Personal Isolation

To the best of my knowledge, all my aunts, uncles and grandparents spent most of their lives within 30 miles of Troy, Pennsylvania. They were farmers, horse traders, merchants, mailmen. As a boy I believe I knew everyone living within 4 miles of our farm. We met people as families at suppers on Saturday nights, we met at church festivals, at cattle auctions, at the milk station.

Today a number of my relatives still live near Troy, but several of my cousins, my nieces, my brother and my sister are scattered in many states. My two sons live in Wisconsin and Pennsylvania; my mother-in-law, until her recent death, lived much of the time in Florida.

In recent years almost all the old neighbours have moved and today I wouldn't even recognise half of the people living within five hundred yards of our house. My wife and I feel increasingly isolated.

Personal isolation is becoming a major social fact of our time. A great many people are disturbed by the feeling that they are rootless or increasingly anonymous, that they are living in a continually changing environment where there is little sense of community. The phrase "hometown" may well fade from our language in this century.

A Matter Of Timing

After Charlotte Armstrong

Jane paid for the groceries and looked at the wall clock. Good. She had made it. She put the paper bag on her left hip. She batted through the door and out into the sunshine, her mind running down the list, in case she had forgotten something important.

There was a black thread tied around her right forefinger. Her husband Mike had tied it there, this morning, over the breakfast eggs. Black was for pepper. They had been out of pepper for four days. Mike had tied the black thread around her finger, telling their daughter Sally that old-fashioned methods are sometimes best, especially with an old-fashioned character like Mommy.

Jane pranced round the comer of the building into the parking lot. Her car was over there. She crossed the big lot. It had its usual complement of cars, and a few people were coming in and going out. There was a man standing beside her car - he was tucked in between Jane's and the next one.

She walked into the slot, toward her driver’s seat, saying in her usual friendly fashion, "Excuse me." The man shuffled and let her pass. Then he turned and said to her startled ear, "Don't yell, lady, or I'll give it to you." He was a thin, pale, red-eyed man, with a wicked-looking knife in his hand. "Get in, lady. You drive. And do as I say."

Nobody was noticing. A woman in blue was getting into a car at the far end of the lot. Jane didn't yell. She said, "What do you want me to do?"

"I said do as I say. Drive. I said drive."

Jane was remembering, as clear as bells ringing, everything that was really important. She pushed the bag against the car, lifting her knee under it. She put her right hand down into it. She scrabbed inside, watching him. He looked miserable, but dangerous. The knife was pointed at her stomach.

Jane said, "I'll give you the keys. You want the car, don't you? Take it." "No, no. Get in, lady. I'm not leaving you behind. You'd call the cops." "That’s right," she said "I would."

Jane widened her eyes, holding his gaze. Her thumb had to be strong enough. She felt it scrape past sharp metal "Huh," she grunted in triumph.

She pulled her hand out of the bag and threw pepper out of the now-open can straight into his eyes. The man screamed, lunged, tripped over her body, fell, screamed again. Jane crawled out of the parking lot somehow, anyhow, around him, over him, then out and free.

People had stopped in their tracks, a few on the sidewalk, the few who were getting in or out of cars. Jane cried: "He's got a knife! Call the police!"

People seemed to have come up out of the ground like worms after a rain. None of them went near the man. They had stunned looks - looks of distaste - don't-bother-me looks. The woman in blue slammed her car door and frantically tried to start her engine. People’s feet were nervous but nobody moved.

Jave moved. She ran into the grocery store and called the police. The cops came with a rush.

People said to Jane, "You were so quick. You were so smart. You were so brave. You could have been hurt, maybe killed. Lucky you had just bought some pepper."

"I couldn't go with him, I didn't have time," Jane said.

The woman in blue was having hysterics in the parking lot. The cop said to Jane, "You did okay, Ma'am."

"I'd like to go home now, I must go," said Jane. "You see, my little girl will be home from school in a few minutes. Children shouldn’t come home to an empty house. So, of course, I couldn't go with him, could I?"

Answer thefollowing questions.

1.Is it dangerous to live in big cities? Why?

2.Are people ready to help when someone is in trouble?

3.What dangerous situations do children face in big cities?

4.How can you characterise the heroine of the story?

Are such hobbies as reading classical literature, going to the theatre, listening to operas out o f date? Are they onlyfor elderly people? Are they still important? Give your reasons.

READING

Read the texts and say if these kinds ofspendingfree time are popular in Russia.

How The British Relax

As British people say "all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy". Like everybody else British people like doing outside work. Gardening is a well known favourite. As the weather in Britain is relatively mild, British people manage to do gardening almost all the year round. Mowing grass is also very important. Every Sunday morning (except for winter) they come out to mow their lawns. To outsiders, it almost seems like an obsession but to a British person it is an impartant social duty. The British see an unmown lawn, not only as a sign of laziness, but also as disrespect to others.

Walking is also very popular. Walking as a leasure activity has a long tradition in England. You can buy a variety of maps and guides to walking routes. Organised walking is also popular and is a good way to discover local sights of interest with a group of like-minded people and a good guide.

Cycling is another popular activity. Many people find quiet country roads and spend their whole holidays exploring their homeland on their bikes. More extreme sports like rock climbing also attract people.

Of course, not all British people keep fit by engaging in extreme sport. Many go to the gym, swimming pool, or fitness classes. However, it has to be said that the British are not the sportiest nation in the world. You see, watching TV often gets in the way. Increasingly, British people spend their free time watching TV. Sad, but true. The only comforting thing is that they are not on their own - most of the world seems to be doing the same!

As far as actually going away on holiday, many British people choose to spend their holidays abroad, preferably somewhere warm and dry. Spain, France and Greece are regular destinations due to convenient location and kind climate. City breaks are also a good idea for changing the scenery and enjoying new places without too much trouble.

(a city break - a two-day excursion)

Parachutist, 81, Wins Place Of Honour At Jump

Archie Macfarlane is an unusual person. Although he is an old man, he's interested in very tough sporting activities like parachuting, mountaineering and water-skiing. He started parachuting when he was 75, and he has done 18 parachute jumps over the last 6 years. Recently he was given the place of honour at a parachutists' meeting. His wife and daughter are worried, but think it's best for him to do things that make him happy.

Read the text and say if this kind ofactivity is popular with Russian young people.

Clubbing In Britain

Going to night clubs, or "clubbing" as it is called, is very popular in Britain. From the age of about 15 young people like to go clubbing at the weekend. Usually friends meet in the evening and go to a pub or a cafe, or just sit at home and chat. Then, late in the evening after 10 p.m. they travel to the centre of the town and wait in a queue ouside the night club.

The clubs are usually special buildings with a big space inside for dancing. There is a bar of course, and often a special room with chairs and sofas where it is less noisy. This is for peo­ ple who are tired of dancing. They can rest here for a while. Some clubs only play one kind of music, but most have different music on different nights. If you want to go to a club you need to know what kind of "night" the club is offering. For example, if you like "Hip-Hop" then you probably don’t want to go to a "Disco" night.

DISCUSSION

1.Speak about your hobby if you have one. If don't, then why? What kind of hobby would you like to have?

2.Why is having a hobby so important?

3.Why do people choose this or that hobby? How does it characterise them?

4.How can you characterise people having the following hobbies: animals, parachuting, diving, gardening, chess, shopping, museums?

5.Would you like to have the same or different hobby with your wife (husband)?

6.Can a hobby turn into an obsession? Can it become dangerous for the hobbyist?

fly over the rough track without making a sound. He started to overtake me. I pedalled as hard as I could but it was no use. He rolled past me as if I was standing still.

He was in the lead now and we were only 100 metres from the finish. Then he did a very strange thing. He slowed down. He touched his brakes just enough to let me slip through and win.

All my mates came over to congratulate me after the race.

"That was a great race," they said. "You really showed that new kid. We won't see him around here again."

I didn't feel like celebrating. I knew I hadn't won that race. The kid on the PK Ripper had let me win. It was his race. I knew that and so did he.

My mates were wrong when they said the new kid wouldn't show up again. He was back next week and once again I was up against him in the big race.

The same thing happened. I had the race in my pocket. I was steaming towards the finish leaving all the other riders eating my dust when all of a sudden there he was! He overtook me but slowed down just before the finish. This time I won by just half a metre.

The following week the same thing happened again. It was weird. Nobody knew who the new kid was. He never took off his helmet so we never saw his face. I asked everyone at the track if they knew him, but no one did. He came down to the track every Saturday just before the big race and slipped away as soon as the race was over. His identity was a mystery.

I wanted to know who I was up against. He could beat me with one hand tied behind his back. I was sure of that. But why did he let me win? I decided to find out who he was and where he lived.

The following week at the end of the race, I followed him when he rode out of the track. I trailed him across town for two kilometres and saw him turn into a quiet street near the park. He pulled into the gate half way down the street, on the left. I rode slowly down the street and pulled up outside the house.

Now I knew where he lived, but I wanted to know his name. I couldn't just walk up to the front door and ask. I needed a reason for going to the house. I took off one of my gloves and stuffed it down my shirt. Then I walked up to the front door holding the other glove. I rang the bell and waited. A middle-aged man came to the door.

"Yes?" he said. "What do you want?"

I held out the glove and said, "Er... I found this at the track... I thought it might belong to your son..." The man stood staring at me for a second. His eyes were cold and hard. "Is this some kind of a sick joke?" he said at last.

"No," I said, "I just wanted to..."

The door slammed in my face and I heard the man shouting, "Clear off, you little sa­ dist, before I bring the police to you!"

I stood on the doorstep not knowing what to do or say. Perhaps I should ring the bell again and explain that it was all a joke. I decided not to. Maybe he would bring the police.

As I turned to go I saw a name under the bell push. It said: Mr & Mrs A. J. Clarke. At least I knew the kid's name and address. Maybe now I'd get to the bottom of

the mystery.

The next day I went to see Mr Higgins, the man who ran the BMX track in town. I said, "Do you know a kid called Clarke? He lives at 27 Queens Street and rides a PK Ripper?"

"Oh yes," said Mr Higgins. "I knew him. He was always down at the track. He was one of the best riders in town. He could have become a professional."

"What do you mean," I said. "He could have become a pro?"

Mr Higgins looked at me strangely and said, "He's dead, that's why. Run over by a ruddy great truck. It was his own silly fault, mind you. He was pulling wheelies on the main road."

"When was this?" I said. "When was he killed?"

"A year ago," replied Mr Higgins. "Why? What's it to you?" "Oh nothing...," I said and left.

The following Saturday I was down at the track as usual. There was a bitter wind blowing from the east and it was raining hard. The track was wet and slippery. I thought the races might be cancelled but they went ahead as usual.

We lined up at the starting hill and I was in gate 4. The kid on the PK Ripper was in gate 7. As the gate slammed down I set off determined this time not to be beaten.

There was no escape from the kid on the PK Ripper. He was there, just behind me, lap after lap. At the end of the ninth lap he pulled up alongside me. We raced together towards the final straight.

I'm not sure what happened next. I've tried to remember, many times, but it's all a blurr like a film out of focus. For some reason I suddenly swerved to my left and ran into the kid on the PK Ripper. I smashed into him with a hell of a bang and we both fell off into the mud.

For a second or two I didn't know where I was. When I came to my senses I was lying on the track next to the kid. I got up and knelt beside him. He didn't move and I thought he might be dead. I couldn't see his face because the visor was caked with mud. I raised the visor, just a little way and looked into his helmet. Quite suddenly the kid got up off the ground, closed his visor and got on to his bike. He rode out of the BMX track and nobody ever saw him again.

When my mates came over to see if I was hurt I was still kneeling in the mud next to my bike. They'd seen me look into the kid's visor and they all wanted to know who he was.

"Oh... he was just a kid," I said. "Never seen him before.... just a kid."

I couldn't tell them the truth. I couldn't tell them that the helmet was empty. I know you'll think I'm stupid but it was. The kid's helmet was empty. I don't mean there was nothing inside it. There was something there, but it was empty. I had the same feeling looking into the helmet that I get looking up into the sky on a starry night. I always get the feeling that there's someone out there, in the stars, far away in the darkness. And I'm sure that if I could shout long enough and hard enough someone would answer. I got the same feeling when I opened that visor. For just one second I looked into a starry darkness, a cold void and thought I heard a voice calling out from far, far away.

Answer thefollowing questions.

1.To what genre does this story belong?

2.What did the trouble begin with?

3.What did the new rider look like and what did he wear?

4.What strange thing did he do when the narrator and the new rider were near

the finish?

5.Why did the narrator decide to find out who the newcomer was?

6.What did he learn about the unusual rider?

7.What was the weather like the following Saturday?

8.What happened during the race?

9.Why couldn’t the narrator tell his mates what he had seen when he opened

the kid's visor?

10.What do you see and feel when you are loking up into the sky on a starry night?

11.Do you believe in the immortal soul?