You can leave the Army.

You can hand your kit back, hand in your MOD90, grow your hair, ok, this one doesn’t apply to me. You stop polishing your boots, start paying council tax and for this stuff called food and generally begin pretending to be a normal functioning member of society.

But apparently, you can’t leave all the habits behind, even after a short period of time. Some of them just follow you around for the rest of your life.

Let me make myself clear. I only served three years in the Army when I was younger yet still, looking back, I didn’t realise just how many completely normal things in civilian life would eventually become mildly irritating because of it.

Things that nobody else seems to care about. Things that probably make my daughters think I’m slightly mental. Things that, to me, are simply common sense.

Take being on time.

In the Army, well, all arms of service, there was always the old saying that if you’re on time, you’re late. You don’t arrive at ten o’clock for something happening at ten o’clock.

You arrive early.

Because things happen. Traffic happens. Someone gets lost. Something gets forgotten. The universe decides to throw a spanner in the works. So you give yourself some bloody time.

I’ve carried that one with me.

If I’m supposed to be somewhere at ten, I’ll probably be there at 9:45. And this is where civilian life occasionally drives me absolutely insane. Because apparently, for some people, ten o’clock means somewhere between 10:00 and 10:30.

“Sorry I’m late.”

Why?

It costs absolutely nothing to be somewhere at an agreed time. You’ve got one job. Be there at ten o’clock, not 10:07. Not “nearly there.” Not “I’m just parking.”

I realise I’m probably sounding slightly unreasonable here, but if you’ve spent enough time being conditioned to arrive early, watching someone casually rock up twenty minutes late while looking completely relaxed is enough to make you question the entire structure of modern society.

And then there’s the 24-hour clock.

I still use it. Even my phone uses it. If I’m looking at a timetable, schedule or anything involving time, my brain automatically converts it. Sixteen hundred. Eighteen hundred. Twenty-two hundred. Simple.

Except when you say it to someone who hasn’t been in any arm of the military. “Right, I’ll see you at eighteen hundred.” Blank stare.

“What time is that?”

“Six.”

“Six what?”

“Six o’clock.”

“Why didn’t you just say six?”

Because my brain apparently doesn’t work like that anymore. I’ve even caught myself looking at my analogue watch and thinking in the 24-hour clock without even noticing. It’s not something I deliberately do, It’s just there. Like some sort of useless software update that was installed years ago, corrupted itself and now can’t be uninstalled.

Then there’s walking.

I’ve discovered that even though I have the leg length of an Oompa Loompa, I don’t really walk. I move like I’m on a mission, apparently there’s a difference. If I’m going somewhere, I’m going somewhere, I’m not wandering, I’m not sightseeing. I’m not casually drifting along while contemplating the meaning of life.

I’m getting there.

This becomes particularly noticeable when I’m walking with my daughters. They walk like they’re being paid by the hour. I’ll be twenty metres ahead before I realise, they’re not still right next to me.

I’ll turn around.

“Come on!”

“Where are you going?”

“To the car!”

“We’re coming!”

No, you’re not.

You’re bloody sightseeing again. I think the Army conditions you to move efficiently. If you need to get from A to B, you don’t f**k about between A and B. You get to B. And apparently, I’ve never quite managed to switch that off.

I’ve also discovered that I still eat like someone might take my plate away.

Years of having limited time to eat does something to you. You learn to consume food at a speed that would probably concern a medical professional. On more than one occasion I will have just parked my arse only hear “Everyone outside now!… I said NOW!”

On many occasions since my parole from the mob, I’ve sat down for a family meal and demolished my dinner while everyone else is still deciding what they’re going to eat first.

I look around and everyone else is eating normally. I’m finished. Plate empty. Fork down and ready to go. And then I remember I’m not in the Army anymore. Nobody is shouting that you’ve got to move at the speed of a thousand Gazelles. Nobody is about to march you somewhere. There’s no reason to inhale your dinner like its classified information.

But apparently my digestive system didn’t get the memo.

Then there’s making your bed.

This one has never really gone away. There’s making your bed and then there’s making your bed properly. Corners straight, sheets tucked in and everything neat. You could probably bounce a pound coin off it. Don’t get me wrong, I have managed to drop the hospital corners and bed blocks, I mean, come on, I was never in prison. I’ve found myself walking past the kids’ room and clocking their quite frankly, poorly made beds and thinking, Jesus Christ, what happened here?

It’s a bed.

Nobody cares.

Except me.

And that’s the problem.

The same thing happens with cupboards. If a cupboard door is left open, I’ll close it. If a chair is sitting at a strange angle, I’ll straighten it. If something is lying somewhere it obviously shouldn’t be, I’ll move it. I don’t even think about doing it. My brain just sees something out of place and apparently sends a cheeky little message saying:

SORT THAT SHIT OUT.

Jesus… I’ve just realised being in the army has given me OCD! Oh well, at least I’ve got an excuse now.

I’ve sometimes wondered what would happen if I lived with another person who was ex-Mob. We’d probably spend half our lives silently correcting things around the house while the rest of the family wondered what the hell we were doing. Wait until I start posting Daily Orders each morning, ok, I’m not actually going to do that, relax.

Then there’s something I never really expected to carry with me, and I think being a surveillance officer hasn’t helped, and that’s, Checking exits. Walk into a pub, I’ll know where the exits are. Restaurant? Hotel? I’ll have a quick look around. I’m not sitting there thinking I’m about to be attacked by ninjas or anything. It’s just become automatic. Everyone else is deciding where they want to sit (Obviously I never sit with my back to a room) and I’m conducting a bloody reconnaissance mission.

The strange thing is, though, that some of the habits that sound ridiculous are actually quite useful. The Army teaches you to keep your head when things go wrong. And civilian life has plenty of opportunities for things to go wrong.

Car breaks down? Right. What’s the problem? Something goes wrong unexpectedly? Okay. Let’s work out what needs doing. Everyone else is panicking? Fine. Let’s deal with the actual problem first.

I think years of being around situations where getting stressed wasn’t particularly helpful, probably leaves you with a certain attitude towards chaos BUT… I’ll admit, if it’s to do with the kids? I’m utterly useless and panic like I have no processing power at all, in effect, they’re my Kryptonite and all my calm can instantly evaporate. Deal with nuclear war games and end of world scenarios? Not a problem. Deal with the little one getting concussion? Instant Panic, why? I have absolutely no idea.

So, I’ve established that, kid’s aside, that being Ex – Military of any kind gives you the ability to not immediately shit yourself when something goes wrong.

There’s also the ability to get on with something when you really don’t want to. Sometimes you don’t need motivation. Sometimes something just needs doing. So you do it and if you know me, I’ll have something to say about it? yes, and I’ll probably mutter something under my breath, but I’ll get it done.

That’s probably one of the better things the Army left me with.

Although there is one thing that hasn’t necessarily been helpful. Hearing someone shout “Oi!” I don’t care where I am, if someone suddenly shouts “OI!”, some tiny part of my tiny brain immediately thinks:

What the f**k have I done?

It could be nothing to do with me. It could be someone shouting at their mate or It could only be someone trying to get the attention of their out of control dog.

Doesn’t matter.

For approximately half a second, I’m nineteen years old again and wondering whether I’ve f**ked something up and I imagine, if I was to hear “You Boy!” Well, that’s it, I’m basically falling apart. Does Civi street even have RSM’s? … anyway…

And then there are the habits that probably make absolutely no sense to anyone who hasn’t served. Certain words, certain ways of doing things. Certain little reactions that just become ingrained.

You don’t really notice them until somebody points them out.

Then you realise you’ve been doing them for years. That’s the funny thing about the Army. You don’t necessarily completely leave it behind. You leave the job, the uniform, the routine yes.

But bits of it stay with you. Some are useful. Some really aren’t. Some are probably irritating the living shit out of everyone around you. (On a side note, I quite like that).

Especially your kids.

I’ve probably spent years telling the girls to hurry up, only to realise that they’re actually walking at a perfectly normal human pace and I’m the one marching around Manchester like I’ve got a curfew.

I’ve eaten dinner in six minutes when I’ve had an entire evening to do it. I’ve arrived somewhere ridiculously early and then sat in the car wondering why the f**k I’m there forty minutes before anyone else.

I’ve straightened things that didn’t need straightening.

I’ve checked exits when there was absolutely no reason to check for an exit. And I’ve looked at a clock showing 6:00pm and thought “eighteen hundred” without even considering that nobody else speaks like that.

So yes, you can leave the Army.

But apparently the Army doesn’t always leave you. And to be fair, I’m not sure I’d want it to. For all the ridiculous habits, it taught me some things that have served me pretty well.

Try to be reliable, try to be on time and try to keep your head when things go wrong and try to get the job done.

Although I probably should work on the walking thing.

Because apparently my daughters are quite happy taking fifteen minutes to walk from the front door to the car although I’m still confused as to why it can’t be done in three.

Maybe that’s the Army in me. Maybe it’s just impatience. Maybe it’s because I spent years manoeuvring around life in black and white with no grey areas. Although, the longer I spend as a Civi the more I like and appreciate grey areas.

Or maybe I’m just getting old and grumpy. Either way, if you’re ever walking behind me and I suddenly turn around and shout, “COME ON!”

Don’t take it personally. I’m probably just going somewhere.

Or it could just be me.