When i grow up егэ ответы was in kindergarten

Before my many years’ service in a restaurant, I attended a top science university. The year was 2023 and I was finishing the project that would win me my professorship. In the end, it resulted in my becoming a kitchen employee.

My forty-second birthday had made a lonely visit the week before, and I was once again by myself in the flat. Like countless other mornings, I ordered a bagel from the toaster. ‘Yes, sir!’ it replied with robotic relish, and I began the day’s work on the project. It was a magnificent machine capable of transferring the minds of any two beings into each other’s bodies.

As the toaster began serving my bagel on to a plate, I realised the project was in fact ready for testing. I retrieved the duck and the cat — which I had bought for this purpose — from their containers, and set about calibrating the machine in their direction. Once ready, I leant against the table, holding the bagel I was too excited to eat, and initiated the transfer sequence. As expected, the machine whirred and hummed into action, my nerves tingling at its synthetic sounds.

The machine hushed, extraction and injection nozzles poised, scrutinizing its targets. The cat, though, was suddenly gripped by terrible alarm. The brute leapt into the air, flinging itself onto the machine. I watched in horror as the nozzles swung towards me; and, with a terrible, psychedelic whirl of colours, felt my mind wrenched from its sockets.

When I awoke, moments later, I noticed first that I was two feet shorter. Then, I realised the lack of my limbs, and finally it occurred to me that I was a toaster. I saw immediately the solution to the situation — the machine could easily reverse the transfer — but was then struck by my utter inability to carry this out.

After some consideration, using what I supposed must be the toaster’s onboard computer, I devised a strategy for rescue. Through the device’s rudimentary eye — with which it served its creations — I could see the internal telephone on the wall. Aiming carefully, I began propelling slices of bread at it. ‘Certainly, sir. There’s a burst water pipe on the floor above, I suppose I’ll kill two birds with one stone and sort you out on the way.’ The clerk arrived promptly, leaving his ‘caution, wet floor’ sign in the corridor. I spoke immediately, saying I was on the intercom, and requested that he simply press the large button on the machine before him. ‘This one, sir?’ he asked, and before I could correct him, the room was filled with a terrible, whirling light, and he fell to the ground.

A minute later he stood up again, uncertainly, and began moving in a manner that can only be described as a waddle. The duck, meanwhile, was scrutinising the flat with an air of wearied distaste. I gazed at the scene with dismay. Suddenly an idea struck the clerk, and with avian glee he tottered towards the window. I spluttered a horrified warning to no avail. He leapt triumphantly from the balcony, spread his ‘wings’ and disappeared. I would have wept, but managed only to eject a few crumbs.

Determined not to give up hope, I began to burn clumsy messages into slices of bread, and slung these desperate distress calls through the window. I sought not only my own salvation, but also to account for the bizarre demise of the clerk, who must no doubt have been discovered on the street below. I soon found my bread bin to be empty, and sank again into a morose meditation.

A large movement shocked me from my morbid contemplation. Before me, having clambered up from the floor, stood my own body. It regarded me with dim cheer. ‘I have been upgraded,’ it announced in monotone. The room was silent as I struggled to cope with this information. Then: ‘Would you like some toast?’

The truth dawned on me, and I wasted no time in seeing the utility of this revelation. I informed the toaster, which was now in control of my body, that I wished it to fetch help. It regarded me warily, then asked if I would like that buttered. Maintaining patience, I explained the instruction more thoroughly. I watched with surreal anticipation as my body of forty-two years jerked its way out of the flat. It rounded the corner, and there was a hope-dashing crash. It had tripped up on the ‘caution: wet floor’ sign. To my joyous relief, however, I heard the thing continue on its way down the corridor.

Minutes passed, then hours. On the dawn of the third day, I concluded that the toaster had failed in its piloting of my body, and that help was not on its way. Pushed on by a grim fervour, I began igniting the entire stock of bread. As the —– poured from my casing, and the first hints of deadly flame flickered in my mechanisms, I began the solemn disclosure of my own eulogy. Suddenly the fire alarm leapt into action, hurling thick jets of water across the flat, desperate to save its occupants. A piercing wail erupted from all sides, and a squabbling mixture of annoyance, relief and curiosity filtered into my mind.

Once the firemen had visited and deactivated the alarm, I was identified as the fault, unplugged and hauled away to a repair shop. The staff there, finding nothing to remove but a faulty speech chip, apparently put me up for sale. I only know this because, on being reconnected to the mains, I found myself in a shiny, spacious kitchen. Missing my electronic voice, I could only listen to the conversation of the staff, discussing the odd conduct of their new cook. The end of their hurried discussion heralded his arrival. I gazed at the door in silent surrender, as my body stepped proudly on to the premises, displaying its newly designed menu. At the top of the list I could discern ‘Buttered bagel’.

Before my many years’ service in a restaurant, I attended a top science university. The year was 2023 and I was finishing the project that would win me my professorship. In the end, it resulted in my becoming a kitchen employee.

My forty-second birthday had made a lonely visit the week before, and I was once again by myself in the flat. Like countless other mornings, I ordered a bagel from the toaster. ‘Yes, sir!’ it replied with robotic relish, and I began the day’s work on the project. It was a magnificent machine capable of transferring the minds of any two beings into each other’s bodies.

As the toaster began serving my bagel on to a plate, I realised the project was in fact ready for testing. I retrieved the duck and the cat — which I had bought for this purpose — from their containers, and set about calibrating the machine in their direction. Once ready, I leant against the table, holding the bagel I was too excited to eat, and initiated the transfer sequence. As expected, the machine whirred and hummed into action, my nerves tingling at its synthetic sounds.

The machine hushed, extraction and injection nozzles poised, scrutinizing its targets. The cat, though, was suddenly gripped by terrible alarm. The brute leapt into the air, flinging itself onto the machine. I watched in horror as the nozzles swung towards me; and, with a terrible, psychedelic whirl of colours, felt my mind wrenched from its sockets.

When I awoke, moments later, I noticed first that I was two feet shorter. Then, I realised the lack of my limbs, and finally it occurred to me that I was a toaster. I saw immediately the solution to the situation — the machine could easily reverse the transfer — but was then struck by my utter inability to carry this out.

After some consideration, using what I supposed must be the toaster’s onboard computer, I devised a strategy for rescue. Through the device’s rudimentary eye — with which it served its creations — I could see the internal telephone on the wall. Aiming carefully, I began propelling slices of bread at it. ‘Certainly, sir. There’s a burst water pipe on the floor above, I suppose I’ll kill two birds with one stone and sort you out on the way.’ The clerk arrived promptly, leaving his ‘caution, wet floor’ sign in the corridor. I spoke immediately, saying I was on the intercom, and requested that he simply press the large button on the machine before him. ‘This one, sir?’ he asked, and before I could correct him, the room was filled with a terrible, whirling light, and he fell to the ground.

A minute later he stood up again, uncertainly, and began moving in a manner that can only be described as a waddle. The duck, meanwhile, was scrutinising the flat with an air of wearied distaste. I gazed at the scene with dismay. Suddenly an idea struck the clerk, and with avian glee he tottered towards the window. I spluttered a horrified warning to no avail. He leapt triumphantly from the balcony, spread his ‘wings’ and disappeared. I would have wept, but managed only to eject a few crumbs.

Determined not to give up hope, I began to burn clumsy messages into slices of bread, and slung these desperate distress calls through the window. I sought not only my own salvation, but also to account for the bizarre demise of the clerk, who must no doubt have been discovered on the street below. I soon found my bread bin to be empty, and sank again into a morose meditation.

A large movement shocked me from my morbid contemplation. Before me, having clambered up from the floor, stood my own body. It regarded me with dim cheer. ‘I have been upgraded,’ it announced in monotone. The room was silent as I struggled to cope with this information. Then: ‘Would you like some toast?’

The truth dawned on me, and I wasted no time in seeing the utility of this revelation. I informed the toaster, which was now in control of my body, that I wished it to fetch help. It regarded me warily, then asked if I would like that buttered. Maintaining patience, I explained the instruction more thoroughly. I watched with surreal anticipation as my body of forty-two years jerked its way out of the flat. It rounded the corner, and there was a hope-dashing crash. It had tripped up on the ‘caution: wet floor’ sign. To my joyous relief, however, I heard the thing continue on its way down the corridor.

Minutes passed, then hours. On the dawn of the third day, I concluded that the toaster had failed in its piloting of my body, and that help was not on its way. Pushed on by a grim fervour, I began igniting the entire stock of bread. As the —– poured from my casing, and the first hints of deadly flame flickered in my mechanisms, I began the solemn disclosure of my own eulogy. Suddenly the fire alarm leapt into action, hurling thick jets of water across the flat, desperate to save its occupants. A piercing wail erupted from all sides, and a squabbling mixture of annoyance, relief and curiosity filtered into my mind.

Once the firemen had visited and deactivated the alarm, I was identified as the fault, unplugged and hauled away to a repair shop. The staff there, finding nothing to remove but a faulty speech chip, apparently put me up for sale. I only know this because, on being reconnected to the mains, I found myself in a shiny, spacious kitchen. Missing my electronic voice, I could only listen to the conversation of the staff, discussing the odd conduct of their new cook. The end of their hurried discussion heralded his arrival. I gazed at the door in silent surrender, as my body stepped proudly on to the premises, displaying its newly designed menu. At the top of the list I could discern ‘Buttered bagel’.

When I grow up

When I was in kindergarten, my class was asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Colourful crayons danced across sheets of paper to illustrate our dream occupations and cherished jobs. Our drawings were hung in the school hallway for our parents to see at Back to School Night. I remember looking down the line and seeing pictures of pretty ballerinas dancing, brave firefighters putting out a blaze, and fearless astronauts leaping across the moon — admirable careers that were seen as typical dreams of five-year-old kids.

My picture showed a stick figure with brown disheveled hair holding a carton of orange juice over a large rectangle that was supposed to be a counter. Underneath was my barely legible handwriting: “When I grow up, I want to work at the Market Basket because it would be fun to swipe orange juice across the scanner and talk to customers.” To this day my parents won’t let me forget that out of everything I could have aspired to be, my five-year-old self wished to work at the local grocery store.

When we are young, questions of what we want to be when we grow up are common. Yet we are not expected to respond with an answer that is likely to come true. However, when we become teenagers, we are asked the very same question twice as often. The difference is, now we are supposed to answer with confidence.

Teenagers are expected to know exactly what they want to be and how they are going to achieve that goal. Not all of us can be so sure at this age. Even though I am in high school, I cannot answer convincingly. But I don’t consider that a bad thing. How am I supposed to know what I will want to spend my time doing at the age of thirty or forty?

When I think about the future, I definitely don’t see myself working at the counter of the Market Basket, but in reality, if that was what would make me happy, I would do it. So, the next time someone asks me what I want to be when I grow up, I will simply say, “I want to be happy.” And it is hope that drives us in this direction.

“Hope is not a grain of sand,” the Gambian poet, Lenrie Peters, echoes, but no matter how tiny it is, it would still be sufficient to keep the youth alive and sane in most extreme circumstances. It is hope that spurs the youth on, to be up and doing. It is hope that keeps the youth going no matter how hard it is. Nelson Mandela as a youth hoped against all hope for the liberation of his people and he actually lived to see his hope being fulfilled. Robinson Crusoe, cast away on an uninhabited island, hoped against all hope for survival and this propelled him to start from scratch and build a compound and large farm single-handedly.

Far away in “Another Country: the Land of Literature,” Sister Eileen Sweeney sums up through her writings that Hope is the anchor that keeps “the ship” called “youth” steadfastly held together no matter the high and stormy sea of passion, pain, distress or tribulation that batter against it.

Happiness is a destination for everyone. We may want to walk different paths in life, narrow or wide, crooked or straight, but we all want to be happy wherever we end up. Choose your path, but don’t worry too much about choosing wisely. Make a mistake or two and try new things. But always remember, if you’re not happy, you’re not at the end of your journey yet.

When I grow up

When I was in kindergarten, my class was asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Colourful crayons danced across sheets of paper to illustrate our dream occupations and cherished jobs. Our drawings were hung in the school hallway for our parents to see at Back to School Night. I remember looking down the line and seeing pictures of pretty ballerinas dancing, brave firefighters putting out a blaze, and fearless astronauts leaping across the moon — admirable careers that were seen as typical dreams of five-year-old kids.

My picture showed a stick figure with brown disheveled hair holding a carton of orange juice over a large rectangle that was supposed to be a counter. Underneath was my barely legible handwriting: “When I grow up, I want to work at the Market Basket because it would be fun to swipe orange juice across the scanner and talk to customers.” To this day my parents won’t let me forget that out of everything I could have aspired to be, my five-year-old self wished to work at the local grocery store.

When we are young, questions of what we want to be when we grow up are common. Yet we are not expected to respond with an answer that is likely to come true. However, when we become teenagers, we are asked the very same question twice as often. The difference is, now we are supposed to answer with confidence.

Teenagers are expected to know exactly what they want to be and how they are going to achieve that goal. Not all of us can be so sure at this age. Even though I am in high school, I cannot answer convincingly. But I don’t consider that a bad thing. How am I supposed to know what I will want to spend my time doing at the age of thirty or forty?

When I think about the future, I definitely don’t see myself working at the counter of the Market Basket, but in reality, if that was what would make me happy, I would do it. So, the next time someone asks me what I want to be when I grow up, I will simply say, “I want to be happy.” And it is hope that drives us in this direction.

“Hope is not a grain of sand,” the Gambian poet, Lenrie Peters, echoes, but no matter how tiny it is, it would still be sufficient to keep the youth alive and sane in most extreme circumstances. It is hope that spurs the youth on, to be up and doing. It is hope that keeps the youth going no matter how hard it is. Nelson Mandela as a youth hoped against all hope for the liberation of his people and he actually lived to see his hope being fulfilled. Robinson Crusoe, cast away on an uninhabited island, hoped against all hope for survival and this propelled him to start from scratch and build a compound and large farm single-handedly.

Far away in “Another Country: the Land of Literature,” Sister Eileen Sweeney sums up through her writings that Hope is the anchor that keeps “the ship” called “youth” steadfastly held together no matter the high and stormy sea of passion, pain, distress or tribulation that batter against it.

Happiness is a destination for everyone. We may want to walk different paths in life, narrow or wide, crooked or straight, but we all want to be happy wherever we end up. Choose your path, but don’t worry too much about choosing wisely. Make a mistake or two and try new things. But always remember, if you’re not happy, you’re not at the end of your journey yet.

“Now listen, Doctor, and I’ll tell you something. Did you know that animals can talk?” asked the parrot. “I knew that parrots can talk,” said the Doctor. “Oh, we parrots can talk in two languages — people’s language and bird-language,” said Polynesia proudly. “If I say, ‘Polly wants a cracker,’

you understand me. But hear this: Ka-ka oi-ee, fee-fee?”

“Good Gracious!” cried the Doctor. “What does that mean?”

“That means, ‘Is the porridge hot yet?’ — in bird-language.”

“My! You don’t say so!” said the Doctor. “You never talked that way to me before.”

“What would have been the use?” said Polynesia. “You wouldn’t have understood me if I had.”

“Tell me some more,” said the Doctor, all excited; and he rushed over to the dresser-drawer and

came back with a book and a pencil. “Now don’t go too fast — and I’ll write it down. This is interesting — very interesting — something quite new. Give me the Birds’ ABC first – slowly now.”

So that was the way the Doctor came to know that animals had a language of their own and сould talk to one another. And all that afternoon Polynesia gave him bird words to put down in the book. After a while, with the parrot’s help, the Doctor learnt the language of the animals so well that he could talk to them himself and understand everything they said. Then he gave up being a people’s doctor altogether. Old ladies began to bring him their pet dogs who had eaten too much cake; and farmers came many miles to show him cows which had the flu, and sheep with broken bones.

One day a plough-horse was brought to him; and the poor thing was terribly glad to find a man who could talk in horse-language. “You know, Doctor,” said the horse, “that vet over the hill knows nothing at all. I am going blind in one eye. But that stupid man over the hill never even looked at my eyes. He kept on giving me big pills. I tried to tell him; but he couldn’t understand a word of horse-language. What I need is spectacles. I would like a pair like yours — only green. They’ll keep the sun out of my eyes while I’m ploughing the Fifty-Acre Field.” “Certainly,” said the Doctor. “Green ones you shall have.” And soon it became a common sight to see farm-animals wearing glasses in the country round Puddleby; and from then on there was never a blind horse.

And so it was with all the other animals that were brought to him. As soon as they found that he could talk their language, they told him where the pain was and how they felt, and of course it was easy for him to cure them. Whenever any creatures got sick — not only horses and cows and dogs, but all the little things of the fields, like harvest mice and water voles, badgers and bats — they came at once to his house on the edge of the town, so his big garden was nearly always crowded with animals trying to get in to see him.

Once an Italian organ grinder came round with a monkey on a string. The Doctor saw at once that the monkey’s collar was too tight and that he was dirty and unhappy. So he took away the monkey from the Italian, gave the man a shilling and told him to go away. The organ grinder got very angry and said that he wanted to keep the monkey. But the Doctor wouldn’t let him and said he would look after the monkey from then on. So the Italian went away saying rude things and the monkey stayed with Doctor Dolittle and had a good home. The other animals in the house called him “Chee-Chee” — which, in monkey-language, means “ginger”.

“Now listen, Doctor, and I’ll tell you something. Did you know that animals can talk?” asked the parrot. “I knew that parrots can talk,” said the Doctor. “Oh, we parrots can talk in two languages — people’s language and bird-language,” said Polynesia proudly. “If I say, ‘Polly wants a cracker,’

you understand me. But hear this: Ka-ka oi-ee, fee-fee?”

“Good Gracious!” cried the Doctor. “What does that mean?”

“That means, ‘Is the porridge hot yet?’ — in bird-language.”

“My! You don’t say so!” said the Doctor. “You never talked that way to me before.”

“What would have been the use?” said Polynesia. “You wouldn’t have understood me if I had.”

“Tell me some more,” said the Doctor, all excited; and he rushed over to the dresser-drawer and

came back with a book and a pencil. “Now don’t go too fast — and I’ll write it down. This is interesting — very interesting — something quite new. Give me the Birds’ ABC first – slowly now.”

So that was the way the Doctor came to know that animals had a language of their own and сould talk to one another. And all that afternoon Polynesia gave him bird words to put down in the book. After a while, with the parrot’s help, the Doctor learnt the language of the animals so well that he could talk to them himself and understand everything they said. Then he gave up being a people’s doctor altogether. Old ladies began to bring him their pet dogs who had eaten too much cake; and farmers came many miles to show him cows which had the flu, and sheep with broken bones.

One day a plough-horse was brought to him; and the poor thing was terribly glad to find a man who could talk in horse-language. “You know, Doctor,” said the horse, “that vet over the hill knows nothing at all. I am going blind in one eye. But that stupid man over the hill never even looked at my eyes. He kept on giving me big pills. I tried to tell him; but he couldn’t understand a word of horse-language. What I need is spectacles. I would like a pair like yours — only green. They’ll keep the sun out of my eyes while I’m ploughing the Fifty-Acre Field.” “Certainly,” said the Doctor. “Green ones you shall have.” And soon it became a common sight to see farm-animals wearing glasses in the country round Puddleby; and from then on there was never a blind horse.

And so it was with all the other animals that were brought to him. As soon as they found that he could talk their language, they told him where the pain was and how they felt, and of course it was easy for him to cure them. Whenever any creatures got sick — not only horses and cows and dogs, but all the little things of the fields, like harvest mice and water voles, badgers and bats — they came at once to his house on the edge of the town, so his big garden was nearly always crowded with animals trying to get in to see him.

Once an Italian organ grinder came round with a monkey on a string. The Doctor saw at once that the monkey’s collar was too tight and that he was dirty and unhappy. So he took away the monkey from the Italian, gave the man a shilling and told him to go away. The organ grinder got very angry and said that he wanted to keep the monkey. But the Doctor wouldn’t let him and said he would look after the monkey from then on. So the Italian went away saying rude things and the monkey stayed with Doctor Dolittle and had a good home. The other animals in the house called him “Chee-Chee” — which, in monkey-language, means “ginger”.

The Sagrada Familia is the pearl of Barcelona

Have you ever been to Spain? Some people associate it with oranges and football, others keep in their mind its famous cities such as Madrid and Barcelona. And, of course, everybody knows the pearl of Spain in Barcelona — the Sagrada Familia. It’s a symbol of Barcelona. Millions of visitors pass through the doors of the cathedral every year. The Sagrada Familia is still unfinished but the current lead architect reckons that it will be completed at the end of 2026.

In the 19th century, José Maria Bocabella decided to build a church in Barcelona and dedicated it to the Holy Family “Sagrada Familia”. After some disagreements with the architect Francisco del Villar in 1883, the young architect Antoni Gaudi took his place. Until his death in 1926, he worked on the Sagrada Familia.

Gaudi’s conception of this basilica was based on Gothic and Byzantine traditions. He wanted to express Christian belief through the architecture and the beauty of the building. He achieved a symbiosis via new but thoroughly logical structures, forms and geometries inspired by nature. Light and colour also play a significant role.

The meaning of the Sagrada Familia is communicated through the form and expressivity of its architecture and the iconography of its sculpture.

All the architectural elements are full of Christian symbolism. For instance, each of its 18 towers has a special significance. In the middle there is the tower dedicated to Jesus Christ and around it there are four towers representing the Gospels, they are the books containin the life and teachings of Jesus. The tower above the apse, crowned by a star, represents his mother the Virgin Mary, and the remaining 12 towers represent the 12 Apostles

Another example of symbolism in Gaudi’s contracture is light. It was planned to be harmonious and to accentuate the plasticity of the nave. The branching columns, as well as having a structural function, reflect Gaudi’s idea that the inside of the temple should be like a wood that invites a prayer.

There were a lot of helpers and followers who supported Gaudi during his lifetime, including Francesc Berenguer, Josep Maria Jujol, Josep Francesc Rafols and many others.

When Gaudi died in 1926 it became a disaster for the continuation project. The construction progressed very slowly, as it almost completely relied on donations. During the Spanish Civil War there was almost no progress in the project. The construction was speeding up in the 1950s and still nowadays large part of the church isn’t completed yet.

After Gaudi’s death the construction of the Sagrada Familia was continued by architects and craftsmen who had worked with him. They stuck to his plans and plastered models precisely. After his death Doménec Sugrafies completed the construction of the last three towers on the Nativity facade. Francesc de Paula Quintana also followed the directions and documents left by Gaudi. Nowadays it’s Jordi Fauli who became chief architect and director of works on the temple in 2012. It should be mentioned that Gaudi was convinced that the city would someday be known for “his” church.

Despite not being understood by many of his contemporaries, Gaudi developed an architectonic language that has made him world-famous. Today no one contests his place in the pantheon of 20th century architects. Gaudi’s methods continue to be considered revolutionary, a century after he devised them.

Nevertheless, thanks to its immensity the Sagrada Familia, once completed, will exceed all the churches previously built.

The Sagrada Familia is the pearl of Barcelona

Have you ever been to Spain? Some people associate it with oranges and football, others keep in their mind its famous cities such as Madrid and Barcelona. And, of course, everybody knows the pearl of Spain in Barcelona — the Sagrada Familia. It’s a symbol of Barcelona. Millions of visitors pass through the doors of the cathedral every year. The Sagrada Familia is still unfinished but the current lead architect reckons that it will be completed at the end of 2026.

In the 19th century, José Maria Bocabella decided to build a church in Barcelona and dedicated it to the Holy Family “Sagrada Familia”. After some disagreements with the architect Francisco del Villar in 1883, the young architect Antoni Gaudi took his place. Until his death in 1926, he worked on the Sagrada Familia.

Gaudi’s conception of this basilica was based on Gothic and Byzantine traditions. He wanted to express Christian belief through the architecture and the beauty of the building. He achieved a symbiosis via new but thoroughly logical structures, forms and geometries inspired by nature. Light and colour also play a significant role.

The meaning of the Sagrada Familia is communicated through the form and expressivity of its architecture and the iconography of its sculpture.

All the architectural elements are full of Christian symbolism. For instance, each of its 18 towers has a special significance. In the middle there is the tower dedicated to Jesus Christ and around it there are four towers representing the Gospels, they are the books containin the life and teachings of Jesus. The tower above the apse, crowned by a star, represents his mother the Virgin Mary, and the remaining 12 towers represent the 12 Apostles

Another example of symbolism in Gaudi’s contracture is light. It was planned to be harmonious and to accentuate the plasticity of the nave. The branching columns, as well as having a structural function, reflect Gaudi’s idea that the inside of the temple should be like a wood that invites a prayer.

There were a lot of helpers and followers who supported Gaudi during his lifetime, including Francesc Berenguer, Josep Maria Jujol, Josep Francesc Rafols and many others.

When Gaudi died in 1926 it became a disaster for the continuation project. The construction progressed very slowly, as it almost completely relied on donations. During the Spanish Civil War there was almost no progress in the project. The construction was speeding up in the 1950s and still nowadays large part of the church isn’t completed yet.

After Gaudi’s death the construction of the Sagrada Familia was continued by architects and craftsmen who had worked with him. They stuck to his plans and plastered models precisely. After his death Doménec Sugrafies completed the construction of the last three towers on the Nativity facade. Francesc de Paula Quintana also followed the directions and documents left by Gaudi. Nowadays it’s Jordi Fauli who became chief architect and director of works on the temple in 2012. It should be mentioned that Gaudi was convinced that the city would someday be known for “his” church.

Despite not being understood by many of his contemporaries, Gaudi developed an architectonic language that has made him world-famous. Today no one contests his place in the pantheon of 20th century architects. Gaudi’s methods continue to be considered revolutionary, a century after he devised them.

Nevertheless, thanks to its immensity the Sagrada Familia, once completed, will exceed all the churches previously built.

A new or old kind of transportation?

There are a lot of people who believe that electric vehicles are the future of our transportation. However, others suppose that it’s the wrong and long-running way of developing car industry. But the Potential of electric cars seems to be higher now than ever before.

Traditional automakers including General Motors, Volkswagen, Daimler AG, and others are all investing heavily in electric vehicles. ‘And, of course, it’s Tesla Motors Company which has built its entire business off of battery powered cars.

The history of the electric car stretches way, way back, about 200 years at this point. The electric car has a longer history than both the steam and gasoline-powered car, and came about two decades after the first steam locomotives hit the rails.

It’s hard to relate the invention of the electric car to only one inventor. But it is supposed that Hungarian Benedictine priest and inventor Anyos Jedlik was the first person to try strapping an electric engine to four wheels in 1828. It’s important to understand that it was a series of breakthroughs. The step from the battery to the electric motor in the 1800s led to the first electric vehicle on the road.

As electric vehicles came onto the market, so did a new type of vehicle. It was the gasoline-powered car. It also had their faults. It required a lot of manual effort to drive, for example, changing gears was not easy and they needed to be started with a hand crank. Besides, they were noisy, and their exhaust was unpleasant.

On the other hand, electric cars didn’t have any of the issues associated with steam or gasoline. By the year 1900, they werе actually gaining popularity with urban residents, especially women, who appreciated the simplicity, quietness and lack of smelly smoke. They were perfect for short trips around the city, and poor road conditions outside cities meant few cars of any type could venture farther.

A lot of innovators were exploring ways to improve the technology at that time. For example, Ferdinand Porsche invented an electric car called the P1 in 1898. At the same time, he created the world’s first hybrid electric car. It is a vehicle that is powered by electricity and a gas engine. Thomas Edison thought electric vehicles were the superior technology and worked to build a better electric vehicle battery.

Why everything changed? When Henry Ford introduced the mass-produced and gas-powered Model T in 1908, it symbolized ‘a death to the electric car. This model was an affordable and reliable car to the masses that outperformed electric cars in speed and range. While a gasoline car cost only $650 the average electric one was sold for $1,750.

By 1935 almost all road-going electric vehicles disappeared. By the mid-70s car makers began exploring options for alternative fuel vehicles, including electric cars. But these vehicles suffered from drawbacks compared to gasoline-powered cars. So, the interest in them began to

fade once again.

Not too much happened in the electric car arena in the 1990s. The EV1 and the Prius appeared at market. After a while Silicon Valleу companies like Tesla are getting into the game. And it seems now that the time of the electric car has finally come. The electric cars from Elon Musk’s Tesla Company made the electric car reanimated and put back into the collective eye of the public.

To round out this storyline, consumers now have more choices than ever when it comes to buying an electric vehicle. It’s hard to tell where the future will take electric vehicles, but it’s clear they hold a lot of potential for creating a more sustainable future.

A new or old kind of transportation?

There are a lot of people who believe that electric vehicles are the future of our transportation. However, others suppose that it’s the wrong and long-running way of developing car industry. But the Potential of electric cars seems to be higher now than ever before.

Traditional automakers including General Motors, Volkswagen, Daimler AG, and others are all investing heavily in electric vehicles. ‘And, of course, it’s Tesla Motors Company which has built its entire business off of battery powered cars.

The history of the electric car stretches way, way back, about 200 years at this point. The electric car has a longer history than both the steam and gasoline-powered car, and came about two decades after the first steam locomotives hit the rails.

It’s hard to relate the invention of the electric car to only one inventor. But it is supposed that Hungarian Benedictine priest and inventor Anyos Jedlik was the first person to try strapping an electric engine to four wheels in 1828. It’s important to understand that it was a series of breakthroughs. The step from the battery to the electric motor in the 1800s led to the first electric vehicle on the road.

As electric vehicles came onto the market, so did a new type of vehicle. It was the gasoline-powered car. It also had their faults. It required a lot of manual effort to drive, for example, changing gears was not easy and they needed to be started with a hand crank. Besides, they were noisy, and their exhaust was unpleasant.

On the other hand, electric cars didn’t have any of the issues associated with steam or gasoline. By the year 1900, they werе actually gaining popularity with urban residents, especially women, who appreciated the simplicity, quietness and lack of smelly smoke. They were perfect for short trips around the city, and poor road conditions outside cities meant few cars of any type could venture farther.

A lot of innovators were exploring ways to improve the technology at that time. For example, Ferdinand Porsche invented an electric car called the P1 in 1898. At the same time, he created the world’s first hybrid electric car. It is a vehicle that is powered by electricity and a gas engine. Thomas Edison thought electric vehicles were the superior technology and worked to build a better electric vehicle battery.

Why everything changed? When Henry Ford introduced the mass-produced and gas-powered Model T in 1908, it symbolized ‘a death to the electric car. This model was an affordable and reliable car to the masses that outperformed electric cars in speed and range. While a gasoline car cost only $650 the average electric one was sold for $1,750.

By 1935 almost all road-going electric vehicles disappeared. By the mid-70s car makers began exploring options for alternative fuel vehicles, including electric cars. But these vehicles suffered from drawbacks compared to gasoline-powered cars. So, the interest in them began to

fade once again.

Not too much happened in the electric car arena in the 1990s. The EV1 and the Prius appeared at market. After a while Silicon Valleу companies like Tesla are getting into the game. And it seems now that the time of the electric car has finally come. The electric cars from Elon Musk’s Tesla Company made the electric car reanimated and put back into the collective eye of the public.

To round out this storyline, consumers now have more choices than ever when it comes to buying an electric vehicle. It’s hard to tell where the future will take electric vehicles, but it’s clear they hold a lot of potential for creating a more sustainable future.

The History of the detective novel

Numerous detective and crime-related stories are highly popular nowadays. They are a major part of television programming. There is plenty of subgenres and works of detective fiction and half of contemporary series are based on them.

As we know it today Arthur Conan Doyle didn’t originate the detective story. It truly began in 1841 when another author of the 19th century, Edgar Allan Poe, introduced Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin in the short story “The Murders in the Rue Morgue”. Two women were violently murdered in a mysterious manner. The police have a hard time solving the case. And Dupin leads his own investigation. By the way, the word “detective” didn’t exist at the time.

Many of Dupin’s characteristics such as his logical method of solving problems and ability of reading clues greatly influenced character portrayals of detectives throughout the 19th and early 20th centuries. Later detectives, especially well-known Sherlock Holmes, became even more eccentric, and Poe’s nameless narrator had his counterpart in the amiable Dr. Watson.

Charles Dickens’ novel “Bleak House” is the first story that begins to truly resemble the modern conception of detective fiction. The story is about Detective Bucket who investigates the murder of the disgusting lawyer, Tulkinghorn. The work of Dickens in this novel developed some of the commons of detective fiction. Some of them were robberies at an English country house, professional investigators, useless local police, false suspects to throw off the reader, the villain is the least suspected, exciting plot twist and many other details.

If Poe was the inventor of the detective novel, it was Arthur Conan Doyle who truly fastened it as a popular literary genre. Unlike Poe, who only created three stories with the same character, Doyle wrote 56 short stories and four novels featuring Sherlock Holmes.

Conan Doyle initially hoped to publish some of his Holmes. Stories in order to earn some money. But he had no idea that the Sherlock Holmes would become such a well-known adorable character. First of all, Doyle adopted Poe’s formulae, cut his complex introductions and restated them in conversational exchanges between his two main characters, and emphasized the “deduction” of astonishing conclusions from trifling clues. These special features made the stories so remarkable and impressive that they have since inspired hundreds of Plays, movies, television series, and other adaptations.

The Golden Era of detective fiction spanned from 1920 to 1940. During this period authors like Freeman Wills Crofts, Anthony Berkeley, Dorothy L. Sayers, Margery Allingham, and, of course, Agatha Christie introduced their first detective works. Many more new detectives also appeared. Thanks to them the genre continued to grow. Some of thе more popular detectives were Endeavor Morse and Gervaise Fen, who were made by Edmund Crispin. By the way, Crispin is believed to take the detective genre into a more contemporary direction.

By the end of the 20th century the place of detective fiction was well established. And it’s obvious that the importance of this kind of literature in general and in the 19th-century is undeniable.

The History of the detective novel

Numerous detective and crime-related stories are highly popular nowadays. They are a major part of television programming. There is plenty of subgenres and works of detective fiction and half of contemporary series are based on them.

As we know it today Arthur Conan Doyle didn’t originate the detective story. It truly began in 1841 when another author of the 19th century, Edgar Allan Poe, introduced Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin in the short story “The Murders in the Rue Morgue”. Two women were violently murdered in a mysterious manner. The police have a hard time solving the case. And Dupin leads his own investigation. By the way, the word “detective” didn’t exist at the time.

Many of Dupin’s characteristics such as his logical method of solving problems and ability of reading clues greatly influenced character portrayals of detectives throughout the 19th and early 20th centuries. Later detectives, especially well-known Sherlock Holmes, became even more eccentric, and Poe’s nameless narrator had his counterpart in the amiable Dr. Watson.

Charles Dickens’ novel “Bleak House” is the first story that begins to truly resemble the modern conception of detective fiction. The story is about Detective Bucket who investigates the murder of the disgusting lawyer, Tulkinghorn. The work of Dickens in this novel developed some of the commons of detective fiction. Some of them were robberies at an English country house, professional investigators, useless local police, false suspects to throw off the reader, the villain is the least suspected, exciting plot twist and many other details.

If Poe was the inventor of the detective novel, it was Arthur Conan Doyle who truly fastened it as a popular literary genre. Unlike Poe, who only created three stories with the same character, Doyle wrote 56 short stories and four novels featuring Sherlock Holmes.

Conan Doyle initially hoped to publish some of his Holmes. Stories in order to earn some money. But he had no idea that the Sherlock Holmes would become such a well-known adorable character. First of all, Doyle adopted Poe’s formulae, cut his complex introductions and restated them in conversational exchanges between his two main characters, and emphasized the “deduction” of astonishing conclusions from trifling clues. These special features made the stories so remarkable and impressive that they have since inspired hundreds of Plays, movies, television series, and other adaptations.

The Golden Era of detective fiction spanned from 1920 to 1940. During this period authors like Freeman Wills Crofts, Anthony Berkeley, Dorothy L. Sayers, Margery Allingham, and, of course, Agatha Christie introduced their first detective works. Many more new detectives also appeared. Thanks to them the genre continued to grow. Some of thе more popular detectives were Endeavor Morse and Gervaise Fen, who were made by Edmund Crispin. By the way, Crispin is believed to take the detective genre into a more contemporary direction.

By the end of the 20th century the place of detective fiction was well established. And it’s obvious that the importance of this kind of literature in general and in the 19th-century is undeniable.

Hazlitt’s Hotel

I took a cab to Hazlitt’s Hotel on Frith Street. I like Hazlitt’s because it’s intentionally obscure — it doesn’t have a sign or a plaque or anything at all to betray its purpose — which puts you in a rare position of strength with your cab driver. Let me say right now that London cab drivers are without question the finest in the world. They are trustworthy, safe and honest, generally friendly and always polite. They keep their vehicles spotless inside and out, and they will put themselves to the most extraordinary inconvenience to drop you at the front entrance of your destination.

There are really only a couple of odd things about them. One is that they cannot drive more than two hundred feet in a straight line. I’ve never understood this, but no matter where you are or what the driving conditions, every two hundred feet a little bell goes off in their heads and they abruptly lunge down a side street. And when you get to your hotel or railway station or wherever it is you are going, they like to drive you all the way around it so that you can see it from all angles before alighting.

The other distinctive thing about them, and the reason I like to go to Hazlitt’s, is that they cannot bear to admit that they don’t know the location of something they feel they ought to know, like a hotel, which I think is rather sweet. To become a London cab driver you have to master something titled The Knowledge — in effect, learn every street, hospital, hotel, police station, cricket ground, cemetery and other notable landmarks in this amazingly vast and confusing city. It takes years and the cabbies are justifiably proud of their achievement. It would kill them to admit that there could exist in central London a hotel that they have never heard of. So what the cabbie does is probe. He drives in no particular direction for a block or two, then glances at you in the mirror and in an overcasual voice says, “Hazlitt’s — that’s the one on Curzon Street, innit, guv? Opposite the Blue Lion?” But the instant he sees a knowing smile of demurral forming on your lips, he hastily says, “No, hang on a minute, I’m thinking of the Hazelbury. Yeah, the Hazelbury. You want Hazlitt’s, right?” He’ll drive on a bit in a fairly random direction. “That’s this side of Shepherd’s Bush, innit?” he’ll suggest speculatively.

When you tell him that it’s on Frith Street, he says. “Yeah, that the one. Course it is. I know it — modern place, lots of glass”.

“Actually, it’s an eighteenth-century brick building.”

“Course it is. I know it.” And he immediately executes a dramatic U-turn, causing a passing cyclist to steer into a lamppost (but that’s all right because he has on cycle clips and one of those geeky slip stream helmets that all but invite you to knock him over). “Yeah, you had me thinking of the Hazelbury” the driver adds, chuckling as if to say it’s a lucky thing he sorted that one out for you, and then lunges down a little side street off the Strand called Running Sore Lane or Sphincter Passage, which, like so much else in London, you had never noticed was there before. 

Hazlitt’s Hotel

I took a cab to Hazlitt’s Hotel on Frith Street. I like Hazlitt’s because it’s intentionally obscure — it doesn’t have a sign or a plaque or anything at all to betray its purpose — which puts you in a rare position of strength with your cab driver. Let me say right now that London cab drivers are without question the finest in the world. They are trustworthy, safe and honest, generally friendly and always polite. They keep their vehicles spotless inside and out, and they will put themselves to the most extraordinary inconvenience to drop you at the front entrance of your destination.

There are really only a couple of odd things about them. One is that they cannot drive more than two hundred feet in a straight line. I’ve never understood this, but no matter where you are or what the driving conditions, every two hundred feet a little bell goes off in their heads and they abruptly lunge down a side street. And when you get to your hotel or railway station or wherever it is you are going, they like to drive you all the way around it so that you can see it from all angles before alighting.

The other distinctive thing about them, and the reason I like to go to Hazlitt’s, is that they cannot bear to admit that they don’t know the location of something they feel they ought to know, like a hotel, which I think is rather sweet. To become a London cab driver you have to master something titled The Knowledge — in effect, learn every street, hospital, hotel, police station, cricket ground, cemetery and other notable landmarks in this amazingly vast and confusing city. It takes years and the cabbies are justifiably proud of their achievement. It would kill them to admit that there could exist in central London a hotel that they have never heard of. So what the cabbie does is probe. He drives in no particular direction for a block or two, then glances at you in the mirror and in an overcasual voice says, “Hazlitt’s — that’s the one on Curzon Street, innit, guv? Opposite the Blue Lion?” But the instant he sees a knowing smile of demurral forming on your lips, he hastily says, “No, hang on a minute, I’m thinking of the Hazelbury. Yeah, the Hazelbury. You want Hazlitt’s, right?” He’ll drive on a bit in a fairly random direction. “That’s this side of Shepherd’s Bush, innit?” he’ll suggest speculatively.

When you tell him that it’s on Frith Street, he says. “Yeah, that the one. Course it is. I know it — modern place, lots of glass”.

“Actually, it’s an eighteenth-century brick building.”

“Course it is. I know it.” And he immediately executes a dramatic U-turn, causing a passing cyclist to steer into a lamppost (but that’s all right because he has on cycle clips and one of those geeky slip stream helmets that all but invite you to knock him over). “Yeah, you had me thinking of the Hazelbury” the driver adds, chuckling as if to say it’s a lucky thing he sorted that one out for you, and then lunges down a little side street off the Strand called Running Sore Lane or Sphincter Passage, which, like so much else in London, you had never noticed was there before. 

Making the difference

Mу life is the same as millions of others’. I’m a wife and mother to two great kids. I work as a sales advisor and spend my weekends pottering about in the kitchen or garden. But eight years ago, my «normal», Liverpool-centred life changed forever.

I’ve always donated money to various charities. But rather than just giving money, I also wanted to help people face to face, so I decided to look for a project abroad. On the Internet I read about an Indian organization called the Rural Development Society. I knew very little about India, but I discovered that people in Tamil Nadu, the poorest state in Southern India, were in dire need of help.

I talked it through with my husband Paul, but I don’t think he expected me to go through with it.

Still, I sent a letter offering my services and within a few weeks received a reply from Manhoran, the chief of Ananandal village. In broken English, he explained how excited they were to think that someone would want to come to help them. My decision was made.

My husband was not enthusiastic about my going there, but he also knew how important it was to me. And, though my sons said they’d miss their mum, they knew it’d only be for a few months. I booked a flight and wrote to Chief Manhoran that I was coming.

Nothing could have prepared me for my arrival at Chennai airport. The noise, the heat and the bustle was totally alien — as were the surroundings. I got to work straight away teaching at the small local school funded by the Rural Development Society, for six days a week.

Day-to-day life was a total culture shock. With no electricity or running water, everything was exceedingly basic. But despite the shockingly simple life, not for one moment did I regret going. The kindness of the villagers was all-encompassing. In return for me showing them respect for their culture, they gave me their all. My Hindi was awful, but we communicated with smiles, laughter and hugs.

From arriving in a desolate village full of strangers, they’d become my friends. I started to look at the place with the utmost affection. And despite looking forward to my trip back to Liverpool, it felt like home.

I started teaching the village children the alphabet under the tree by the hut. Every day more and more children turned up. It was soon impossible for me to manage on my own. I found a local teacher and we started to share evening classes. We settled into a routine, splitting them into groups of older and younger children — named my Little and Big Darlings.

The day before the end of my three-month stay, I was overwhelmed when 2,000 villagers begged me to stay and continue with the school. There was no way I could remain there — I missed my husband and children. But I promised to be back.

My husband was incredibly proud of how far we’d come, but never felt the urge to visit Ananandal. He and our sons prefer to stay at home and help raise money for the school over here.

Since then the school has got bigger and bigger and now we have 500 pupils. The best thing is that the school recently came second in the annual exams of the whole of Southern India. I’ve thought about going to live there, but my life, my job and family are in England so I’m happy just visiting.

When I’m back in Liverpool people say how proud I must be of myself. To a certain extent I am. But I’m more proud of my Little and Big Darlings who come to school every day with a smile, desperate to learn. They’re the inspiration, not me.

Making the difference

Mу life is the same as millions of others’. I’m a wife and mother to two great kids. I work as a sales advisor and spend my weekends pottering about in the kitchen or garden. But eight years ago, my «normal», Liverpool-centred life changed forever.

I’ve always donated money to various charities. But rather than just giving money, I also wanted to help people face to face, so I decided to look for a project abroad. On the Internet I read about an Indian organization called the Rural Development Society. I knew very little about India, but I discovered that people in Tamil Nadu, the poorest state in Southern India, were in dire need of help.

I talked it through with my husband Paul, but I don’t think he expected me to go through with it.

Still, I sent a letter offering my services and within a few weeks received a reply from Manhoran, the chief of Ananandal village. In broken English, he explained how excited they were to think that someone would want to come to help them. My decision was made.

My husband was not enthusiastic about my going there, but he also knew how important it was to me. And, though my sons said they’d miss their mum, they knew it’d only be for a few months. I booked a flight and wrote to Chief Manhoran that I was coming.

Nothing could have prepared me for my arrival at Chennai airport. The noise, the heat and the bustle was totally alien — as were the surroundings. I got to work straight away teaching at the small local school funded by the Rural Development Society, for six days a week.

Day-to-day life was a total culture shock. With no electricity or running water, everything was exceedingly basic. But despite the shockingly simple life, not for one moment did I regret going. The kindness of the villagers was all-encompassing. In return for me showing them respect for their culture, they gave me their all. My Hindi was awful, but we communicated with smiles, laughter and hugs.

From arriving in a desolate village full of strangers, they’d become my friends. I started to look at the place with the utmost affection. And despite looking forward to my trip back to Liverpool, it felt like home.

I started teaching the village children the alphabet under the tree by the hut. Every day more and more children turned up. It was soon impossible for me to manage on my own. I found a local teacher and we started to share evening classes. We settled into a routine, splitting them into groups of older and younger children — named my Little and Big Darlings.

The day before the end of my three-month stay, I was overwhelmed when 2,000 villagers begged me to stay and continue with the school. There was no way I could remain there — I missed my husband and children. But I promised to be back.

My husband was incredibly proud of how far we’d come, but never felt the urge to visit Ananandal. He and our sons prefer to stay at home and help raise money for the school over here.

Since then the school has got bigger and bigger and now we have 500 pupils. The best thing is that the school recently came second in the annual exams of the whole of Southern India. I’ve thought about going to live there, but my life, my job and family are in England so I’m happy just visiting.

When I’m back in Liverpool people say how proud I must be of myself. To a certain extent I am. But I’m more proud of my Little and Big Darlings who come to school every day with a smile, desperate to learn. They’re the inspiration, not me.

‘I have heard rumors of visitors who were disappointed,’ J. B. Priestley once said of the Grand Canyon. ‘The same people will be disappointed at the Day of Judgment.’

I have to confess I was disappointed on my first visit to the canyon more than a decade ago. One July, on our way to Los Angeles, my family and I swung off the highway and made the 60-mile detour to the South Rim, and found ourselves caught in a long traffic jam. When we eventually managed to park, and walked to the rim, the scale of the sight off the edge was so great that it was hard to muster a response. It was so vast, and so familiar from innumerable pictures, it might just as well have been a picture. What impressed me most was the babel of languages audible among the files of visitors pouring off the tour buses. It sounded like Times Square on a Saturday night, with every continent represented in the hubbub.

We only stayed an hour or two. But before we left, from the rim I saw a trail, pale as chalk, winding down a huge slope beneath a cliff. There’s something about a trail seen from far away. This thread snaking over the landscape — where does it go, who uses it, why does it seem so intimate with the land? And why does it arouse such an intense longing to follow it? An unknown path seems almost necessarily a metaphor. We like to conceive of life as a thread, after all, a path crossing unexpected terrain on its journey to another element. There wasn’t time to follow it, and I left with a nagging sense of opportunity lost, and that pale thread of a path still pulling at me.

It wasn’t until last winter that I got to answer that pull. And the first thing I learned is that for the Grand Canyon, winter is the time to go. As the chief district ranger John Evans told me, ‘You’ll more or less have the place to yourself.’ Although the canyon is a desert, it’s a kind of oasis in winter — a place of peace, sequestered from the rest of the world. In three days of hiking I saw only two or three mule trains, each carrying baggage not riders, and maybe two dozen hikers in all.

Winter is cool, and cool is good for hiking. It’s true there’s snow on the trails, and long-molded tongues of ice pounded into enamel-like smoothness by the mules that go up and down with supplies, but that’s only on the highest reaches. Drop 2,000 feet from the rim and you’ll most likely be free of it. Sunlight becomes a blessing instead of a 120-degree curse, when you step out of the chilly shade into some welcome warmth.

To experience the canyon, you have to leave the rim. The frustration aroused by the bigness, the grandness, on a rim-only visit becomes a liberation once you drop down. The modern world falls away. It’s not just a trip out of the human realm, but into the deep geology of the earth. Layer upon layer of the planet’s crust is revealed. And in the silence and stillness, in the solitude of the canyon in winter, it’s all the more impressive.

As I prepared to go, and talked to friends about the coming trip, I was amazed how many people knew the inner canyon well. One acquaintance told me that he had spent 300 nights below the rim, falling just short of a lifetime’s ambition of a full year. In a grocery store in Santa Fe, where I live, I got talking with a Grand Canyon-crazy runner who hikes from rim to rim in a single day several times a year. A woman in a coffee shop line told me about the time a 10-pound falling rock nearly knocked her off a trail. I began to get the feeling the Grand Canyon is truly a national monument, similar to the Lake District in England. ‘Each man sees himself in the Grand Canyon,’ Carl Sandburg said. It’s something all Americans share and take pride in.

This was all very well, but the canyon is one mile deep, and the trail itself about 10 miles long, and that translates to a very arduous walk, especially for an 8-year-old. By some arcane family algebra, it was Saul, our younger son, who was due a trip with me.

After an impossibly smooth two-hour ride in the vintage coaches of the Grand Canyon Railway from the nearest major settlement south of the canyon, we checked in at Bright Angel Lodge near the canyon rim, to reconfirm our bookings for Phantom Ranch, down in the bottom. The woman behind the desk glanced at my young son and said: ‘I hope you’re planning to leave immediately, if not sooner.’

It was already 1 o’clock, and most hikers set off in the morning.

My heart dropped. Saul is strong, fit as an Olympic athlete, but still only 8. Was it crazy and cruel to ask him to walk down then up a whole mile of elevation? What if having got him down he hurt himself, or his feisty spirit gave out? And then there was my own bipedal apparatus. What if my own legs failed me?

The fear only amplified over the first spectacular mile of trail, where we had to pick our way precariously over ice. But then we were out on the spine of a ridge that dropped precipitately to either side, and the ice was all melted away. Here, it wasn’t so much about looking at a view as being in the midst of one.

I wouldn’t want a creationist to misinterpret this, but I always find geology more or less unbelievable. Were those hundreds of square miles of limestone hundreds of feet deep truly made by trillions of marine creatures dying? Could a river really carve out a gash that deep? But before the construction of the Glen Canyon Dam, in a single day the Colorado River used to carry away 380,000 tons or more of silt, enough to fill a train 25 miles long. Each day. A river this size is indeed an efficient grinding tool. The scientist John Strong Newberry said that ‘nowhere on the earth’s surface, so far as we know, are the secrets of its structure revealed as here.’

‘I have heard rumors of visitors who were disappointed,’ J. B. Priestley once said of the Grand Canyon. ‘The same people will be disappointed at the Day of Judgment.’

I have to confess I was disappointed on my first visit to the canyon more than a decade ago. One July, on our way to Los Angeles, my family and I swung off the highway and made the 60-mile detour to the South Rim, and found ourselves caught in a long traffic jam. When we eventually managed to park, and walked to the rim, the scale of the sight off the edge was so great that it was hard to muster a response. It was so vast, and so familiar from innumerable pictures, it might just as well have been a picture. What impressed me most was the babel of languages audible among the files of visitors pouring off the tour buses. It sounded like Times Square on a Saturday night, with every continent represented in the hubbub.

We only stayed an hour or two. But before we left, from the rim I saw a trail, pale as chalk, winding down a huge slope beneath a cliff. There’s something about a trail seen from far away. This thread snaking over the landscape — where does it go, who uses it, why does it seem so intimate with the land? And why does it arouse such an intense longing to follow it? An unknown path seems almost necessarily a metaphor. We like to conceive of life as a thread, after all, a path crossing unexpected terrain on its journey to another element. There wasn’t time to follow it, and I left with a nagging sense of opportunity lost, and that pale thread of a path still pulling at me.

It wasn’t until last winter that I got to answer that pull. And the first thing I learned is that for the Grand Canyon, winter is the time to go. As the chief district ranger John Evans told me, ‘You’ll more or less have the place to yourself.’ Although the canyon is a desert, it’s a kind of oasis in winter — a place of peace, sequestered from the rest of the world. In three days of hiking I saw only two or three mule trains, each carrying baggage not riders, and maybe two dozen hikers in all.

Winter is cool, and cool is good for hiking. It’s true there’s snow on the trails, and long-molded tongues of ice pounded into enamel-like smoothness by the mules that go up and down with supplies, but that’s only on the highest reaches. Drop 2,000 feet from the rim and you’ll most likely be free of it. Sunlight becomes a blessing instead of a 120-degree curse, when you step out of the chilly shade into some welcome warmth.

To experience the canyon, you have to leave the rim. The frustration aroused by the bigness, the grandness, on a rim-only visit becomes a liberation once you drop down. The modern world falls away. It’s not just a trip out of the human realm, but into the deep geology of the earth. Layer upon layer of the planet’s crust is revealed. And in the silence and stillness, in the solitude of the canyon in winter, it’s all the more impressive.

As I prepared to go, and talked to friends about the coming trip, I was amazed how many people knew the inner canyon well. One acquaintance told me that he had spent 300 nights below the rim, falling just short of a lifetime’s ambition of a full year. In a grocery store in Santa Fe, where I live, I got talking with a Grand Canyon-crazy runner who hikes from rim to rim in a single day several times a year. A woman in a coffee shop line told me about the time a 10-pound falling rock nearly knocked her off a trail. I began to get the feeling the Grand Canyon is truly a national monument, similar to the Lake District in England. ‘Each man sees himself in the Grand Canyon,’ Carl Sandburg said. It’s something all Americans share and take pride in.

This was all very well, but the canyon is one mile deep, and the trail itself about 10 miles long, and that translates to a very arduous walk, especially for an 8-year-old. By some arcane family algebra, it was Saul, our younger son, who was due a trip with me.

After an impossibly smooth two-hour ride in the vintage coaches of the Grand Canyon Railway from the nearest major settlement south of the canyon, we checked in at Bright Angel Lodge near the canyon rim, to reconfirm our bookings for Phantom Ranch, down in the bottom. The woman behind the desk glanced at my young son and said: ‘I hope you’re planning to leave immediately, if not sooner.’

It was already 1 o’clock, and most hikers set off in the morning.

My heart dropped. Saul is strong, fit as an Olympic athlete, but still only 8. Was it crazy and cruel to ask him to walk down then up a whole mile of elevation? What if having got him down he hurt himself, or his feisty spirit gave out? And then there was my own bipedal apparatus. What if my own legs failed me?

The fear only amplified over the first spectacular mile of trail, where we had to pick our way precariously over ice. But then we were out on the spine of a ridge that dropped precipitately to either side, and the ice was all melted away. Here, it wasn’t so much about looking at a view as being in the midst of one.

I wouldn’t want a creationist to misinterpret this, but I always find geology more or less unbelievable. Were those hundreds of square miles of limestone hundreds of feet deep truly made by trillions of marine creatures dying? Could a river really carve out a gash that deep? But before the construction of the Glen Canyon Dam, in a single day the Colorado River used to carry away 380,000 tons or more of silt, enough to fill a train 25 miles long. Each day. A river this size is indeed an efficient grinding tool. The scientist John Strong Newberry said that ‘nowhere on the earth’s surface, so far as we know, are the secrets of its structure revealed as here.’

Arriving home after her part-time job at Burger King, Lykesia Lilly planned to shoot some hoops. It was late afternoon on a Sunday. Maybe she’d even play some one-on-one with her little nephew Adrian before supper. But when Lilly asked her sister where the boy was, her casual question was met with concern. ‘I was outside looking for him because his dad and I realized we hadn’t seen him in a while,’ recalls Adrian’s mother, Stephanie Crump. ‘He was supposed to be playing at a house down the street, but when we called, he wasn’t there.’

In their tiny, rural community of Burnsville, North Carolina, kids still run freely from yard to yard, popping in and out of single-story brick houses with tree-lined lawns. Even traffic poses little threat. The hamlet’s centre consists of a single blinking caution light and two stores. But on that sunny May afternoon, six-year-old Adrian Clark seemed to have simply vanished. Much of his close and extended family joined in a frantic search, combing the neighbourhood and the energetic first grader’s usual play spots.

Finally, they heard faint cries coming from below a mound of rocks piled on his grandmother’s lawn. ‘We could hear him, but we couldn’t see him,’ recalls Lilly. ‘It was like he was invisible.’ Following his voice, they stumbled on an abandoned well covered with landscaping shale that had been forgotten for years. Somehow Adrian had pushed the slabs aside and slipped into the ragged hole in the ground. There, down the dark, narrow shaft, they saw him — a small figure 15 feet below, suspended over water. Exhausted and shivering, he’d been clinging to pieces of craggy rock and concrete for nearly an hour.

From the lip of the well, the family tried to reassure the child. But they had no idea how to get him out. The well was only 14 inches wide at the top, ‘the size of a five-gallon bucket,’ says Crump. ‘We realized none of the adults could fit through it.’ They lowered a long orange extension cord, but Adrian — who’d slipped into the murky, freezing water three times by now — was too afraid to let go of the wall to wrap the lifeline around himself.

Fighting hysteria, Crump made two calls to 911. One reached the local volunteer fire department, and the other, the Anson County EMS dispatcher, 13 miles away. But Crump still worried that Adrian would lose his grip before they got there. That’s when Lilly decided she had to go down — despite her inability to swim. ‘Everyone was panicking and crying, and I knew I couldn’t wait any longer,’ she recalls. ‘I just had to get my nephew.’

Crump and Adrian’s father, Dale Clark, lowered Lilly down the shaft as far as they could, then let go. The well got wider part of the way down, and she slid past her nephew and into the water below. Fortunately, Lilly instinctively pushed off the bottom, 12 feet underwater, and surfaced just under Adrian. ‘I got focused,* she says. With the water level just under her nose, Lilly then bolstered her 100-pound nephew, who was shaking in his soaking clothes. With one arm, she grabbed the cord that Adrian’s father was dangling from above and tied it around Adrian’s waist. ‘I was pushing him and holding on with my legs while they were pulling,’ Lilly says. ‘Somehow they got him out.’

Lilly herself was pulled out just as the rescue squad arrived. Both Adrian and Lilly were taken to the hospital, where he was blanketed with heat packs to ward off hypothermia and she was treated for bruises and lacerations. County workers sealed the well for good a few days later.

The next week, Crump threw a surprise party to honour the gentle-natured teen, who in the past had expressed fear of even the tamer rides at a nearby amusement park. “I think if my baby had drowned, if he hadn’t been able to hold on …’ Crump says. ‘I can’t thank Lykesia enough.’ Now working in a day-care centre, Lilly is hoping for a scholarship to attend the University of North Carolina, where she wants to study forensics. ‘She’s more serious and responsible now,’ observes Crump. ‘I don’t think she knew she had it in her.’

Lilly and Adrian have been uniquely close since the rescue. ‘He reminds me all the time,’ she says fondly. ‘He’ll say, ‘Thank you, Auntie, for saving me.’ And he’ll hug me. Just out of the blue.

Arriving home after her part-time job at Burger King, Lykesia Lilly planned to shoot some hoops. It was late afternoon on a Sunday. Maybe she’d even play some one-on-one with her little nephew Adrian before supper. But when Lilly asked her sister where the boy was, her casual question was met with concern. ‘I was outside looking for him because his dad and I realized we hadn’t seen him in a while,’ recalls Adrian’s mother, Stephanie Crump. ‘He was supposed to be playing at a house down the street, but when we called, he wasn’t there.’

In their tiny, rural community of Burnsville, North Carolina, kids still run freely from yard to yard, popping in and out of single-story brick houses with tree-lined lawns. Even traffic poses little threat. The hamlet’s centre consists of a single blinking caution light and two stores. But on that sunny May afternoon, six-year-old Adrian Clark seemed to have simply vanished. Much of his close and extended family joined in a frantic search, combing the neighbourhood and the energetic first grader’s usual play spots.

Finally, they heard faint cries coming from below a mound of rocks piled on his grandmother’s lawn. ‘We could hear him, but we couldn’t see him,’ recalls Lilly. ‘It was like he was invisible.’ Following his voice, they stumbled on an abandoned well covered with landscaping shale that had been forgotten for years. Somehow Adrian had pushed the slabs aside and slipped into the ragged hole in the ground. There, down the dark, narrow shaft, they saw him — a small figure 15 feet below, suspended over water. Exhausted and shivering, he’d been clinging to pieces of craggy rock and concrete for nearly an hour.

From the lip of the well, the family tried to reassure the child. But they had no idea how to get him out. The well was only 14 inches wide at the top, ‘the size of a five-gallon bucket,’ says Crump. ‘We realized none of the adults could fit through it.’ They lowered a long orange extension cord, but Adrian — who’d slipped into the murky, freezing water three times by now — was too afraid to let go of the wall to wrap the lifeline around himself.

Fighting hysteria, Crump made two calls to 911. One reached the local volunteer fire department, and the other, the Anson County EMS dispatcher, 13 miles away. But Crump still worried that Adrian would lose his grip before they got there. That’s when Lilly decided she had to go down — despite her inability to swim. ‘Everyone was panicking and crying, and I knew I couldn’t wait any longer,’ she recalls. ‘I just had to get my nephew.’

Crump and Adrian’s father, Dale Clark, lowered Lilly down the shaft as far as they could, then let go. The well got wider part of the way down, and she slid past her nephew and into the water below. Fortunately, Lilly instinctively pushed off the bottom, 12 feet underwater, and surfaced just under Adrian. ‘I got focused,* she says. With the water level just under her nose, Lilly then bolstered her 100-pound nephew, who was shaking in his soaking clothes. With one arm, she grabbed the cord that Adrian’s father was dangling from above and tied it around Adrian’s waist. ‘I was pushing him and holding on with my legs while they were pulling,’ Lilly says. ‘Somehow they got him out.’

Lilly herself was pulled out just as the rescue squad arrived. Both Adrian and Lilly were taken to the hospital, where he was blanketed with heat packs to ward off hypothermia and she was treated for bruises and lacerations. County workers sealed the well for good a few days later.

The next week, Crump threw a surprise party to honour the gentle-natured teen, who in the past had expressed fear of even the tamer rides at a nearby amusement park. “I think if my baby had drowned, if he hadn’t been able to hold on …’ Crump says. ‘I can’t thank Lykesia enough.’ Now working in a day-care centre, Lilly is hoping for a scholarship to attend the University of North Carolina, where she wants to study forensics. ‘She’s more serious and responsible now,’ observes Crump. ‘I don’t think she knew she had it in her.’

Lilly and Adrian have been uniquely close since the rescue. ‘He reminds me all the time,’ she says fondly. ‘He’ll say, ‘Thank you, Auntie, for saving me.’ And he’ll hug me. Just out of the blue.

Things that Go Bump in the Night

It was quite late on a Friday night. Bill and Lora were having supper in their new house. They 19 _________ much notice when they heard some noise in the house next door.From the window they 20 _________ see figures in the front garden.Bill and Lora assumed that their neighbors 21 _________ some sort of party.‘That’s all right,’ said Ben. ‘That’s all right,’ said Ben. ‘Our neighbors 22 _________  big parties.’ ‘Our neighbors 23 _________ big parties.’ ‘Yes, I agree,’ answered his wife. ‘I’m sure they 24 _________ us long.’ Not long after, they heard the front door shut and the house went very quiet. Their neighbors arrived back home and discovered that some thieves 25 _________all their furniture and valuables from the house.

In the past people ___ (ENJOY) watching TV or reading in their free time.Nowadays people are more interested in ___ (DO) activities which take them out of their homes.That’s why mountain biking ___ (BECOME) a very popular sport in recent years. It is one of the most rewarding ways to explore the countryside.Cyclists must pay attention to the type of path they are on. Some paths ___ (DESIGN) for people who are on foot.So if you cycle along these paths, you ___ (CAUSE) inconvenience to walkers. On any other path, you should still respect walkers.Another thing which everyone ___ (ASK) to do is closing gates behind you, so that farm animals cannot escape.If the weather is fine, you will enjoy a wonderful day out, especially if you ___ (NOT FORGET) to take some food and drinks with you.

The Benefits of Cooking

While cooking is not very popular with people who have a hectic lifestyle, the benefits of preparing your own meals 19 _____ (BE) endless. People who are pressed for time often eat out or order takeaway food. However, these choices may also be quite expensive and the ingredients they contain are typically high in fat, 20 _____ (MAKE) them extremely unhealthy. Home-cooked meals, on the other hand, offer many benefits. For one thing, you can control the ingredients and portions. You have a greater variety in your diet, which is essential in watching your weight and reducing the risks of a number of diseases. Cooking on a daily basis 21 _____ (NOT HAVE TO) be a laborious task. All it takes is a bit of planning, organisation and determination. Preparing your own meals might be a challenge, but it 22 _____ (NOT BE) certainly impossible. The key is 23 ______ (EXPERIMENT) and testing different kinds of food. After a while, you 24 _______ (CAN) confidently prepare a wide range of meals and enjoy yourself at the same time.

Преобразуйте, если это необходимо, слово BE так, чтобы оно грамматически соответствовало содержанию текста.

While cooking is not very popular with people who have a hectic lifestyle, the benefits of preparing your own meals 19 _____ (BE) endless.

Although ice cream in a cone 19 _______ for years, the exact origin of the combination of a crispy waffle and the ice cream is unclear.

Edible waffles 20 _______ back centuries.

It’s well-known that years ago they 21 ________ alongside ice cream as an accompaniment.

The most popular cone invention story 22 _______ that the ice cream cone was born at the 1904 World’s Fair.

An ice cream stall 23 _______ pretty well and they were quickly running out of plates. At the same time the neighboring Persian stall was selling their waffles rather badly.

The two stall owners then 24 ______ to roll up the waffles, plopping the ice cream on top.

The customers were happy and the cone was on its way to become the great American institution that it 25 _______ today.

Преобразуйте, если это необходимо, слово MAKE так, чтобы оно грамматически соответствовало содержанию текста.

Gap year destination

 Many young adults who turn 18 take a year off to travel the world. A gap year, as it’s known, can be the 19______________MEMORABLE time in a young person’s life. Where do most young adults spend this time? It seems that the top spot is usually Thailand, where students can stay cheaply, have a wide variety of activities to take part in and spend loads of time 20____________RELAX on the beach. Because Thailand is so popular, it’s likely that young adults 21__________MEET other young adults while they’re there. It’s also an opportunity to experience another culture and learn a few words of a foreign language.

Bad day

Eugene wasn’t having a good day. First, while he was pouring coffee into his mug at home in the morning, his hand slipped and he accidentally 22_____________SPILL coffee all over the kitchen workshop. He went to wipe up the spill with a sponge and knocked the mug onto the floor, where it broke into several pieces. Upset and 23___________FRUSTRATE, he left home without having any coffee at all. At work, he ran into a colleague, literally, and nearly knocked her over. ‘I’m so sorry Michelle. Are you OK?’ he said quickly. She wasn’t amused and told him to watch where he 24______________GO. He 25_______________CAN NOT wait for the day to end, and just as it did, he realized he had a report to finish. ‘What a terrible day. I should have stayed in bed this morning! he said, as he prepared to stay late at work.

Shopping Malls

I think I may be allergic to shopping malls. I am not sure if my condition 19._________(RECORD) officially by medical science but I am sure there are others who suffer as I do.

All I have to do is walk inside one of 20._________(THIS) awful places and within minutes the artificial “day light” from a thousand “soft” lights begins to give me a headache.

Then there is the piped music which tunes in and out. 21._________(WALK) endlessly from shop to shop, my brain slowly turns into a large vegetable.

Christmas is in July and Valentines’ day is in October in these unreal labyrinths. A Christmas gift, 22._________(PAY) for in August seems wrong to me.

And surely no one can believe signs that promise the 23._________(BIG) sale ever virtually every day of the year.

Shopping should be exciting in 24._________(I) opinion with fresh sites and beautiful goods to buy. Instead it feels much closer to being in a strange parallel universe.

25._________(BAD) still is trying to leave. I can never find my way out to fresh air and daylight. I wonder if some poor souls remain trapped down there for weeks on end.

Homelessnes

I used to think that homelessness meant tramps 19 _____ (SLEEP) rough on the streets. However, recently my family and I 20 _____ (FORSE) to leave our rented flat because the owner wanted to live in it himself. We 21 _____ (APPLY) to the council for a flat immediately. That was six months ago and since then the four of us 22 _____ (LIVE) in one room in a hotel in to the council for a flat. Our name is still on a waiting list for a council flat.

If both of us had been working, we 23 _____ (CAN) another flat privately. However, my husband earns the minimum wage and I am not working at the moment because we’ve got two small children under the age of five.

Now that this 24 _____ (HAPPEN) to us, I realize that many other families are in a similar situation. It can be stressful living in such cramped conditions and tempers can sometimes flare. I am confident that soon the council 25 _____ (FIND) a flat for us. In the meantime, we try to make the best of the situation and keep smiling.

Преобразуйте, если это необходимо, слово SLEEP так, чтобы оно грамматически соответствовало содержанию текста.

I used to think that homelessness meant tramps 19 _____ (SLEEP) rough on the streets.

An honest answer

George Bernard Shaw was an outstanding British literary figure and a man with a good sense of humour. When he was still a young critic, he 19__________________ as a guest to a family party. When he entered the room, the daughter of the host 20__________________ the piano and her performance was no good. She said, “People say you are fond of music. Are you?” “I 21__________________ fond of music for a long time, but never mind, go on playing,” was Shaw’s answer.

E-books

People of the 21st century have to think about living green. A long time ago we 22__________________ that we should protect our forests. That is why today people try to avoid printing photos and keep 23__________________ all on computers. E-books are another example of people wishing not to waste paper. The 24__________________ e-book appeared in 1998 and attracted everybody’s attention immediately. Modern e-books are much 25__________________ for your eyes than they used to be in the past and are very affordable now.

Прочитайте текст. Заполните пропуски в предложениях под номерами В4-В11 соответствующими формами слов, напечатанных заглавными буквами справа от каждого предложения. TEST 05 (part 1)

City Farms