Hot and Mothered

My dad has gone away.
This is a rare occurrence, he's as attached to his tweed arm chair and over head projector slides as Husband is to his balls (due to be removed soon har har). He's gone to a potato convention. That's right, a potato convention. He found the advert in the back of a seed catalogue and hasn't been so excited about anything since Barry from next door entered a dodgy cauliflower in the Best Cauliflower competition:
He hasn't got a chance the silly bugger, he strained to me from the corner of his mouth, breathing heavily in an attempt to supress his excitement,
the fool's deluded, I mean, look at it, it's almost as bad as his tomatoes. The silly buggery fool. You get the gist.
Anyway, Dad being away means Trouble (you note the capital T), because My Mother loses all focus, actually she loses every bit of focus she has: My Dad. No focus means a whirling dervish with nothing to whirl around. Who if not my dad will listen to the tirades about Shirley-The-Competition and her latest attempts to out wit My Mother in the Church league? Who tastes the sauces and exclaims with practised ease delicious dear, I don't know how you do it. Who acknowledges the hourly missives regarding paired socks (pin each pair together before washing to prevent loss), eating over cooked cheese (worse than death apparently, I have a feeling she's got a shock coming one of these days), saving empty butter wrap in the fridge for no apparent reason at all, hand washing clothes and then putting them in the washing machine (it's not thorough enough) and wiping the dog's bottom because he's practically human? My dad, that's who, I have a lot to thank him for.
But not this week because he's gone to this bloody potato convention. He set off with several examples of the potatoes he grows wrapped in bubble wrap and placed delicately in a briefcase. He looked like MI5 were developing a top secret potato based listening device and he had been bestowed the honour of providing Just The Right Potato. He even took his own spade because you can't buy them like this nowadays, i.e. with a long handle and a square spade on the end.
Anyway, where was I? Aha, yes, My Mother, I remember now because she's standing behind me, fiddling for her glasses and squinting at the screen. I haven't seen her, but I can feel the criticism cloud building as I type. Best type fast then.
As you have probably guessed, the whirling dervish has landed squarely on my doorstep. Approximately 32 minutes after my dad left for the station, My Mother let herself in to my house with a key that I have never given her (How? How? How did she do it?).
Hello Darling she trilled excitedly as she surveyed all the criticism potential hovering in the hallway, it looks like I've come just in time, pass me a duster would you and we're definitely going to need some bleach for the light shades.
She's here. To stay. And won't go away until my dad comes home which is in forty eight hours (2880 minutes/172800 seconds). She's washed all the curtains (full of bacteria), swept the ceilings (a hive of bacteria), bathed the dog (a bacteria factory), scrubbed the bath down (full of dog bacteria) and cleaned out the cheese tray (cheese is mouldy and therefore bacteria filled).
Last night I woke up to find her cleaning out under my eyelids with a toothpick before giving Husband a quick go down with the disinfectant.
Ok, so I can cope with a clean house, and I am nicely pleased with my clean Husband, but she has got to go. I'm going to get the Potato Convention to page my dad and say I've spotted blight. On his potatoes. Give me two minutes.

Things I Have Said To My Husband Today

• Hmmm
• What is it?
• Well let me have a look then
• Hold still
• Don't complain all day and not let me look
• Pull them down a bit more
• Ok
• Hmmmm
• Er
• Well it looks like a rash
• Has it been chaffing?
• Well it looks like it has
• I'm well aware that it's itchy
• Nobody could have escaped the fact that it's itching
• Please don't scratch while I'm down here
• It's been a week now I think
• Judging from when the itching started
• Why don't you put some cream on?
• We have
• In the cabinet
• If it works for nappy rash it'll work for this
• It's not bum cream it's for rashes
• No I don't think you need something extra strength from the doctor
• Because it's just a rash
• Well I think it's just from sweat
• No, I don't think you're ill
• Or that it's life threatening
• Have you ever heard of death by rash?
• What do you mean Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head say it could happen?
• You let them look at your bum rash?
• Why?
• Why would they have any insight?
• Are they medically trained?
• Specialists in rashes?
• Have any knowledge at all of rash related deaths?
• Pokey had one?
• One like this?
• Oh
• Well what did the doctor say?
• His pants?
• Well how often did he change them?
• Do you only change your pants once a week?
• Oh good
• But every few days isn't good enough
• Every day
• Yes, every day
• Most people do
• It's not obsessive
• Or girly
• Most normal people change everyday
• Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head are not normal
• Because they're forty four and live together
• And only eat bacon
• And still have a wok in their garden
• That Bucket Head used as a toilet
• That's not normal.

Oh Glory Be

Ok, so I covered myself in glory on Saturday night. Glory I tell you. Award winning glory, glory worthy of Husband tutting and shaking his head. When Husband tuts and shakes his head at your inebriated state you know you're in trouble, and any sensible person would hot foot it to the taxi rank, pour themselves into a cab and attempt to get themselves home.

But no. I'm not sure why or how, but for some reason after a small barrel of wine my brain doesn't begin to shut down and home in on water and ways to get home to bed sharpish, oh no, my brain takes on a whole new personality and begins to think it's Madonna. Forget my two left feet, forget the three inch heels, forget the poise, the elegance, the stomach-in-shoulders-back stance I have been studiously practising all evening, I am Madonna. Forget also the good impressions I had been cultivating, the attempt at witty repartee, intelligent head nods and discreet laughter, fielding tricky questions with a light hand and clever twist. I am Madonna. I can dance (in three inch stilettos), I can sing, I am sexy and above all everybody (everybody.) wants to see me perform.

This is the point where I become Material Girl and move seamlessly from try-hard dinner companion to all singing all dancing queen of the evening, and there is absolutely nothing anybody can do about it. Not only that, but Material Girl is not shy, not a wallflower bone in her body and Material Girl absolutely and utterly has to have a stage. Any stage will do, but even better if it's up with the band, because Material Girl deserves a stage, needs a stage and knows that her performance will be the highlight of the evening.

Material Girl also thinks she is sexy, very sexy indeed, and that every dance move she makes with her forgotten two left feet is sexy too. And she thinks that mouthing all the words to the songs impresses everybody, and that suddenly three inch stilettos are easy peasy to dance in and refuses to remove them because it's not professional. She also thinks that every other person on the dance floor is watching her in impressed awe wishing beyond words that they could perform with such effortless sexiness while simultaneously holding a bottle of wine aloft and mouthing all the words to Hi Ho Silver Lining. I mean, how does she do it? they're all thinking, brains, long lyric remembering skills and sexy, we might as well give up and just watch her. Material Girl knows this and dances even more sexily and requests encores of the songs she knows best. Material Girl fights hard not to be dragged off the stage by Husband and instead shows him exactly why he was so lucky to marry her in the first place.

Except last Saturday night.

You see there was a wire, one teeny little wire attached to the guitar stolen from the lead guitarist that Material Girl was playing with incredible skill and dexterity, as well as managing to sing the entire bridge of Show Me The Way To Amarillo (such talent). But as I said, there was a wire, a wire that wrapped her feet and snaked slowly to her ankles before tightening suddenly and upending Material Girl, gashing her shin with the sharp sticky out bits.

Alas, Material Girl was no more, she was taken sheepishly and gingerly to casualty and sat as the doctors sniggered as Husband explained in what can only be described as intense detail exactly how the injury had been sustained.

Poor Material Girl I hear you all thinking, and you'd be right. Thankyou for your compassion as I sit here tapping away, leg swathed in bandage, brain ticking away trying to think of an entirely un-alcohol related reason for the injury to recount to my parents. Thankyou for what I know will be only kind and understanding comments in the comments section as my unshaveable leg grows hairier than next door's dog. And thankyou also for paying tribute to the last ever performance of Material Girl.

I hope you're proud of me.

Facelift

So, the more observant among you will notice that this blog has had a facelift, those who didn't pick up on the subtle changes IF YOU CAN'T READ THIS GET SOMEONE TO READ IT TO YOU AND THEN BOOK AN APPOINTMENT AT THE OPTICIANS. I say this because there is nothing subtle about the changes. No siree.
It is, in a nutshell a complete and utter face lift. Not for me the discreet trip to Switzerland to visit family for a month to return visibly refreshed in an indescribable way, scars hidden behind the comments section and under the blog archive, a little nip of the font, a tuck of the colour scheme. I didn't even bother to pretend to be away anywhere. In true blogger dedication I continued to post while the changes were underway. That's how dedicated I am to you all. The phone company should take note and perhaps book me for a seminar. I'm reassuringly expensive.
And I did think that it was about time I had a photo of myself up there, and this is exactly how I look, every day. I always think it important to wear pearls and an alice band whatever the weather, and this photo proves me right. There I was minding my own business the other day, taking a perfectly baked cherry pie out of the oven, when a photographer came to the door complete with a blue background and snapped me unawares. I mean, how often does that happen? Rarely, I tell you, which is why it's important to accessorise even when alone in the house baking.
Can you imagine what would have happened if I hadn't had such exacting standards? It just doesn't bear thinking about. Imagine a morning of screaming children, slippers, poached egg covered dressing gown, last night's eyeliner, bed hair, bored dog humping your leg and a photographer at the door with a blue background. Then what would I have done about a blog photo, probably picked wildly and ended up with some stupid laughing horse, or something.
Anyway, I'm glad you get to see me as I really am, and let this be a sage lesson to you. You never know when a photographer is going to come to your door, best have the good china out just in case. You have been warned.

ps I don't usually do tags, mainly because I am incapable but Husband has promised to help. The design was done by Jennisa, who was just fab and deserves a (working) tag here.

pps If it doesn't work, Husband did it.

Things I Have Said To My Husband Today

• It's salmon
• Salmon
• Fish
• You do like fish
• You do
• Well you like it from the fish and chip shop
• That is fish
• Cod is fish
• Well why do they call it a fish and chip shop?
• It's not just an old fashioned name
• It's called fish and chips because that's what they serve
• So you believe me?
• That cod is a fish?
• So you like fish
• Well then you like salmon
• What's wrong with pink fish?
• It's not a bit girly
• Pretend it's cod dyed pink
• Thankyou, now eat it up
• If you play with it it'll get cold
• And I can see you hiding it under the cabbage
• And behind the broccoli
• I'm not stupid
• Or blind
• Look just try one mouthful and if you don't like it leave it
• Great
• Pretending to gag is so mature
• Please stop gagging
• And holding your throat
• And gesturing to the toilet
• And attempting to dial 999

Things I Have Said To The 999 Operator Today

• Oh hello
• I'm so so sorry
• It was a mistake
• No not the children
• Or the dog
• Well, my Husband
• He doesn't like his fish
• Salmon
• I'm glad you sympathise
• Oh, with him, I see
• No he's not ill
• Err
• Well I suppose he is gagging
• But he's pretending
• Yes I'm sure
• Because he does this every time I give him peas
• And porridge
• And sometimes if my Mother comes over
• Yes he is quite dramatic
• Yes I suppose he could go on the stage
• Oh sorry
• Is that better?
• I just had to leave the room
• All the gagging was stopping me hearing you
• No he's in the toilet
• Gagging and pretending to throw up
• Yes he will stop in a bit
• When I give him some ice cream
• I'd better get it hadn't I
• Sorry again for wasting your time
• Yes, I agree no more salmon

Rub A Dub Dub

Can someone please explain to me the rules regarding using a communal jacuzzi? I don't mean one of those hot tubs that people place thoughtlessly in the supposedly hidden area of their gardens. The ones which once night has fallen envelopes the users with such a misguided degree of privacy that they run from the house, giggling, dressed only in a towel to wallow the night away in champagne. The ones where the champagne takes over and amorous pursuits become, well amorous, and they forget momentarily that since the hot tub was installed the neighbour has invested in a night vision telescope. If only they would google their address they would find a virtual diary of their fondling on Youtube. Sorry if that scares you hot tub owners, but still, you pays your money you takes your clothes off.
No, I mean the ones at spas and gyms, the ones large enough to house thirty wallowers dressed in nothing but glorified underwear, thirty wallowers all pretending to be the Only Wallower and studiously ignoring the other twenty nine. Thirty wallowers pretending to have absolutely no idea that another twenty nine semi naked people are sharing their bath.
I mean, it doesn't make sense does it? If a big fat hairy man walked into your bathroom and sat down in a bubble bath with you wearing nothing but his underpants you'd at least say hello wouldn't you? Or ask him if he'd like a little more warm water? Anything to be polite really and show him you're au fait with sharing a bath with him, despite thinking you may have seen him on crimewatch but you can't be sure when he's wearing just his pants.
You may even attempt a polite conversation about his underpants or efficient chest hair removal creams (come on, it's all he's giving you). I mean, he's in your bath, he must be comfortable with himself, or perhaps you're a bit of a people pleaser and find yourself offering the non tap end and a bit of a go with the loofa. Either way you'd have a stab at something wouldn't you.
But no, not in a communal jacuzzi. You just sit there like a large potato enjoying the pleasant bubble sensation maybe, but otherwise staring at the ceiling, looking anywhere (anywhere!) other than at the other bathers. Nobody speaks and nobody (shudder) touches. Why bother? Why not just go home and take a bath with your electric whisk? Same pleasant bubbly thing, lots more places to look at than the ceiling. Everybody wins (although explaining the electric whisk thing to Husband could be tricky, especially if he thinks it's a Large Hint and next time you're in bed produces a spatula and a chef's hat with a large flourish. This never happened)
It's not only that you have to convince yourself and the others that they don't exist, but (and here comes the difficult bit) you then have to extricate yourself from your bath without arrousing the suspicions of the Other Wallowers that you have indeed been taking a bath with them. You've been lying back thinking that you look like you're contemplating dreamily the finer points of Brecht's non illusory theatre, but really you're plotting how to remove yourself with decorum, which is tricky. I mean, there's the whole gauntlet to be run without touching anyone at all in any way, there's the lifting yourself out, complete with nonchalant air about being seen in all your cellulite glory, the studied walk to your towel as you will yourself to un wobble and flex any muscle that may be in a position to, well flex. Oh the shame that the only firm one is attached to your wine drinking arm, everything else screams sofa, Sunday night drama, chinese takeaway, pizza, sex in one position and fungal toe.
Is there some sadistic genetic thing that regular jacuzzi users have that I've been born without? I really don't know, but I'm going to find out. I'm going to the gym spa every day this week, I'm going to ask every user if they have a sadisitc tendency, I'm sure they won't mind, they like bathing together after all. Wish me luck.

Cricket: A Lesson In Being British*

For the last seven years I have been a cricket widow. Read it and weep ladies and gentlemen, seven years, that's longer than I've been married, but about as long as I've been with Husband, you do the math Sherlock (he was a mathematician wasn't he?). I should be to all intents and purposes an expert, well versed in the art of the game, attune to the subtle sound of leather on willow (a weeping one in my case) able to discern with a sweeping glance the chances of one team over another, to discuss at length the relative merits of one player over another over polite drinks. I should, but I can't. Because the entire game is one long tea party, and a true lesson in being British.
So, for the benefits of my non-British readers I shall attempt to explain this tally-ho game, and for my British readers, listen carefully, it's you I'm talking about.
Firstly it is played in an enormous field, a massive one, bigger than most football fields (although probably not Manchester United's, they need a lot of Porche parking space). This field is well kept, watered even during a hosepipe ban, aerated by hand by a little old man retained through retirement simply to perform this job, and it is green. Greener than England's pleasant land, greener than Husband's face when he gets my credit card bill. Except of course for the little bit in the middle where they actually play this game called cricket. This bit is brown, dead, left under a specially made triangular thing to make sure it is dead enough, if in doubt they beat it with a large club before each game just to make sure. I think it's the little old man who keeps this bit dead, mainly to show off how beautifully green he keeps the rest of it.
The game is played by eleven men per team, they all wear white, absolutely nothing to discern which team is which, because that would be unsporting. They toss a coin before each match to decide which team fields and which team bats first. If it is a hot day, the coin tossing winning team tends to pick to bat first. This is because only two of them actually go out to play, the rest stay in the pavilion drinking tea and reading papers, pausing only to cheer politely any activity at all on the pitch. Which in infrequent. Not much happens in cricket. Someone bowls a red ball, someone else tries to hit it and if they do they run between two posts to try and get as many runs as possible. The second guy playing for the batting team also runs, in case the batter gets tired and wants an extra run. Obviously, if the batter hits the ball quite far then he doesn't need to run, he just gets given six runs automatically. It doesn't matter that he might be able to run more than six times between the post, the main thing is that he doesn't get tired.
This activity goes on for a while, for as long as the batter can run a couple of times between two posts or until someone catches the ball or hits three sticks with the ball. Catching the ball or hitting three little sticks that aren't glued together is a bad thing in cricket. It means the batter and his wing man have to go and get a cup of tea and their breath back while someone else has a go. You'd think, wouldn't you that the conclusion to this game would come either from death-by-boredom of anyone within a mile radius or by catching the whole team out one by one (this includes surprising them by hitting out at three innocent sticks).
But no. And here comes the oh so British thing about cricket. If the first team is doing surprisingly well, if perchance the batter hasn't been out until 4am drinking Red Bull or a few people come to bat and total up a rather decent score, then they have a little chat. The upshot of this being that they've done well enough old boy and time to let the other team have a go. Did you hear me at the back? They're doing really well, so they decide that rather than be rude and do too well they let the other team have a try until they catch up or overtake. I mean, it would be just terrible to win in one fair swoop wouldn't it? Forget going for gold and striving against all odds, let's have a cup of tea in the pavilion and see if the other team can catch us up. Which they usually do because they stopped to let them have a go.
I'm sure by now you'd like me to stop. Stop! Stop! You're saying, let us be free of this drivel, let us watch football where it's over in ninety minutes and someone actually wins. Let's watch Rugby that's over in eighty minutes and somebody actually wins.
Sorry, but I'm trying to give you a taste of my life. You see this game is not only inactive, but it stops for bad light. That's dusk to you and me, forget flood lights or some little invention called electricity, if one team fancies an early night in with the wife (they may all share one I'm not sure), everyone agrees to end for the day and go home. Regardless of the score. There's always tomorrow. And tomorrow. And tomorrow. No one ever points out that if they just got on with the game and stopped letting each other have a go to catch up it may be over in a day with a discernible winner.
But, ladies and gentlemen, this game goes on for a week (except for 20-20 cricket which is a modern interpretation that they play in two hours. It was easy to create, they just removed the biscuits from the pavilion). It goes on for so long, and so little happens that the radio commentators are not known for their snappy up to the second delivery, their skill at preempting the next move, oh no, the highest paid commentators are those known for filling the gaps in an entertaining manner. Husband's favourite Henry Blowfeld regularly talks about the pigeons on the pitch and their amusing head nodding. I once accidentally tuned in during a long car drive and dear old Henry was commenting on the number ten bus that had just driven past the grounds for the eleventh time. Husband guffawed at the image, inactivity does that to you.
Not only does this game go on for a week, but it can still end up in a draw. Days and days of resting, tea drinking, laughing at a pigeon until it's rejected for playing for laughs, occasional catching and batting only to end up shaking hands and nodding pleasantly at each other at such a sporting game, and what a shame no one got the cup again this year.
Sometimes, just to keep it interesting you understand, there's not even a cup to be won. Take The Ashes for example. A hotly contested annual game between England and Australia. One (possibly drunken) night, a long time ago, an Englishman set fire to a cricket bat and was so remorseful the morning after that he scraped up the ashes and put them in a little wooden box. He then held it up to the Australians and asked if they wanted it. They did, and decided to play cricket for it. Cue millennia of squabbling over The Ashes, although if the Australians ever do win they're not allowed to take them home. They have to have a replica. A testimony to the cack handed nature of Australian cricket players or the propensity of the English to hold onto anything of historical value, no matter who it really belongs to? You decide.
And that's it. That's cricket. Never ending, tournaments all year, endless commentary on every radio station known to man, and a wife. A wife sitting at home, growing cobwebs and wondering whether Husband will make the number ten bus home.



*Husband would like me to point out here that I know nothing at all about cricket. I don't. But surely that makes me the more dinner party worthy of the two of us. Enough said.

The Real Story Behind Those Film Titles

1. The Constant Gardener This film is about my dad. It involves a shed, a lot of pottering, possibly some tweed trousers and a fool proof plan for watering the lawn during a hosepipe ban. The Action centres around dummy runs of the Hosepipe Ban Plan where you cling to the edge of your seat as he attempts to outwit the hosepipe police (whom you never see, but the local news always assures you are there). There’s a hilariously tragic scene where the cat gets red paint in his ear fooling everyone into thinking he has a brain tumour that has burst. I kid you not.

2. Twenty Eight Days Later My Mother stars here as Neurotic Woman #1, it is set in the eighties with appropriate costumes, although My Mother still wears blue eye shadow and flares and uses words like groovy, it was the only time she was hip and she’s staying there. I am in my teens and the title of the film refers to the calendar she kept on the fridge door to remind her when to start worrying about a late period. Mine not hers.

3. Pride and Prejudice My sister returns to Africa to fight for lion’s rights.

4. Dumbo I marry my Husband, let my dad give me away unsupervised and without a map, ask my sisters to be bridesmaids and allow them to choose their own dresses; one is full length Barbie style pink designed to show cleavage and snag the Best Man, the other Hollywood red carpet in preparation for the real thing. My Mother is allowed to attend ungagged.

5. Forrest Gump A camping trip goes horribly wrong, two year old is being potty trained and sleeps with us in the tent. We rename the film Forrest Dump.

6. Rambo Husband’s chance to shine. Shot entirely in front of the bathroom mirror when he thinks nobody is looking. Straddles the comedy/horror genres.

7. Herbie Goes Bananas My brother takes to the weed, My Mother finds one of his Special Cookies and eats it. The police attend. The cleaner attends. There is an interesting scene with a broom handle and a jay cloth. No one ever mentions it again. Ever.

8. Jaws: My sister gets braces. My brother invests in industrial magnets. She spends a week stuck to the boot of his car. He cleaned her for free.

9. Dirty Dancing: Centres around the end of any wedding attended by my parents. A little too much sherry is imbibed, inhibitions are shed, as are clothes and they raunch around the dance floor convinced they are Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey. The image haunts you for months and causes intermittent blindness.

10. It’s A Wonderful Life It is, really, and I wouldn’t have them any other way

Things I Have Said To My Mother Today

• Hello?
• Hi mum
• Mum?
• Is everything OK?
• Calm down
• Calm down and take a deep breath
• in, out, in, out
• That's it
• Tell me what it is
• Dad?
• What about Dad?
• Is he OK?
• He's lost what?
• His paint stirring stick
• Is that it?
• Well yes of course it's serious
• No, really
• I thought something had happened to him
• But this is much more disastrous of course
• I am taking it seriously
• I am
• Well has he looked where he keeps it?
• On the shelf in the shed
• Next to the seed planting stick
• Could he not just use the seed planting stick?
• Oh yes sorry how silly of me
• Completely different kind of stick
• Have you searched the shed?
• Yes of course you have
• No, I'm sure Barry hasn't taken it
• Why would the neighbour take dad's stick
• I don't think he's always been jealous of it
• Because it's a stick
• Sorry, sorry, it's not just any stick
• I really don't think Barry's jealous of Dad
• Yes I suppose Dad winning Best Tomato was a dark day for him
• Not the same since, yes
• Yes stick stealing would seem to be the act of a desperate man
• Well stress does change people
• But I think that refers to serious life stress
• Not Best Tomato Winning stress
• Why don't you ask Barry if he's seen it?
• Not talking?
• Why?
• The leek episode?
• Are you sure he stole them?
• Yes I'm sure it's Barry who needs the psychiatric help
• I'm thinking of booking in myself
• Sorry, just a joke
• Why doesn't Dad suggest getting psychiatric help to Barry?
• Might get them talking again.

Things I Have Said To My Two Year Old Today

• Ooh lovely sweetheart
• Yes very nice
• Yes but we're choosing a card for Daddy
• Because it's his birthday
• Here what about this one?
• No not that one
• No
• Put it back please
• No, put it back
• I don't think Daddy wants a Spiderman card
• No darling he doesn't
• Because it's got Spiderman on it
• And it says to a wonderful grandson

• Come back here please
• I said come here
• How many times have I told you not to chase the postman?
• Because he doesn't like it
• No he's not Daddy
• Please stop calling the postman Daddy

Things I have said to the Postman today

• Ha ha ha ha ha
• Oh how funny
• Yes it's a great joke Jack chasing you
• And calling you Daddy, yes
• ha ha ha ha
• Well he thinks you're his daddy
• No, no, no he does know his daddy
• Ha, yes I suppose he does make it sound like a guess
• Ha ha ha
• I agree
• Yes I'll try to stop him chasing you
• And shouting kissy kissy kissy
• I'm sorry the neighbours look at you strangely
• No I don't think we need to get him checked out
• It's just a phase
• Well, a chasing and kissing one
• That he'll grow out of
• He's already starting to progress
• He's started chasing the neighbour
• Well I call it progress