DAILY ROUTINEText 1 One Morning in

DAILY ROUTINE
Text 1
One Morning in Victor Wicox's Life
Monday, January 13th, 1986. Victor Wilcox lies awake, in the dark bedroom, waiting for his quartz alarm clock to bleep. It is set to do this at 6.45. How long he has to wait he doesn't know. He could easily find out by groping for the clock, lifting it to his line of vision, and pressing the button that illuminates the digital display. But he would rather not know. He feels as if he is the only man awake in the entire world.
The alarm clock cheeps.
He presses the snooze button* on the clock with a practised finger and falls effortlessly asleep. Five minutes later, the alarm wakes him again, cheeping insistently like a mechanical bird. Vie sighs, hits the Off button on the clock, switches on his bedside lamp, gets out of bed and paddles through the deep pile of the bedroom carpet to the en suite bathroom.
* A button one the alarm clock; pressing the snooze button during the alarm action sequences will temporarily terminate the sequences for 8 or 9 minutes, then the sequences will start over again. Snooze function can be repeated as many times as desired within the 1 hour 59 minutes alarm sequences.

He does not greatly care for the dark purplish suite but it had been one of the things that attracted Marjorie when they bought the house two years ago the bathroom, with its kidney-shaped handbasin and goldplated taps and sunken bath and streamlined loo and bidet. And, above all, the fact that it was 'en suite'.
Vic flushes the toilet and steps on to the bathroom scales. Ten stone, two ounces. Quite enough for a man only five feet, five and a half inches tall. Vic frowns in the mirror above the handbasin, thinking again of last month's accounts, the annual review... He runs hot water into the dark purple bowl, lathers his face with shaving foam from an aerosol can, and begins to scrape his jaw with a safety razor.
Vic wipes the tidemark of foam from his cheeks and fingers the shaven flesh appraisingly. Dark brown eyes stare back at him. Who am I? He grips the washbasin, leans forward on locked arms, and scans the square face. You know who you are: it's all on file at Division*.
* Division file: a file containing the minimum of information about an employee (cf. "личное дело").

Wilcox: Victor Eugene. Date of Birth: 19 Oct. 1940. Place of Birth: Easton, Rummidge, England. Marital Status: married (to Marjorie Florence Coleman, 1964). Children: Raymond (b. 1966), Sandra (b. 1969), Gary (b. 1972). Present Position: Managing Director, J. Pringle & Sons Casting and General Engineering.
That's who I am.
Vic grimaces at his own reflection, as if to say: somebody has to earn a living in this family.
He shrugs on his dressing-gown, which hangs from a hook on the bathroom door, switches off the light, and softly re-enters the dimly lit bedroom. Marjorie has, however, been woken by the sound of plumbing.
'Is that you?' she says drowsily; then, without waiting for an answer, 'I'll be down in a minute.'
'Don't hurry,' says Vic. Don't bother would be more honest, for he prefers to have the kitchen to himself in the early morning, to prepare his own simple breakfast and enjoy the first cigarette of the day undisturbed.
He picks up the Business Section of the Times and takes it into the kitchen. While the kettle is boiling he scans the front page.
The kettle boils. Vic makes a pot of strong tea, puts two slices of white bread in the toaster, and opens the blinds on the kitchen window to peer into the garden. A grey, blustery morning, with no frost. One morning not long ago he saw a fox walking past this same window.
Vic has eaten his two slices of toast and is on his third cup of tea and first cigarette of the day when Marjorie shuffles into the kitchen in her dressing-gown and slippers. She carries the Daily Mail, which has just been delivered.
' Shall I do you a bit of bacon?' says Marjorie.
'No, I've finished.'
Vic takes the Daily Mail. The tempo of his actions begins to accelerate. He strides through the kitchen, where Marjorie is listlessly loading his soiled breakfast things into
00:16:36

Результаты (английский) 1:

DAILY ROUTINEText 1 One Morning in Victor Wicox's LifeThursday, January 13th, 1986. Victor Wilcox lies awake in the dark bedroom, waiting for his quartz alarm clock to bleep. It is set to do this at 6.45. How long he has to wait he doesn't know. He could easily find out by groping for the clock, lifting it to his line of vision, and pressing the button that illuminates the digital display. But he would rather not know. He feels as if he is the only man awake in the entire world.The alarm clock cheeps.He presses the snooze button * on the clock with a practised finger and falls effortlessly asleep. Five minutes later, the alarm wakes him again, insistently cheeping like a mechanical bird. Vie sighs, hits the Off button on the clock switches on his bedside lamp, gets out of bed and paddles through the deep pile of the bedroom carpet to the en suite bathroom.* A button to one of the alarm clock; pressing the snooze button the alarm during the action sequences will temporarily terminate the sequences for 8 or 9 minutes, then the sequences will start over again. The snooze function can be repeated as many times as desired within the 1 hour 59 minutes alarm sequences.He does not care greatly for the dark purplish suite but it had been one of the things that attracted Marjorie when they bought the house two years ago the bathroom, with its kidney-shaped handbasin and goldplated taps and sunken bath and streamlined loo and bidet. And, above all, the fact that it was ' en suite '.VIC flushes the toilet and steps on to the bathroom scales. Ten stone, two ounces. Quite enough for a man only five feet, five and a half inches tall. VIC frowns in the mirror above the handbasin, thinking again of last month's accounts, the annual review. He runs the hot water into the dark purple bowl, lathers his face with shaving foam from an aerosol can, and begins to scrape his jaw with a safety razor.VIC wipes the tidemark of foam from his cheeks and fingers the clean-shaven flesh appraisingly. Dark brown eyes stare back at him. Who am I? He grips the washbasin, leans forward on locked arms, and scans the square face. You know who you are: it's all on file at Division *.* Division file: a file containing the minimum of information about an employee (cf. "a personal matter").Wilcox: Victor Eugene. Date of Birth: 19 Oct. 1940. Place of Birth: Easton, Rummidge, England. Marital Status: married (to Marjorie Florence Coleman, 1964). Children: Raymond (b. 1966), Sandra (b. 1969), Gary (b. 1972). Present Position: Managing Director, j. Pringle & Sons Casting and General Engineering.That's who I am.VIC grimaces at his own reflection, as if to say: somebody has to earn a living in this family.He shrugs on his dressing-gown, which hangs from a hook on the bathroom door, switches off the light, and softly re-enters the dimly lit bedroom. Marjorie has, however, been woken by the sound of the plumbing.' Is that you? ' she says drowsily; then, without waiting for an answer, ' I'll be down in a minute. '' Don't hurry, ' says Vic. Don't bother would be more honest, for he prefers to have the kitchen to himself in the early morning, to prepare his own simple breakfast and enjoy the first cigarette of the day undisturbed.He picks up the Business Section of the Times and takes it into the kitchen. While the kettle is boiling he scans the front page.The kettle boils. VIC makes a pot of strong tea, puts two slices of white bread in the toaster, and opens the blinds on the kitchen window to peer into the garden. A grey, blustery morning, with no frost. One morning not long ago he saw a fox walking past this same window.VIC has ambiguity; his two slices of toast and is on his third cup of tea and first cigarette of the day when Marjorie shuffles into the kitchen in her dressing-gown and slippers. She carries the Daily Mail, which has just been delivered.' I Shall do you a bit of bacon? ' says Marjorie.' No, I've finished. 'VIC takes the Daily Mail. The tempo of his actions begins to accelerate. He strides through the kitchen, where Marjorie is listlessly loading his soiled breakfast things into12:16:36

Результаты (английский) 2:

A ROUTINE the DAILY
the Text 1
the One Morning in Wicox by Victor's Life
on Monday, January by 13th, 1986. by Victor Wilcox lies are awake, in the dark bedroom, waiting for a His quartz alarm clock to bleep. It is set to do this at 6.45 . How long he has to wait he does not know. He could easily find out by groping for the clock, lifting it to his line of vision, and pressing the button that illuminates the digital display. But he would rather not know. He feels as with the if the He he is the only the man are awake in the Entire world.
Of The alarm clock cheeps.
The He presses the snooze button the * on the clock with a practised the finger and falls to effortlessly Asleep. Five minutes later, the alarm wakes him again, cheeping insistently like a mechanical bird. Sighs Vie, hits the Off button on the clock, switches on a His bedside lamp, the gets out of bed and the paddles through the deep-pile carpet of the bedroom to the en suite bathroom to.
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