotten leaves.
When He strides out of the front door, uniform clad with kitbags and briefcases hanging off his towering frame, it’s a little bit sad and a little bit scary.
Sad, because when he is away I miss him. I miss the adult, the humour, the second pair of hands and his ability to pop to the only shop in Puddle to procure wine whilst I am up to my elbows in bath time bubbles.
It’s scary, because the most obvious unanswered question is, will he actually be striding back through that door again, alive? The less unanswered question is, what will I do at 5pm every evening when he normally brings relief from the routine?
And above all of this, you’re about to spend time alone with yourself. A lot of time.
For the first half of our marriage I was a martyr. I doted obsessively on our newborn, ensured the house reeked of magnolia Shake ‘n Vac, hosted glamorous lunches and marched the dog along the river twice a day. I owned not one, but two, under eye concealers and kept madly muttering to myself about self pity. I would tut!
He would pop in occasionally with mountains of laundry, crumpled boarding passes and photographs of hot countries and cold beers. Bursting with pride and excitement.
I got cross. And then more cross and then a lot cross. Cross that I had given up a career, a lifestyle, friends and family to effectively be someones housekeeper in strange, far-flung towns that I knew nothing about. Cross that He wasn’t around to appreciate my new role (and the smell of magnolia) and just cross, because I didn’t know what else to be at that point.
And then I burst. It was just as dramatic as I had fantasised in my dark, angry mutters. It was fabulously cathartic.
We went to see a marriage counsellor. And left six sessions later wondering why we hadn’t seen one sooner.
In the days, weeks and months that followed I let the anger and the resentment go. My fears and anxiety melted away revealing a young woman with so much to be grateful for and excited about. Look at what I have when he is away!! I have time! Time to explore my ambitions, my mind, my beliefs. Time to create, to ponder, to read. Time to cook delicious hearty meals, to walk through forests of bluebells and beaches full of rock pools. I have time to be silly. I have time to do nothing, to just be. Had I not met and married this man I would be stuck in a suffocating city, in a job that would never be my own, clock watching and constantly trying to keep up with the Joneses. Always finding an excuse as to why finding my version of bliss would have to wait. Procrastination would have been my ever present hashtag.
Having all of this time alone has allowed my imagination to wildly bound over societies expectation of how a woman, not least a human, should exist. I have no excuses now. I have to fill my time with something and why not by reinventing myself as many times as I please? By conquering fears and irrational thoughts? By embracing all of the change, the opportunities for not only myself, but Baby, to immerse ourselves in different cultures constantly? I can pick and choose the hobbies I attempt, the books that I want to read, the paths that I want to follow.
Granted, when He is away it is also a fabulous excuse to get the Prosecco on ice, invite a few of the fellow wives round, indulge in carbohydrates and in the ever present moan about husbands never being present, washing machines going bust, being the default parent and shaking our heads at the lack of new scents being launched by Shake’n Vac, but a girls gotta do …
So, as much as I could wallow quite comfortably in the sympathy and awe of others who marvel at the way we military housewives cope with the isolation, the fear, the never ending list of responsibilities and the constant upheaval, I also want to make it quite clear that I have grabbed this lifestyle with both hands and am going to use this twisted journey to my advantage over and over again until I have found what I’ve been searching for. And do you know what? The realisation and acceptance of that on it’s own has made me a happier, lighter, more fun person to be around so that when He does walk back through that front door he feels nothing but love, appreciation and contentment. What more could any man want from his family and what better way to serve the man who serves his country?
*Puddle, not it’s real name.
**Side note; Puddle cannot be classed as an actual English village due to it’s distinct lack of pub. DISTINCT LACK OF PUB. You read correctly. And I live here.
Top Tip:
A quote again,
Oscar Wilde once said, ” I think it’s very healthy to spend some time alone. You need to know who you are when you are alone and not be defined by another person.”
This rings true in my lifestyle, because I’ve learnt a lot about myself by not being surrounded by the influence of my husband, my parents, my siblings, my friends and former colleagues. It’s been just me … looking at me. And it’s not as scary as you think it might be. Be brave and embrace the solidarity that we have been gifted.
Until next time xoxo
From Location to Location … To Location.
What Happens on the Patch, Stays on the Patch.
This is only because we’re generally living in the middle of nowhere and we can’t get off the blinking patch!
The few times that I do leave, it’s on a hired bus on my way into the nearest town with fellow wives for a well deserved ladies night out, and even then there is always someone with their desperate face squashed up against the rear window frantically performing SOS signals at the sheep in passing fields.
A House is a Home
Being married to Him means that whenever and wherever he is posted we are allocated quarters on what is called the Married Patch. A little village of identical houses based around or near the station, their only difference being their size according to rank. Everything else is Exactly. The. Same. Our interior walls are always magnolia and the carpets in every house range from Bread Crust Beige (if you are this lucky, buy a lottery ticket) to Doctors Waiting Room Cobalt or Winter Nipple Blush.
Our windows are all adorned with either a taupe/ olive/ burgundy stripe, a golden peach velour or an autumnal floral scene. In 1963 there was a sale on at Fabrics for India. The MOD received a loyalty card.
Most postings are between two to three years, more than enough time to paint walls, hang your own curtains and let your dog moult.
Ours have never been longer than eight months. We don’t paint walls anymore. We buy decals. They peel off after two weeks. It works out for everyone involved.
Where There is a Patch, There is a Catch.
Moving on to a new patch is like browsing Trip Advisor. Within hours of waving off the removal men, you’ll get the low down on the weather patterns, wine prices, petrol stations, leisure centres, great family restaurants, the best dentist, the closest bus stops, the most grown up bars for date nights (eh?!) who lives where, who has kids of a similar age to yours. The best dog walking paths, which locals like us, which don’t, who offers military discount, the closest garden centres, who’s been deployed, where the football ground is, when the next families happy hour is, the list is endless.
It’s alright for Him. We move somewhere new, He’ll generally already know a few people in the office.
A slap on the back, a pint of beer and a, “See you Monday, mate.” and they’re in the circle.
You know he must know someone before he goes in for his first day, when his golf clubs, squash racquet and soccer boots all magically appear in the front hall the night before. The most awkward his day is going to get is using the wrong coffee mug.
We, as ‘The Partner’, on the other hand, have typically been moved yet another 100 miles further away from family, friends, routine, familiarity and comfort. We need to start at the very beginning. Every time. The most awkward my first day is going to get is watching Dog do a poo on the CO’s front lawn, as Baby makes a head on run for oncoming traffic.
You’ll be politely welcomed and circled warily a few times, but once you fail at making muffins and excel in bringing wine, you are ‘in’. Within days you’ll be discussing birth stories and bikini waxes.
The wonderful thing about living on ‘The Patch’ is that there is always someone that is free for a natter or to have glass of wine. There is always someone who feels like going for a walk or whose kids want to tire out your kids. Someone has always just baked a banana loaf. There is some one that will babysit when there is an emergency or a date night (which in most cases is classed as an emergency) There will always be someone that will happily pet sit for you or give you a lift into town. There is always someone who will listen to you rant, whine and complain or lend you their hoover. Some one has coped with deployment before you to guide you though the ups and downs – the ups being single person/ king size bed, the downs being, “who the flip knows whats for dinner tonight, I am sick of being the only adult here!” There will always be someone to encourage, advise, soothe or placate you.
Most military wives will have had a profession or continue to have a profession, so on your street you’ll always have a midwife, a marketing guru and an accountant. Or an artist, a chef and teacher. And me. I bring wine.
Some one will always have self raising flour. Me, again. It’s unopened, don’t worry about bringing it back. I don’t even know why I bought it.
There will always be someone who knows you well enough to walk over and give you a very necessary hug and tell you you are doing a great job.
It is intense though. As much as these women are your partners, your mothers, your confidantes, your sisters, your best friends and they know more about your sex life than He does! Sometimes I just don’t feel like babysitting the children over the road, or listening to next door moan about her husbands deployment. Again. For the eighth time that week. It’s Tuesday. Sometimes there’s no one that will understand why I am like I am. “Quirky.” Apparently. Better than, “Tipsy.” I suppose.
Sometimes I don’t want to have a cup of tea with ‘her from the next street along’ not only because I don’t drink tea, but she only eats Quinoa and does sit-ups whilst learning the Karma Sutra. Sometimes I’ll catch myself saying something and cringe in case I have offended someone. A given.
On any patch, on any street there will be a menagerie of ages, cultures, religions and ranks. There are some eggshells that you can’t even tiptoe over. We all live, work and play together 24/7, unlike in civilian life where you can leave your colleagues in one part of the city, mooch home to your family just outside of the city and then head out with your mates to socialise in another town. It takes a special breed of person to be laid back enough to go with the flow, but strong enough to know when to step back and politely, but firmly close the front door, pour a glass of wine and watch The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills for a bit until He gets home. Unless it’s a repeat at 11am, not even I can condone wine before lunch. A Bellini perhaps, but not wine!
When postings are up, you all hug each other, thank everyone for making yet another part of your adventure as magical as ever, reminisce over the time you all had too much to drink that Saturday night and all began miaowing at your taxi driver, adamant that none of you spoke any actual English. Brave squeezes and promises of reunions, BBQ’s and email addresses.
And within twenty four hours you are on a new patch watching the removal men drive off as eight women begin charging up your garden path with thrush ointment and burnt tray bake.
Until next time
xoxo
Top Tip:
When living on a patch (military or civilian) remember the following, always:
“ There is a story behind every person, there is a reason why they are the way they are. Think about that before you judge someone.”
From Summer Ball to Midnight Crawl
There is one day on the kitchen calendar that is free from little notes like, “put the bins out” and “Worming tablets, milk, soy sauce.” It is the day of the summer ball. Oh my goodness, I become giddy and hand clappy just at the thought of this event. A night of glamour, a reason to shave past the knee, a feast of decadent food, glorious cocktails and swaying music. Men in uniform, women in ball gowns. There is magic in the air as you are transported back to the days of tradition, elegance and basic table manners.
This year was to be the first that I had attended since being pregnant/ breastfeeding/ consumed by “mummy guilt” and I was sure as kippers looking forward to it. He had organised it this year. It was sure to be a big hit. His legacy. Besides protecting his country. Obviously. But leave my husband alone with a booze budget and ya’ll going to have a good time!
For me, it is all about getting ready. Having returned from the hair dressers, the only one in Puddle* – attached to the old fire station, having had my hair back combed to the Sixties, I swish upstairs to our bedroom, ignoring the whining, the barking and the tennis on the telly, gently close the door and immerse myself in wafts of perfume and powder puffs of bronzer. Filling in and dabbing at the lines where my eyes used to be and pouting my way through a tumble of lipstick, some new, some my mothers, some from when I was quite obviously single … and drunk.
I glide around the room, my plunging lavender dress sweeping around my ankles, momentarily pausing to look in to the full length mirror to accept my Oscar and give a little speech, turning my head this way and that trying to remember my best side for photographs. “Hold your tummy in.” I whisper to myself as I practice three types of ‘natural’ smile.
There is music on in the background, sometimes it is a jazzy collection of beats that make me feel sophisticated and vaguely grown up, other times it is a rap artist out of Compton and I pretend I have fluid hips and rhythm, practising some moves to bust out on the dance floor later that night.
He eventually appears with Baby, proffering a glass of Prosecco which I gratefully receive as I dab at my post rap battle sheen. He oooh’s and aaaah’s at how thirteen layers of foundation, concealer and primer have transformed me into a goddess. Baby disappears under my gown to smack my bottom and call me a, “bad doggy”.
The babysitter arrives. Woohoo! Lets go! Three feet down the driveway and I decide that I don’t like my shoes, they have too much heel and not enough comfort. He says that I need to suck it up. He’s right.
I’ve forgotten to pluck my eyebrows.
Arriving at the Officer’s Mess we are greeted with a thundershower, flutes of pink champagne and I get called “Ma’am.” This little scenario in itself is perfect. Put a fork in me, I’m done.
As we air kiss our way across the room to where He has spotted more of the pink stuff the atmosphere settles over us. The twinkly lights, the elegant gloom of the gallant halls, the soft tinkling of music drifts around us. The buzz builds as more of our peers arrive, the compliments flowing as fast as the bubbles. The wives swishing their dresses and swooshing their hair, playing coy to all who mention their “fabulous shoes,” batting away the compliments of, “Gorgeous make up” or “darling earrings.” The Officers, all with a drink in one hand, their woman in the other, laughing politely at jokes and anecdotes, talking shop and looking dapper, Sir. The wet, warm evening breeze gently nudging the weighty velvet curtains cloaking the walls.
It isn’t much later, once we have all languished around the dining tables having eaten mounds of incredible food and chugged goblets of wine, that the dignity we came with disappears and we are all on the dance floor hoisting our gowns up past the line of no return, the line that distinguishes where the fake tan ends and the body shaping knickers begin. Heels have been forgotten, laughter now comes out in snorts and the young boy-ish folk band on the stage have garnered the attention of many a wife who has forgotten the kids and crows feet and are now groupies, one arm in the air, forefinger pointing heavenward belting out the chorus to a Mumford & Sons tune. The He’s are all in the bar, putting the world to right while bopping uneasily to the urban funk pouring from the speakers, cheering and cajoling each other.
Approaching midnight and this Cinderella isn’t what she was a few years ago (immortal) I sashay out of the heaving pit of oestrogen and slip my shoes back on. Then quietly slip them back off again. Painful buggers. Seeking out which side of the bar He is propping up I whisper to him that I am to pop myself on an early bus home. He attempts to argue my decision, until someone pipes up about something happening in Libya and I am free to go.
Before departing the Mess I am guided by a uniformed member of staff to a table baring piping hot, pulled pork baps and dainty pockets of pork crackling for my ride home. Got in Himmel. Yes. Slumped on the bus, the elegance and sophistication having been left on the middle of the dance floor with my soul and my fluid hips, I let my feet dangle off the seat and attempt to engage the (sober) bus driver in a meaningful conversation about the current government while licking pork fat from my forearm.
These are busses that are laid on for this particular night by the way, I am not just jumping on a random M17 night bus.
Arriving back at the patch, waving goodbye to the few other midnights Molly’s I walk the rest of the way home barefoot, the pavements glistening wet in the cool, clear night sky. I am deep in thought. It is serious. It has been playing on my mind since we left the house earlier that night. My heart is pounding.
If I bought a family sized pack of Cadbury mini rolls for the babysitter and she had eaten one an hour, how many would there be left for me by now?
Top Tip:
Ladies Dress Code for Military Events:
Cocktail Party: One of the only times you will get away with wearing a dress above the knee. It’s an LBD night. Shave those legs ladies!
Formal Dinner i.e. Burns night, Battle of Britain, Guest Dining In Night: Dress below the knee. shoulders covered during dinner, formal hair and make up. Channel Duchess Kate.
Summer Ball/ Christmas Draw: Ball gown, Ankle length dress, shoulders covered through dinner, although this year some one did pull off an incredibly beautiful jumpsuit – wide flared legs and Audrey Hepburn up-do style. Think the Grammy’s, but more Beyoncé less Bjork. Keep it classy and fairly traditional knowing that shortly after dinner someone will end up doing the Dirty Dancing lift.
Until next time
xoxo
All linked up,
Getting on the linky train!
From Middle East to Making Quiche
He spent the beginning of last week being chauffeured around the splendid British countryside with carfuls of Qatari royalty and defence ministers. All who were on a little aeroplane shopping spree.
The visitors were dressed in their finery, cigarettes clamped between teeth as they minced around muddy puddles and through boggy trenches. Their golden signet rings glinting in the dewy sunshine. Pausing throughout their stay to indulge in feasts of British fare and pomp, silver service and grand entertainment, before retiring to their haunting country manor spa hotel surrounded by cows and hay bales.
His week ended with a few short flights up and down the country, dressed in a sharp suit, accompanied by a bacon roll and a hot cup of tea. I mean… please. Could life be any more glamorous?
Gazing out of the kitchen window while elbow deep in the washing up bowl, a piece of cooked onion plastered to my forearm and a strand of hair irritatingly undetectable on my face, I contemplate whether to pick up the dog poo or empty the hoover.
I mean … please. Could life be any more glamorous?
And then the phone rang.
I was to become the co chair of the spousal entertainment committee.
There was to be an official hand over luncheon.
At our house.
“This is incredibly important!” I screech at him that evening as I scroll through hundreds of recipes for Quiche.
He nods, as solemnly as possible, before retreating upstairs to polish his shoes.
Quiche Lorraine
Serves 8
Pastry:
Buy a ready-made pastry case, remember you still have to dust the house and blow-dry your hair before they arrive, ain’t no one got time for that. If they ask, obviously you made it. Obviously.
Filling:
175g unsmoked streaky bacon rashers, rind removed, cut into thin strips.
1 onion peeled and chopped.
250ml of single cream. You only live once.
2 Large eggs
125g Of Grated Gruyère cheese
Salt and Black pepper to taste
1 pinch of nutmeg – right at the back of the spice cupboard, orange lid.
Pre-Heat oven to 220*C/ Gas 7/ 425F
Fry the bacon with a little oil over a medium heat for 10 minutes, leave to dry and cool on some kitchen roll. Using the same oiled pan, saute the onions for 8 minutes or until golden. Transfer to the pastry case and top with the strips of bacon and grated Gruyère cheese.
Mix the cream, eggs, salt and pepper and nutmeg together and pour over the onion, bacon and cheese.
Bake for 25 – 30 minutes until golden and just set.
The morning of the hand over luncheon dawned, Baby and I danced around with the Shake ’n Vac like we were in a snow globe, as the oven warmed to Quiche baking temperatures.
Carly Rae Jepson and Tom Hanks grooving along with us in, I Really Like You ,as we scrubbed the downstairs loo and placed a fragrant candle on the window sill – nice touch.
Cutlery was polished, Prosecco was chilled, napkins were folded, plates had the previous nights lasagne scratched from the rims and the water jug was fished out from the basket of bath time toys.
Mint was chopped, salad was tossed, mantle pieces were polished, dog hair was swept, fresh flowers were arranged, door mat was shaken, door bell was checked.
Lip stick was applied, hair was swooshed, perfume was spritzed, quiche was sitting, windows were opened.
His trainers were chucked up the stairs, a squash racket was slid under the hall side table, lighting was experimented with; one lamp on, two lamps on, one lamp and one overhead light, no lamps, no overhead lights. one lamp on.
Another hair swoosh.
A nappy change, Baby’s, not mine.
Check the quiche is still where it was the last time I checked, dab at my under eye concealer that keeps settling into my ‘laughter lines’, fluff up the sofa cushions, let Dog out to bring mud in, get the posh water glasses out, look out of the window on the landing, put the heating on.
Offer Baby some blueberries? Nope. Some carrot sticks? Nope. Some popcorn? Nope. Give up. Search for the Classic FM channel – cultured and grown up. Toss the salad again. Quiche is still there. Check the bottom of all mugs for tea stains, put the pre-bought pastry box in the bin, light the fragrant candle in the downstairs loo, take my pyjama bottoms off, slide into a pair of very tight jeans, breathe out. Breathe back in again, very quickly.
Wonder why the house feels chilly with the heating on, close windows, wipe down Baby’s high chair, placate Dog with a treat when he enquires about the daily walk.
More lipstick.
Cars begin to pull up, ladies are walking up my garden path … with clip boards. I don’t have a clip board. Come to think of it, I don’t have a pen. I have a pink highlighter and a box of Crayola’s, half chewed, missing the red one. Paper. just need a sheet. C’mon. Really?! Not even one sheet. Find a charity collection flyer, blank on the back. Fabulous.
They stream in, chatting and laughing. Greeting and air kissing. Prosecco is poured, quiche is sliced, salad is served, I’m wearing high heels in my own house, on a Tuesday, because that’s normal. We sit around the dining room table gushing about the weather, recent outings, how great the quiche is (I know, right?!), how crumbly and rich the pastry is (yup, move along), who’s been where, who’s said what, who’s husbands are coming home, who’s are leaving, Dog saunters in and vomits up a grass ball. Who is attending the next spousal event, more Prosecco is poured, no one wants water from the posh water glasses, some one wants to know how I made the pastry. Someone else comments on the candle in the loo, “nice touch,” they say. I forgot to buy something sweet for after the quiche. Baby is in the high chair trying to do a poo.
The current co-chair woman decides to get down to business, clip boards and Parker pens are whipped out with a flourish, lots of snapping, clicking and hair swooshing.
I fetch my flyer and racing green crayon. No one says anything. I pour more Prosecco. Baby has definitely done a poo. I suggest we move to the sitting room, no one argues. We leave Baby there. Kidding.
I am handed reams of paper, filled with phone numbers of relevant people, the Officers’ Mess manager, the ISS manager, the accounts manager, the events manager. I am given lists of instructions of how to organise the spouses Christmas dinner, various Sunday lunches at the mess, the families happy hour, when to arrange the bi-monthly spousal events, how to get the pump on the jumping castle to work. Coffee mornings, bridge afternoons, home visits, luncheons, farewell teas, welcome drinks. The newsletter template, raffle sheets and the official events diary. I am prepped to talk to senior officials, how to approach the CO, how to converse with the wives of various ranks, what gifts to buy for whom for whatever reasons, how often to top up the booze kitty (often, in my case), how to arrange transport for events, how to not forget anything.
I am quite tipsy with power (amongst other things) I nod, ticking and highlighting items with my Crayola.
When the Prosecco runs out, no one wants tea, it all ends with hand shakes, promises to fly the flag high and ensuring the respectable running of the Puddle* Military Spouses Entertainment Committee.
They stream out, “No, really, just how did you make that pastry?!” I titter and playfully tap my nose … , “No, Really?!”
“Bye now!” I say, waving heartily.
Closing the front door on the last of them a gust of wind catches the flame of the fragrant candle in the downstairs loo and sets the dried flower arrangement alight. I throw it all in the toilet and put the lid down.
Dog, Baby and I toddle around hoovering up quiche crumbs and Prosecco dribble.
He arrives home, acknowledges the flaming floral fiasco and promptly leaves again with a set of golf clubs muttering something about a very important meeting.
Gazing out of the kitchen window while elbow deep in the washing up bowl, a piece of cooked onion plastered to my forearm and a strand of hair irritatingly undetectable on my face, I contemplate whether to pick up the dog poo or empty the hoover.
Until next time xoxo
TOP TIP
If you run a military spousal events committee check if places offer military discount, you would be surprised at how many do and how often we forget to ask.
*Puddle, not it’s real name.
I have joined up with @randommusings for an ‘Anything Goes” linky. Spread the love!
All Linked Up;
The Real Military Housewife 