Homecoming

Hubby came back from his course on Thursday night. (Hurrah, Fun Dad is back. And he has only watched Top Gear three times since then.) A releif because I was getting rather bored of Twin 1 telling me earnestly "Daddy on a horse" every five minutes. I suppose when you are two years old, a course may as well be a horse. Maybe that could be a new concept in military training: security briefings coupled with a little light pony trekking. I expect the cavalry would be in favour, anyway.
He arrived home at around eight thirty in the evening, whilst the mobile reflexologist was working on my feet. We had the lights dimmed and the harp-and-bird-tweet-music, and I had just chosen which type of moisturiser I would like, so it was all very relaxed and ambient (well, apart from Twin 2 who was sitting on my tummy, feigning an ear ache so she could pretend to be an only child for a bit). Then in stomped Hubby, muttering darkly about the dreadful journey, and complaining that his meat and two veg was absent from the microwave etc. So the whole relaxing reflexology vibe soon disappeared.
Apparently the pre-deployment course was interesting, he told me, between mouthfuls of cheese on toast (despite not being conducted on horseback, which must have been a bit of a disappointment), and one of the big security problems out on operations is smart phones, which are really easy to tap into and do various darstardly things with.
So he rattled on about this for a bit, and then, after pausing to take a big swig of tea announced that he'd really like a Nokia E90 for Christmas. I said, isn't that one of those smart phones that costs about a million pounds. He conceded that it was quite expensive but it had just come on the market and he'd wanted one ever since he read about it in some magazine (I forget the title, 'Gadget porn your wife doesn't want you to have' probably).
I thought for a bit about his getting a million pound shiny christmas present and Santa shopping in Lidl for the rest of us.
But didn't you just mention that you couldn't take smart phones on operations, I said. Absolutely, he replied, you can't take them into theatre; however it would be great for work.
But you are an Ops Officer, I said, your job consists almost entirely of going out on operations. All the time.
Good point, well made, I thought.
And if we're not spending a million pounds on a little shiny thing, all the more money for reflexology for me...