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PASSAGE 1.

I am seventeen. I know plenty of girls, of course. So do most of my friends. But Philip is different from the rest of us. At least, we thought he was. Philip's mum and dad used to tease him whenever he came home from school with a girl. This embarrassed him to the extent that he gave up going with girls in public. He got it into his head that we, his friends, would tease him too. On the whole he was mistaken, but perhaps one or two of us had done a bit of teasing at times. Philip became very secretive. For years he played football, went out on his bicycle all over the place, went fishing and swimming, and pretended to ignore girls completely. The teasing stopped.

One day just after his birthday he came to visit me. He brought a record that he had been given. It was a pop record, a single. While he was putting it on my record-player, he let a gift-card drop out of the sleeve. I picked it up and read it—I am well known as a nosey-parker.

Then I said to him: 'Who's Maureen?'

Instead of switching on the record-player he turned round with a start. 'Maureen?' he said in a guilty manner, blushing as if ashamed. Then he saw the card in my hand. The game was up so far as secrecy was concerned. But he had forgotten the exact words on the card. He tried to put a good face on the matter. 'Maureen is my cousin,' he admitted. 'She lives at Slough.'

'Does she? She must be very fond of you. She calls you her darling Philip.'

Philip began to sound nervous. 'So what?' he said. 'If she wants to write like that, why shouldn't she? She can write anything she wants to. After all she is my cousin.'

I agreed with him. 'Of course she can write anything she likes. But she calls you her sweetheart. Isn't that an unusual term for a o cousin to use? Why does she call you her sweetheart?'

Philip sounded more nervous than ever. 'Because she's senti­mental, if you must know; that's why. But what's it got to do with you? It's her own business, isn't it? She hasn't got to ask you how to write to me, has she?' He was trying to be aggressive.

'I suppose not,' I said. 'But why does she call you her sweetheart-over-the-wall? Didn't you say she lived at Slough? Where's the wall between here and Slough? Slough's seventy-five miles away.'

By this time Philip was clenching his teeth in a peculiar manner. He stumped heavily across the room and snatched the card out of my hand. 'It's none of your business,' he barked at me. 'It's no concern of yours where the wall is or why she's over it. Leave my things alone. Stop reading cards that don't belong to you. And get your nose out of my affairs!' He rushed off out of the house in a fury, leaving the record behind until next day.

I let him go. I didn't want to tease him any more. Nearly all my friends know plenty of girls, as I do. What is there to get excited about? That happened a year ago. It soon came out who Maureen was; she lived next door to Philip. Philip has just landed a very good job at Bristol, starting next month. He and Maureen hope to be married before long. (582 words)

PASSAGE 2

Football clubs throughout Britain have been told by the Home Secretary that it is their duty to exclude hooligans from their grounds. In a letter circulated to the chairmen of all clubs he stated that as owners of property they had both a duty and an absolute right to refuse entry to persons they regarded as undesirable or lively to misbehave.

The argument of his letter was roughly as follows: it is for the clubs themselves to decide who should be kept out or thrown out.

The letter went on to say that the police would need the full co-operation of the clubs, especially in spotting troublemakers, and providing evidence when offenders were taken to court. He also intended to consult the railway authorities on control of hooliganism, as many football fans travelling to and from matches have been known to damage trains.

One particular first division club will have the maximum number of police inside its ground whenever possible. The secretary of another club said it was difficult for the larger clubs to decide who should be let in. There could be several thousand people an hour going through sixty or seventy gates; and clubs, he added, have done their job so well that now the main trouble is not inside the grounds, but outside in the streets afterwards.

The President of the Football League said it was difficult to recognize troublemakers in the rush before a match, and impossible to distinguish between the good and the bad visiting supporters. He was glad that the authorities were taking a keen interest in the matter, although the problem could only be solved given time and patience.

Other important members of football clubs think that trainloads of visiting supporters wearing scarves and badges produce an ^inflammatory effect, and perhaps ought not to be admitted to matches. A certain club has barred banners, sticks and pennants from its ground, but has not stopped supporters from wearing scarves: even a policeman could not say that a scarf is an offensive weapon.

It seems useless to appeal to the better nature of hooligans who smash up trains. 'Compulsory military service should be restored for such people, or a few weeks' useful work in labour camps,' someone suggested.

Violence at football matches is not a problem peculiar to Britain alone. In many countries throughout the world serious outbreaks of violence occur at these events, and innocent spectators are often injured. Indeed, loss of life is not unknown and from time to time referees are shot dead.

Football-lovers are beginning to be concerned lest their favourite game should degenerate into a gladiatorial fight, with the spectators joining in. (442 words)

PASSAGE 3

Going to the dentist used to give me the horrors. I remember my first visit, as a small boy, to the school clinic. It was decorated and furnished in the usual fashion of public institutions thirty years ago, brown and yellow paint in the waiting-room, with wooden benches that were too narrow to sit on comfortably. On the wall were a couple of posters warning of the parasites that could infest children's hair if it were not kept clean. The pictures of the parasites were enlarged many hundreds of times, so that the minute insects looked like great hideous beasts. I suppose they took one's mind off one's teeth by inspiring a different sort of fear. Perhaps they were in­tended to scare children into being clean.

Anyway, a little girl ahead of me in the queue was summoned into the dental surgery. I don't know what the dentist did to her;

but if the shrieks coming out of the surgery were any guide, he might have been trying to cut off her head without an anaesthetic. I sat on the waiting-room bench and listened to her, trembling and realizing it was my turn next.

Whether or not she emerged alive, I don't remember. Nor do I remember what happened to me in the surgery afterwards—so, possibly, it was not all that bad.

Some years later a new dentist took over the practice. In due course I had to pay him a visit. At each stage of the operation, which was a filling, he explained briefly and in non-technical terms what he was going to do. This method of his, and his friendly manner, made a vast difference. Every sensation in my mouth became intelligible. The seeming ritual of cruel black magic turned out to be a simple manual task, having an obvious and necessary goal, like changing a car-wheel or mending a water-pipe. I peered, or squinted, at the various instruments or tools that he used, and was now able to recognize that each was cleverly shaped for some particular job. I grew so interested that when he said, 'Well, I've finished,' I was even aware of a certain disappointment, im­probable as this may sound.

Not long ago someone died of fear in a dentist's chair. Fear releases adrenalin into the bloodstream, and an excess of adrenalin may finally stop the heart. Oddly enough, the unfortunate person died before being touched by the dentist—just of apprehension and because of the appearance and atmosphere of the surgery. The white uniforms of the dentist and his team, the metal stand with an array of ugly attachments, the angular lights, the ominous drill hooked on its high perch like a vulture, and the strange shape of the patient's chair, certainly all remind one of a torture-chamber. But of course, at the same time, one hopes for hygiene and that dental equipment will be designed and arranged to help the dentist to carry out his work precisely and speedily.

If timid patients, as most of us are, especially in childhood, were made to understand some of the mysteries of the dental surgery or the hospital, they might well find that a lot of the terror had been taken out of dental treatment. (540 words)

PASSAGE 4

People's tastes in recreation differ widely. At a recent festival of pop-music in the Isle of Wight, crowds of teenagers flocked to listen to their favourite singers and musicians. They went with single railway tickets and slept in the open, a very risky thing to do in the climate of Britain, even in August. They were packed together like sardines for four days. There were innumerable thieves, a gang of roughs tried several times to break things up, and police were everywhere. At the end of the festival many young fans found themselves broke, with no money left, and they had difficulty in getting back home. Most people would consider these conditions a nightmare of discomfort: the fans appeared to enjoy it all enor­mously.

Even in the overcrowded United Kingdom there are large tracts of open unspoilt country, where people with more traditional tastes can go for quiet, and for the sense of freedom they derive from contact with nature. In the national parks especially, modern development of housing and industry is strictly controlled. Visitors may walk for miles through landscape of the greatest beauty and wildness, and often of considerable historic or scientific interest. Along the coasts of some of the maritime counties, public pathways have been created; these paths stretch for many miles along cliffs that look out on the Atlantic Ocean or the Channel. Another path, lying inland, goes along the range of mountains in the north of England. It is called the Pennine Way. Here, the long-distance walker and the nature-lover can find much to enjoy, without feeling hemmed in by large numbers of their fellows.

Yet few people make full use of the national parks established for everyone's benefit. The commonest thing nowadays is for family groups to motor out to a beautiful spot and park their cars in a lay-by. A picnic basket is produced, along with a folding table and chairs, a kettle and a portable stove. They then settle down to a picnic in the lay-by beside the car. Apparently their idea of enjoy­ment is to get into the fresh air and amongst the country sights and sounds without having to walk a yard. They seem almost to like to hear and to smell the traffic.

To the keen walker or naturalist, this is very strange. He knows that the best of the country, its wild life, its shy birds and animals and plants, lie mostly away from the roads. But he is quite content to

leave the car-bound families to their sedentary pleasures, while he strides off up hills and mountains, or deep into the woods or along the river banks, in peace and solitude.

Once, seeking solitude, I had an unfortunate experience. In the month of February, before the tourist season began, I was sight­seeing in Peterborough Cathedral. At first I was pleased to believe that I was completely alone in the vast edifice. But I discovered that there was also a solitary lady sightseer, a poor cripple, who had to drag her leg about laboriously. As it happened, I had strained a muscle in my back the previous day, so I was dragging my leg too. We shared the empty spaces of the cathedral, toiling round in unintended parody of each other. But I feared that she would think I was imitating her on purpose, and soon left the place. (561 words)

PASSAGE 5

'It's a disgrace! Look at them! What we pay rates for, I don't know. They've been at it for hours, I bet, just sitting there drinking tea. Suppose we all lounged around like that, what would the world come to, I wonder? Things are getting out of hand!'

A bus came along, and the woman who had made this comment got on it. I stayed in the queue and waited for my bus. At the bottom of a big hole in the road, the water main was under repair. Four workmen sat on a plank by the hole. They were drinking tea and talking among themselves.

Many people would agree with the sentiments of the forceful woman. In their [opinion council workmen fritter away hours drinking tea brewed over an open fire. They consider them work-shy, to say the least. Is it not a waste of public money to pay good wages to able-bodied men, just to have them sit around sipping hot drinks? Forking out for the rates is bad enough: then seeing the rates wasted is too much!

But something can be said for these workmen. In Britain the tea-break is a national custom. Time spent in this traditional way inside offices and other buildings rarely attracts comment. It is because the workmen's tea-break is so public that people take notice of it and show their disapproval. Who can tell how long office staff linger over their tea, except those who linger? And they are not likely to complain.

If labourers do take a long time over their tea, perhaps this stems from the nature of their work. A typist in her comfortable office may consider ten minutes adequate for a cup of tea and a gossip; the man who is out in all weathers doing exacting physical work needs longer or more frequent breaks. Take the very people criticized by the woman in the bus queue: they had probably been toiling for hours on end and needed a rest. They were in the hot sun, bare to the waist, and their hard muscles were evidence ?of heavy physical labour. They didn't get those 'muscles by sitting around drinking tea.

^An office supervisor in local government once told me that an inquisitive councillor had walked into his office one day, and had seen the typists and clerks there drinking tea. This annoyed the councillor and he reported the matter to the head of the department, stressing that the office was wasting ratepayers' money. The head of the department said that he would look into it. He later sent for the supervisor, told him of the complaint and asked for his views.

The supervisor was forthright. 'When Mr. X saw those girls of mine they had just finished their monthly work-load ahead of schedule,' he said. 'When they do that, I purposely let them have a bit of a rest for about twenty minutes before they start on the next lot of work. I dare say I could restrict them to ten minutes, but I should get no more work from them if I did. I'd only upset them. I'm not going to breathe down their necks or stand over them with a stop-watch, counting the seconds of their tea-break. Mr. X should look in when they are working: he'd soon see how quick and efficient they are. It's the best team the council has got, and that's why this department is the pride of the Town Hall!' ,

He walked back to his office, angry at the insult to his staff. The head of the department, who knew his man and trusted him, wisely let it go at that. (610 words)

PASSAGE 6

i5b Badingham Street, Bayswater, London, W.2. April 15th Dear Otto,

As you will see, I've changed my address again. The family I was living with as an 'au pair girl went abroad: Mr Jones got a job in Australia. But Mrs Jones introduced me to her friend Mrs Carter, in whose flat I'm living now. It is very nice and quite close to Jardine Square, where you spent your year in England. Mrs Carter is a big, fat, kind lady, Mr Carter is small and has a bald head and never says much, and their two children, Mary and Jack, are sweet. Mary is nine years old and Jack is seven. They have shortened my name to Lot, like a man in the Bible, they say. They are always laughing and jolly.

I hope you will think from this letter that my English has im­proved. I speak it very easily and my teacher is pleased with me, I think. Oh Otto, he is such a peculiar man! I remember that, before I came to England, you wrote me a long letter, telling me what I must and mustn't do, and warning me that the English were very strange people. You were quite right about the English. They are strange, but on the whole I like them. My teacher is the strangest of all.

He is called Mr Cholmondley. He pronounces his name Chumley! Isn't that silly? Well, Mr Cholmondley or Chumley is six feet four inches tall, probably more. He is thin, round-shouldered and stooping, with a small head like a great bird. He has a pale face and deep-set eyes, and in the evenings he plays the 'cello in an amateur orchestra. He must look funny! In class he is very quiet, I mean he never raises his voice, but he manages to make us all work very hard for him. For some reason we want to be told by him that our work is good, and when he does give us a word of praise we are over the moon with pleasure. He is supposed to be one of the best teachers in the school, you see—and he certainly knows how to get results. I think he is shy. He is a bachelor, about forty years old, and lonely, I expect. Two weeks ago, on April ist, he read us a poem we couldn't understand. It was from 'Alice in Wonderland', a book by Lewis Carroll, and one of the verses began: 'Beware the Jabberwock, my son.' Mr Cholmondley asked us to find out the meaning of that line of poetry, and to tell him on the following day. I worked for half the night, looking up 'Jabberwock' in dictionaries and encyclopaedias, but without any success. The next day in class all of us had to confess to Mr Cholmondley that we had been beaten by the awful word. He was terribly amused! He explained that the poem was a nonsense poem, and 'Jabberwock' was a nonsense creature, invented as a joke by Lewis Carroll. We were very angry, of course. But then Mr Cholmondley told us that April ist is called April Fool's Day in England, and on it people play practical jokes on one another. He had played his little practical joke on us! And we were caught out because he had never before joked with us or even smiled.

That is all for now, dear Otto. Please write to me in the land of strange people. Mr Cholmondley says the English are not strange— they are whimsical. But I do not know what that means. Yours, Lotte. (603 words)

PASSAGE 7

You remember my cousin Raymond, who tried to be a pop-singer ? Once he was stranded in London overnight. He says it was an interesting experience. The hotels and hostels were full, the parks were too wet to sleep in as it had been raining, and he did not like to sleep in the waiting-room of a railway terminus for fear the police should pull him in for vagrancy. He tramped the streets for about eight hours, with a haversack on his back.

He is very fond of the City, the commercial heart of London, the old original London founded by the Romans, the London of Geoffrey Chaucer, Wren's churches and the modern Stock Ex­change: so he set out for it, walking eastward from Charing Cross along the Strand. Just after a clock had struck eleven, he arrived at the City boundary, Temple Bar. A policeman spoke to him and asked him what was in that pack, meaning the haversack. Raymond, not wanting to be unfriendly, invited the policeman to have a look. The policeman replied: 'No, you tell me.' A toothbrush, a razor, a change of clothes, and not much more, Raymond said. He ex­plained his problem to the policeman, who was sympathetic but had no useful suggestion to offer. Parting from him, Raymond

continued his journey.

He had never imagined the City could be so strange. He knew its lay-out fairly well, and tramped along the main streets, the side-streets and the passages and lanes, sometimes rousing himself from his dreamy state—he was almost sleepwalking—to observe a fine night view of the bulky shape of St Paul's or an old church steeple. The whole place was empty of traffic and, nearly, of people. Every­thing was silent, for the City had no night-life then. An occasional bus broke the stillness, roaring through the huge, blank canyons of streets lined with banks and office-blocks. The tall buildings cut

off most of the moonlight and cast deep shadows.

At about three in the morning, he went along to Fleet Street, where he knew there was an all-night cafe. He was astonished at the contrast. In the noisy printing-works the late editions of the morning papers were rolling off the presses. Vans were tearing away in all directions, while in the cafe shirt-sleeved printers and journalists in shabby jackets were taking a few minutes off to talk trade-union affairs over their cups of tea. Raymond managed to spend an hour there, trying to overhear snatches of conversation, nodding over tea and a bun, then returned to the streets. At half-past six he spent a short time at Billingsgate, the wholesale fish-market: tough-looking porters were dashing about with wooden boxes of fish on their heads. As the boxes dripped copiously the porters wore overalls and clogs, and their hats had wide brims turned up so that the water did not drip down their necks. There were blocks of ice in the gutters, and fish wholesalers and retailers were everywhere. Incidentally, Billingsgate porters are nationally famous for their bad language, but Raymond did not hear a single rude word. He was disappointed.

He says that he did not like being awake all night and homeless, although it was interesting, at any rate while it lasted.

(542 words)

PASSAGE 8

The excitement and anxiety caused in England by the Spanish Armada in the summer of 1588 were intense. All along the coast troops of men were on the watch for the Spanish ships; while big fires, called beacons, were built on the tops of the hills throughout southern England, to be lit and thus to give warning if the Spaniards landed. '

Sir Francis Drake was playing bowls on Plymouth Hoe when a messenger approached. The messenger said the Armada was close at hand, and that the English fleet ran the risk of being trapped in 10 harbour, where it had no room to escape. Drake replied that there was time to finish the game and beat the Spaniards as well.

After the game, he set sail. The Armada headed up the English Channel, and the English fleet followed. The English ships were smaller than the Spanish ones, and lighter and faster. They could be turned onto a new course more easily, and their guns fired over a longer range than the guns of the Spanish ships. |

The Armada was going to the Low Countries, to collect an army of Spanish soldiers and bring them across the Channel to invade England. One night it sailed into harbour at Calais, and dropped i0 anchor. The harbour meant safety, or so the Spaniards thought.

The English hastily got together some old, useless ships, which they filled with inflammable materials such as pitch. Under cover of darkness, they sailed them into the harbour of Calais, set them on fire, and escaped from them at the last possible moment. When the Spanish watchmen saw these fire-ships coming towards them, they were terribly frightened. The guards believed that the ships must contain explosives, and would blow up. The alarm was raised, and the Armada left Calais as quickly as possible. Out in the open sea, it found itself in great disorder. The ships had been ) in such a hurry to leave that they had even cut their anchor ropes and abandoned their anchors. This was to be disastrous to them later on.

Early next morning, they met the English fleet in the Channel, and a battle took place. The English bombarded the Spanish fleet, keeping a little out of range of the latter's guns. The Spaniards had not expected this manoeuvre. For them, battles at sea were very much like battles on land. They had expected to come close to the English ships and to board them. Then they could fight hand-to-hand. Many Spanish ships were sunk, more were driven onto the coast of the Low Countries and wrecked, and some were captured. The rest were much damaged.

The remainder of the Armada was in no condition to continue the fight, and sailed off into the North Sea and past Scotland. When the ships reached the Atlantic Ocean, they encountered rough seas and needed to seek shelter by the coast. But they were not properly equipped to do so, because they had left their anchors behind at Calais. The result was that still more ships were dashed onto the coasts of Scotland and Ireland. Nowadays people are inclined to believe that the submerged wrecks of those ships contain gold of untold value. But, since they were men-of-war, the theory of the gold is unlikely to be correct.

The remnant of the Armada limped back to Spain. The danger to England was over. (564 words)

PASSAGE 9 On a flat, marshy piece of land at Slimbridge by the river Severn, between Gloucester and Bristol, is the headquarters of the Wildfowl Trust. Its business is the conservation of the types of bird known as wildfowl; that is, swans, geese, duck and similar birds, all of which live on or near fresh water.

It is an attractive place to visit. Some of these birds have the smartest and most brightly-coloured plumage of any birds, in the, world, outside the Tropics. The different species live in enclosures, or pens, with fences round them. Most of the pens are open to the sky, but the birds seem to be happy in them and do not fly away.

This collection of semi-tame wildfowl is only half the establishment. The surrounding marshes have been the feeding-grounds of flocks of migrant wildfowl for a long time, and human visitors can watch free-Hying birds come in from places far away, such as Russia and Spain. There are two wooden towers with powerful binoculars at the top, through which you may study these annual visitors at your leisure.

But first of all you will look at the birds in the pens. Perhaps you will sit in the restaurant and watch the birds sporting and splashing around in the pond outside the window. The Mandarin duck from eastern Asia and the North American wood duck are as brilliant as jewels. In the Rushy Pen are kept young birds that have recently hatched. Some adult birds are allowed to wander about wherever they like. They are so tame that, when you go out, you have to be careful not to tread on their webbed feet.

The best time of the year to visit Slimbridge is January (but remember to take rainproof clothing). Wildfowl in large numbers then fly in from the extreme cold of northern Europe. Swan Lake becomes the home of many pairs of Bewick's swans. Individual birds of this species are identified by naturalists by marks on their beaks or bills: thus their travels in many lands can be recorded.

Slimbridge is the centre of considerable activity in science and education. The habits of the birds are studied at close quarters, and their comings and goings noted on maps and in files in as much detail as possible. Birds of rare species can sometimes be encouraged to breed there. For example, the Hawaiian goose or Ne-Ne has been saved from probable extinction, and quite a few of these birds reared in captivity have been transported across the world and released in their home territory.

Visitors who want to keep some link with the Wildfowl Trust can join it in return for an annual subscription. For a small ad­ditional sum of money they can 'adopt' a duck, whose movements will be reported to them if it is caught a second time, perhaps thousands of miles from Slimbridge itself. In order to expand its work, the Trust has opened branch establishments, and is opening still more as this passage is being written. They are in different parts of the United Kingdom. Although usually a little remote from towns and cities, they are accessible by car in all weathers except the worst, and a day's visit to them may turn out to be the start of an absorbing new interest that may well last for life. (557 words)

PASSAGE 10

'We could not believe our eyes at first. The heavy head of a huge black animal, dripping with water, had broken the surface of Loch Ness. The neck was incredibly short and thick. The body below the surface must be truly enormous. The reflection in the water of the head and neck together suggested an animal of the most weird appearance. For half a minute we were so startled that we forgot our cameras. Then we seized hold of them, fumbling with them in our excitement, and took photographs. Almost at once, the head sank with a splash and a circle of ripples. We developed the negatives at the hotel. They did not come out well: we had held our cameras crooked and over-exposed the films. But they were clear enough, and we printed our own enlargements on the spot. We dared not trust the post with them. We took them straight to a friend of mine at an institute of marine biology. He agreed that the animal was worth investigating. A search party was formed. In it were three deep-sea divers, two biologists, two hydrographers, a radio operator and ourselves. We hired a boat and were ferried out into the middle of the loch. The scientists took soundings by means of radio waves. For several hours we searched. ) We found nothing.

Meanwhile the people on the shore of the loch had noticed our activity. The various teams and expeditions that look for the Loch Ness Monster every summer viewed us with suspicion and envy. When we came ashore, the inevitable journalists were waiting, eager to nose out a good story. They interrogated us. We told them all we knew and showed them the photographs. They were skeptical, but jotted down a lot of notes and asked for permission to publish the photographs. We agreed a fee, and the next day several newspapers carried the story, along with our pictures.

That day, after another five hours' fruitless searching, a tele­vision crew was waiting for us on shore, with a crowd of a hundred people round it. We gave interviews and answered questions. A few people in the crowd, the disbelieves and the humorists, asked rude questions. One man wanted to know if we were trying to capture the monster. We replied that, to begin with, we had to locate it. An angry lady asked if we were not too old to waste our time and money on a wild-goose chase. A second lady told us the monster was a dangerous joke being played on the British by the Russians. Another man offered to buy it from us for sausage meat. We did not answer him.

The next day we went out in the boat for the last time. Our biologist friends had been on such expeditions before, and were getting impatient to return to more serious work. We spent a further four hours taking soundings, until we had searched the whole loch-bed, and every hidden recess we could find. Then there was a movement, visible to the naked eye although about a mile away, in the water at the edge of the loch. It was near to where we had sighted the animal previously, just by a field in which some Ameri­cans were camping. We gazed through our binoculars. The mystery of Loch Ness, at any rate our mystery, was solved. The Americans were again launching their black midget sub­marine, which bore a close resemblance to a creature with a heavy head and short thick neck—and in which they were hoping to track the monster to its lair. (599 words)

PASSAGE 11

Motor car makers the world over advertise their products and encourage people to buy them. They even go so far as to suggest that owning a car these days is a must, and subtly imply that the price, size and performance of a particular car can indicate the social standing of its owner. As a result of this advertising pressure all but the poorest members of the community rush off to buy a car, even if it means saving up at the expense of necessities or going in for the never-never.

And that's just when the trouble starts. Most modern cars are mass produced; the supply of spare parts is not as good as it should be and getting a faulty vehicle repaired is both difficult and expen­sive. Garages cannot easily get hold of good mechanics and not every motorist is a do-it-yourself expert. That is why one hears nothing but a string of complaints from dissatisfied owners who find spare parts hard to come by and have to pay through the nose for the slightest repair. ;

For the very rich, however, after sales service is no problem— often quite the reverse. In the first place they pay so much for their car that little is likely to go wrong with it. Secondly they more than likely employ a chauffeur who can also carry out repairs.

Not so long ago it was reported that a wealthy industrialist had a luxurious car manufactured to his own design and specification by the makers of fine limousines. On the eve of a foreign holiday he picked it up from the factory and was enchanted with his new acquisition.

He then set out on his holiday and drove through a European country notorious for its bad roads. On the third day, after a very bumpy drive down a mountain road, he realized that something was wrong with the car. He drove to the nearest garage in this lonely spot and was told that he had broken the back axle. The mechanic said that it was beyond repair and that a new part would have to be obtained. The unhappy driver sent a cable to the makers asking them to supply him—at his own expense—with a new back axle. He urged them to send it by air as he did not wish to be stuck in the middle of nowhere longer than he could help. Within forty-eight hours a helicopter landed in the square of the remote mountain village. Two mechanics emerged carrying the precious spare part. They quickly found the garage and set to work. A few hours later the car was ready and the men boarded the helicopter for the trip to the nearest airport and subsequent flight home.

On his return some months later, the man found no bill awaiting him. He wrote to the manufacturers asking for one and received the following letter by return of post:

'Dear Sir,

We thank you for your letter and note that you wish to settle an account for the supply of a back axle sent by air to the place you mention. Unfortunately we cannot trace this, nor have we any record of having flown two of our engineers to fit the spare part. In the circumstances an invoice will not be issued.

Whilst we assure you of our attention at all times, we would also point out that our back axles never break.' (572 words)

PASSAGE 12

Did I ever tell you about the time I went to sea? It was twenty years ago. I had had a little trouble with my father, who for some reason insisted on calling me a liar. Anyway I was a young man longing for a life of adventure. I left home and was taken on as a deck-hand in a whaler, that is, a ship designed for the business of catching whales; and we set out for the Antarctic in hopes of a big haul. As usually happens, the whole crew was keen to sight the first whale. But even the most experienced hand was astonished by the whale we saw. The look-out man reported to the captain that there was an island ahead. The captain could not find it on his map. It was not an island at all: it was the biggest whale in the world. It was over three miles long.

As soon as the captain had realized what in fact it was, he did not hesitate. He ordered that every harpoon should be fired the moment we came within range. Harpoons are the weapons used for catching whales. They were all shot into the body of the whale at the same time, and the chase was on. The harpoons were con­nected to the ship by strong cables. So we in the ship had to follow the whale's struggles, which were meant to tire it out.

But it wasn't tired out. It was irritated by the pinpricks of the harpoons, and it turned and twisted this way and that. After a time it crashed into our ship, which sank like a stone, with the loss of all hands: all, that is, except me. As the whale's huge body crashed into the ship, I took a mighty flying leap and landed on its back. Of course I was much too small for the whale to notice I was there. I rode on its back, wondering when it was going to dive. But, luckily, the sea was too shallow for it to do so.

The whale was naturally annoyed both by the harpoons in its side and by the ship which it was dragging along after it under the water, on the ends of the harpoon cables. It was also bleeding to death. In desperation, it started on a long journey north, through the whole Pacific Ocean. It finally came to the Bering Straits. As it was so enormous, it became firmly stuck against the cliffs between Alaska and Siberia. I was growing tired, because it was not altogether easy to stay on that animal's back for weeks on end. I thought I would slip off it and swim ashore, but there were icebergs about, and I knew that I should die of cold in the water. While thinking along these lines, I happened to be standing over the whale's blow-hole. In a last death-struggle, the whale sent a great spout of water into the air. I shot up on top of the spout, and was thrown in the direction of Alaska. I landed safely on my feet and walked into the nearest village. The local inhabitants had mistaken the whale's struggles for a tidal wave and an earthquake combined. I explained the situation and reported my catch. It was only a pity that my father did not live long enough to hear of my daring deeds and withdraw his accusation that I was untruthful. (576 words)

Passage 13.

In the Middle Ages, the relationship between the citizens of Oxford and the students of the University was often very bad. In those days many of the students lodged in the town, in private halls of residence presided over by Masters of Arts of the University. Few students were kept within the walls of the colleges at night. The rest were inclined to run up debts at the numerous Oxford taverns. In 1355, on the Feast of St Scholastica, which falls on February the tenth, a serious riot broke out at a tavern, and a battle took place between town and gown, as the rival groups called themselves. The church bells were rung to summon citizens and students to arms, and there was bloodshed before the authorities managed to restore order. The king later decided that the citizens were at fault, and for more than four hundred and fifty years, until 1825, the mayor and councillors had to make an annual act of submission to the University.

Even after the colleges had taken on the task of housing most of the students, disturbances happened from time to time. Every year the University elected two of its senior members to patrol the streets and keep the peace. These University police were called proctors, and they patrolled by night in academic cap and gown, on the look-out for student misbehavior. In recent times they were accompanied by a couple of University servants wearing bowler hats. The servants were known as bulldogs.

Within the last hundred years or so, disorder at Oxford has centered on November the fifth. This is the day when, in the evening, bonfires are lit and fireworks are let off, to commemorate the escape of King James I and all his parliament from Guy Fawkes' plot to kill them, in 1605.

Guy Fawkes' Night became the annual testing-time for the proctors and bulldogs. Mobs of young men would roam the streets, engaging in a kind of good-natured roughness. They would rock cars with the drivers in them, and toss fireworks onto the lower decks of buses and into the windows of colleges—if anyone had been foolish enough to leave a window open. They would aim rockets into the attics of one of the city's biggest hotels, and by throwing fireworks into the basement of a certain University building produce a bang like a clap of thunder. If they saw an unfortunate proctor in his distinctive old-fashioned clothes they would follow him, jeering, and perhaps jostle him or drop a firework at his feet. He was separated from his protective bulldogs, and confused by the crowd and the darkness.

The University realized that these activities could not go on. Final warnings were issued that anyone caught acting in a mis­chievous or troublesome manner on the evening of November the fifth could expect to be severely dealt with. The city police set about clearing the streets of undesirable elements. Last time I went to Oxford on Guy Fawkes' Day, a few years ago, the people were celebrating in an orderly manner, with bonfires and fireworks in their own gardens, as in most other parts of the country. A fire engine raced along, bell clanging, no doubt because someone's bonfire had got out of control. But the streets themselves were quiet, and a couple of policemen on duty had little to do except keep a sharp eye on a city that seemed to be nearly empty. (575 words)

PASSAGE 14

Mr Noakes mends watches. He works in a room or shop attached to the front of his house; here he transacts all his business and does all his work. On the wall near the window is a glass-fronted case with rows of hooks inside it, from which are suspended watches awaiting collection by their owners. Mr Noakes does not try to keep them wound up: he cannot spare the time to do so, he says. His services are much in demand, as people come to him from far and wide, knowing that their watches will be in good hands. Mr Noakes can command his own prices, and refuses work that he thinks not worth doing. He will not repair watches of cheap and unreliable makes, for instance. But he does not turn people away if he can help it; nor, being an honest man, does he charge unreasonably for his skill and trouble.

His bench is set against the window of his shop, which faces north: sunshine from the south would be bad for his eyes. There you can see him, five days a week for eleven months of the year, with his magnifying lens attached to his spectacles, working steadily. He never hurries for he knows that if he did he would spoil the job, have a difficult explanation to make, and harm his reputation. On the work-bench are his tools, where he can get at them in a moment. More tools hang from a row of nails on his right-hand side. Also on the bench are little glass domes for keeping together the parts of watches, each dome protecting one watch; a box of delicate metal instruments; an adjustable lamp, and a small vice. Within easy reach are such things as a calendar, a list of cricket fixtures, a transistor radio and a clipped bundle of receipts.

On the left side of his bench he keeps half a dozen watches 'under test', as he calls it: they are inspected and wound for a few days to see that they are going satisfactorily. Every watch in the shop has a label tied to it, bearing its owner's name. Although Mr Noakes has repaired hundreds of watches during his twenty years in the trade, he has never given back to a customer a watch that did not belong to him or her, and he has never lost a watch: this is because he is so careful with the labels.

In a corner of his workshop stands a soft broom, bristles upper­most. Should he drop a tiny part of a watch on the floor, he reaches across for the broom and, he explains, 'has a sweep-up'. If he still cannot find the missing part, he has to search more carefully, some­times on hands and knees. But accidents of that sort are rare, for, when at work, he wears an apron, the lower edge of which is shut firmly into the drawer below the bench. The apron thus acts like the safety-net in a circus: anything he drops falls into it and can be retrieved without his having to stir.

As Mr Noakes runs a one-man business, you might think that he would be often interrupted by customers. But his wife is usually about the house and can take care of a lot of that side of the work. Having no local competition at his level of skill, he and his wife are comfortably off and make a cheerful pair. (578 words)

Passage 15.

My son Bill, aged fourteen, wanted to leave home. He said he was sick and tired of the needless incompetence and lack of imagination with which his mother and I ran the house. He added that, if we were not so lazy and old-fashioned, the house could be a different place in a fortnight, and really worth living in. It was a question of youth and energy . . .

One evening he was going on at us in this style, polishing off the fruit cake (his fourth slice), while his mother was getting ready to wash up.

'Leave that to me,' he said, not very politely, and strode across to the sink. 'You hang about over the same old job night after night. I'm fed up with watching you. A little intelligent planning would sort things out in ten minutes. You go and watch television. One of your boring favourite programmes incoming on at seven o'clock.'

I said to my wife: 'Your inefficiency has been discovered by your son, Caroline. Therefore I suggest that you let him get on with the dishes. Allow him to show you what a man can do.'

I was speaking with my tongue in my cheek. My wife, also with tongue in cheek, agreed. We went into the living room, switched on the television, and settled down to watch. Five minutes later, Caroline returned to the kitchen for a glass of water. Hearing raised voices from that quarter, I followed her to see what was up.

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