It’s best to be here early, especia

It’s best to be here early, especially on Saturdays. The rising pitch of the kettle is whistle joined with the faint hiss from the little blue camping stove. Twenty years old, that stove, found the receipt in a drawer just the other day — a bargain at four pounds fifty — but it always pays to hang onto the receipts. It’s Saturday today. By eight-thirty the staff have all arrived, I can’t hear them directly, but the soft, distant voices of the lifts rising and falling give them away.Of course there is routine that measures time doesn’t it? Even the period before Christmas and during the sales that follow, routine is still there, although the time stretches and contracts as the public ebb and flow through the building like an unpredictable tide — routine will still be there, disguised, beneath the surface, an undertow. As the management ritually pull out their hair, thicken their arteries, bark at their coworkers and re-prioritise their priorities — behind it all routine will be waiting. Everyone here is a slave to it… even if they move on, get married, die… there will always be others to master, to enslave. I too am a slave to routine… but I don’t mind.I look at the long white envelope with my name printed neatly in the centre, its edges slightly curled as though to fend off the surrounding army of clutter on the desk. An intruder. A foreign object.I go down the stairs and open the main doors. Can’t keep the public waiting. Today is much like any other day. In amongst the structure of routine women drift like ghosts amid the lingerie, touching here, feeling there while husbands linger on the periphery of their erratic orbits, faces masked with bored indifference; in the homeware section, tweed-skirted ladies lift the lids on teapots; sniff, like careful poodles at bowls of Pot Porri, turn everything upside down to check the price and replace it quickly at the approach of an eager assistant. The sun streams through the plate glass windows in great broad beams, igniting every chrome fitting, while tired and wayward children are narrowly missed by my trolley’s wheels.At 11 o’clock I go to the meeting with Mr. Radcliffe, the manager. He is a fat man, and the smallest motion on his part induces him to break into a sweat. He sits across the desk from me with the air of a man who has never dared to look a day in the eye. He speaks quickly and a little pompously, his eyes drifting toward the clock on the wall more often than my face. He says his words carefully, as though trying to pull each one down with the gravity of his tone. He endeavours to grant some words such as ‘free time’, ‘benefit package’, ‘pension fund’, ‘hobbies’ and ‘exemplary service’ an even greater weight of importance, but succeeds only in sweating some more as he glances to the clock.In the staff canteen at lunchtime I see Mr. Radcliffe again as he orders a main course and two sweets, but this is not an unusual occurrence as far as I am aware. I don’t often come here, preferring to eat in my room upstairs, there I can read uninterrupted. But today I choose the canteen, although even here I am isolated to an island table set for six — that’s fine. I am not so naive to be unaware that I have a certain reputation here — a kind of gruff aloofness. I don’t actually believe this is part of my nature… or at least it neverUsed to be. I like to be my own man, that’s all. I’ve little time for idle gossip. Years ago, when the new, young starters would arrive in June or July, I was more sociable. They would plague me for tips on the horses, or pop up to my ‘office’ for a skive or a cup of tea. But it all got a little out of hand. I no longer had any peace. So I became a little testy with them, and my annoyance soon became more organised. I became unpredictable and aggressive, this became a bit of a game, then a habit, and in the end… finally… me.It’s dusk now and the store is quiet again. The kettle rocks gently on the metal frame of the stove. I glance around my room; the rows of books and piles of magazines, the ancient portable television, the radio. I have very few real possessions. What, really, does one man need? I’ve brought the things little by little from the flat. Now I think I have all that is required. I suppose, on occasion, they have suspected I stay here through the night, but that doesn’t bother me. It was a relief to let the flat go completely, I never felt at home there.I have taken the retirement letter from its envelope and dropped it onto the worn lino. Now it lies there like a broken kite. I will sit here; wait until the mice come out from their hidden places to nibble at its corners and eat its words.

Результаты (английский) 1:

It's best to be here early, especially on Saturdays. The rising pitch of the kettle is whistle joined with the faint hiss from the little blue camping stove. Twenty years old, that stove, found the receipt in a drawer just the other day - a bargain at four pounds fifty - but it always pays to hang onto the receipts. It's Saturday today. By eight-thirty the staff have all arrived, I can not hear them directly, but the soft, distant voices of the lifts rising and falling give them away.

Of course there is routine that measures time does not it? Even the period before Christmas and during the sales that follow, routine is still there, although the time stretches and contracts as the public ebb and flow through the building like an unpredictable tide - routine will still be there, disguised, beneath the surface, an undertow. As the management ritually pull out their hair, thicken their arteries, bark at their coworkers and re-prioritise their priorities - behind it all routine will be waiting. Everyone here is a slave to it ... even if they move on, get married, die ... there will always be others to master, to enslave. I too am a slave to routine ... but I do not mind.

I look at the long white envelope with my name printed neatly in the centre, its edges slightly curled as though to fend off the surrounding army of clutter on the desk. An intruder. A foreign object.

I go down the stairs and open the main doors. Can not keep the public waiting. Today is much like any other day. In amongst the structure of routine women drift like ghosts amid the lingerie, touching here, feeling there while husbands linger on the periphery of their erratic orbits, faces masked with bored indifference; in the homeware section, tweed-skirted ladies lift the lids on teapots; sniff, like careful poodles at bowls of Pot Porri, turn everything upside down to check the price and replace it quickly at the approach of an eager assistant. The sun streams through the plate glass windows in great broad beams, igniting every chrome fitting, while tired and wayward children are narrowly missed by my trolley's wheels.

At 11 o'clock I go to the meeting with Mr. Radcliffe, the manager. He is a fat man, and the smallest motion on his part induces him to break into a sweat. He sits across the desk from me with the air of a man who has never dared to look a day in the eye. He speaks quickly and a little pompously, his eyes drifting toward the clock on the wall more often than my face. He says his words carefully, as though trying to pull each one down with the gravity of his tone. He endeavours to grant some words such as 'free time', 'benefit package', 'pension fund', 'hobbies' and 'exemplary service' an even greater weight of importance, but succeeds only in sweating some more as he glances to the clock.

In the staff canteen at lunchtime I see Mr. Radcliffe again as he orders a main course and two sweets, but this is not an unusual occurrence as far as I am aware. I do not often come here, preferring to eat in my room upstairs, there I can read uninterrupted. But today I choose the canteen, although even here I am isolated to an island table set for six - that's fine. I am not so naive to be unaware that I have a certain reputation here - a kind of gruff aloofness. I do not actually believe this is part of my nature ... or at least it never
Used to be. I like to be my own man, that's all. I've little time for idle gossip. Years ago, when the new, young starters would arrive in June or July, I was more sociable. They would plague me for tips on the horses, or pop up to my 'office' for a skive or a cup of tea. But it all got a little out of hand. I no longer had any peace. So I became a little testy with them, and my annoyance soon became more organised. I became unpredictable and aggressive, this became a bit of a game, then a habit, and in the end ... finally ... me.

It's dusk now and the store is quiet again. The kettle rocks gently on the metal frame of the stove. I glance around my room; the rows of books and piles of magazines , the ancient portable television, the radio. I have very few real possessions. What, really, does one man need ? I've brought the things little by little from the flat. Now I think I have all that is required. I suppose, on occasion, they have suspected I stay here through the night, but that does not bother me. It was a relief to let the flat go completely, I never felt at home there.

I have taken the retirement letter from its envelope and dropped it onto the worn lino. Now it lies there like a broken kite . I will sit here; wait until the mice come out from their hidden places to nibble at its corners and eat its words.

Результаты (английский) 2:

It's best to be here early, especially on Saturdays. The rising pitch of the kettle is whistle joined with the faint hiss from the little blue camping stove. Twenty years old, that stove, found the receipt in a drawer just the other day - a bargain at four pounds fifty - but it always pays to hang on to the receipts. It's Saturday today. By eight-thirty the staff have all arrived, I can't hear them directly, but the soft, distant voices of the lifts rising and falling give them away.

Of course there is routine that measures time doesn't it? Even the period before Christmas and during the sales that follow, routine is still there, although the time stretches and contracts as the public ebb and flow through the building like an unpredictable tide - routine will still be there, disguised, below the Surface, an undertow. As the management ritually pullouts out their hair, thicken their arteries, bark at their coworkers and re-prioritise their priorities – behind it all routine will be waiting. Everyone here is a slave to it... even if they move on, get married, die... there will always be others to master, to enslave. I too am a slave to routine... but I don't mind.

I look at the long white envelope with my name printed neatly in the center, its edges slightly curled as though to fend off the surrounding army of clutter on the desk. An intruder. A foreign object.

I go down the stairs and open the main doors. Can't keep the public waiting. Today is much like any other day. In amongst the structure of routine women drift like ghosts amid the lingerie, touching here, feeling there while husbands linger on the periphery of their erratic orbits, faces masked with bored indifference; In the homeware section, tweed-skirted ladies lift the lids on teapots; Sniff, like careful poodles at bowls of Pot Porri, turns everything upside down to check the price and replace it quickly on the approach of an eager assistant. The sun streams through the plate glass windows in great broad beams, igniting every chrome fitting, while tired and wayward children are narrowly missed by my trolley's wheels.

At 11 o'clock I go to the meeting with Mr. Radcliffe, the manager. He is a fat man, and the smallest motion on his part induces him to break into a sweat. He sits across the desk from me with the air of a man who has never dared to look a day in the eye. He speaks quickly and a little pompously, his eyes drifting toward the clock on the wall more often than my face. He says his words carefully, as though trying to pull each one down with the gravity of his tone. He endeavours to grant some words such as 'free time', 'benefit package', 'pension fund', 'hobbies' and 'exemplary service' an even greater weight of importance, but succeeds only in sweating some more as he glances to the clock.

In the staff canteen at lunchtime I see Mr. Radcliffe again as he orders a main course and two sweets, but this is not an unusual occurrence as far as I am aware. I don't often come here, preferring to eat in my room upstairs, there I can read uninterrupted. But today I choose the canteen, although even here I am isolated to an island table set for six - that's fine. I am not so naive to be unaware that I have a certain reputation here – a kind of gruff aloofness. I don't actually believe this is part of my nature... or at least it never
Used to be. I like to be my own man, that's all. I've a little time for idle gossip. Years ago, when the new, young starters would arrive in June or July, I was more sociable. They would plague me for tips on the horses, or pop up to my 'office' for a skive or a cup of tea. But it all got a little out of hand. I no longer had any peace. So I became a little testy with them, and my annoyance soon became more organized. I became unpredictable and aggressive, this became a bit of a game, then a habit, and in the end... Finally... Me.

It's dusk now and the store is quiet again. The kettle rocks gently on the metal frame of the stove. I glance around my room; the rows of books and piles of magazines, the ancient portable television, the radio. I have very few real possessions. What, really, does one man need? I've brought the things little by little from the flat. Now I think I have all that is required. I suppose, on occasion, they have suspected I'll stay here through the night, but that doesn't bother me. It was a relief to let the flat go completely, I never felt at home there.

I have taken the retirement letter from its envelope and dropped it on to the worn lino. Now it lies there like a broken kite. I will sit here; Wait until the mice come out from their hidden places to nibble at its corners and eat its words.

Результаты (английский) 3:

This is the best back here, especially in satoorday. The rising pitch of the kettle is which joined with the family history from the little blue camping stop. Two years old, that stop, found the receiver in a draver just the other day-a bargain at four pools five but it always pays to hang on the receivers. This is today's Saturday. All employees have, I can't hear their outspoken, but software, unzipping sound's life-threatening and falling away for them.
Of course, that's the root of the measure, isn't it? Although the time stretches and contracts as the public ebb and flow through the building like an unpredictable stage routine will still be there, distinguished, benefit the surface, an underground. As the management substantially pull out their hair, thicken their arteries, bark at their coworkers and re priority their priorities behind it all routine will be waiting. Everyone here is a very good person... Even if they move, get married and die... There will always be other people to Lord and realize. I'm too tired... But I don't mind.
I'm looking at a long white development with my name printed nearly in the center. Its edges slowly curled is thought to find off the surrounding army of clutter on the desk. An intruder. A foreign object.
I went to stars and opened the main door. We can't wait for the public. Today is a lot of other days. In longest the structure of routine women drive like ghosts amid the lingerie, touching here, feeling there while husbands linger on the forever of their erroneous creatures, face masked with bordered indirection; in the home section, tweed skirted voices lift the lid on teapots; sniff, like careful poodles at bowls of port, turn everything Upside down to check the price and replace it quickly at the approach of an eagle assistant. The sun streams through the plate glass windows in great broad beams, designing every chrome fitting, while tired and wayward children are narrowly missed by my tally's wheels.
At 11 o'clock I go to the meeting with mr.radcliffe, the manager. He's a real man, and part of his little sports inducts he breaks a blur. He's from my desk, a man of air, he's never been to see one day's eyes. He said fast and simple, his eyes dragging to the wall of the clock than my face. He said that his words were carefuly, and thought trying to pull each one down with the gravity of his tone. He endeavours to grant some words such as' free time ', "benefit package'," pension fund ', "hobbies' and' exclusive service 'an even greater weight of import, but success only in swinging some more as he graces to the clock.
In the staff can at lunchtime I see Mr. Radcliffe again as he orders a main course and two sweeps, but this is not an unusual occurrence as far as I am aware. I'm not here. I'm going to eat in my room, where I can read uninterrupted. But today I chose canteen, although I am here, I chose a small island table set to six discoveries. I really don't want to be forgotten. I have a painful voice here. I don't really believe it's part of my nature... Or at least it will never
User to be. I like my own people, all this. I have a little time to idle mission. Years ago, when the new, young starters would be in June or July, I was a bigger society. They will put my time in horses, or pop into my office for a skive or a cup of tea. But it has a little hand. I don't have any peace. So I did a little test on them, and I had so many organizations for annovance. I became unpredictable and aggressive, this became a bit of a game, then a bit, and in the end... Finally... Me.
This is now the behavior and the stone is quiet. Genesis on the metal frame of the stone. I'm very happy in my room; the path of books and magazines, public port TV, radio. I have a very real location. What, really, what does a person need? I took the little thing out of the boat. Now I think I have all the requirements. I suggest, at occasion, they want me to stay here through the night, but that's not me. This is a relief flight to complete, I don't feel at home.
I have a retirement letter from her development and dropped it in worn lino. Now it's like a broken kite. I'll sit here; wait until the small ones go from their hiding place to their core and eat their words.