pkuong/hitchhikersguide · Datasets at Hugging Face

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Don't Panic inscribed in large friendly letters on its cover.

But the story of this terrible, stupid Thursday, the story of its
extraordinary consequences, and the story of how these
consequences are inextricably intertwined with this remarkable
book begins very simply.

It begins with a house.

=================================================================
Chapter 1

The house stood on a slight rise just on the edge of the village.
It stood on its own and looked over a broad spread of West
Country farmland. Not a remarkable house by any means - it was
about thirty years old, squattish, squarish, made of brick, and
had four windows set in the front of a size and proportion which
more or less exactly failed to please the eye.

The only person for whom the house was in any way special was
Arthur Dent, and that was only because it happened to be the one
he lived in. He had lived in it for about three years, ever since
he had moved out of London because it made him nervous and
irritable. He was about thirty as well, dark haired and never
quite at ease with himself. The thing that used to worry him most
was the fact that people always used to ask him what he was
looking so worried about. He worked in local radio which he
always used to tell his friends was a lot more interesting than
they probably thought. It was, too - most of his friends worked
in advertising.

It hadn't properly registered with Arthur that the council wanted
to knock down his house and build an bypass instead.

At eight o'clock on Thursday morning Arthur didn't feel very
good. He woke up blearily, got up, wandered blearily round his
room, opened a window, saw a bulldozer, found his slippers, and
stomped off to the bathroom to wash.

Toothpaste on the brush - so. Scrub.

Shaving mirror - pointing at the ceiling. He adjusted it. For a
moment it reflected a second bulldozer through the bathroom
window. Properly adjusted, it reflected Arthur Dent's bristles.
He shaved them off, washed, dried, and stomped off to the kitchen
to find something pleasant to put in his mouth.

Kettle, plug, fridge, milk, coffee. Yawn.

The word bulldozer wandered through his mind for a moment in
search of something to connect with.

The bulldozer outside the kitchen window was quite a big one.

He stared at it.

"Yellow," he thought and stomped off back to his bedroom to get
dressed.

Passing the bathroom he stopped to drink a large glass of water,
and another. He began to suspect that he was hung over. Why was
he hung over? Had he been drinking the night before? He supposed
that he must have been. He caught a glint in the shaving mirror.
"Yellow," he thought and stomped on to the bedroom.

He stood and thought. The pub, he thought. Oh dear, the pub. He
vaguely remembered being angry, angry about something that seemed
important. He'd been telling people about it, telling people
about it at great length, he rather suspected: his clearest
visual recollection was of glazed looks on other people's faces.
Something about a new bypass he had just found out about. It had
been in the pipeline for months only no one seemed to have known
about it. Ridiculous. He took a swig of water. It would sort
itself out, he'd decided, no one wanted a bypass, the council
didn't have a leg to stand on. It would sort itself out.

God what a terrible hangover it had earned him though. He looked
at himself in the wardrobe mirror. He stuck out his tongue.
"Yellow," he thought. The word yellow wandered through his mind
in search of something to connect with.

Fifteen seconds later he was out of the house and lying in front
of a big yellow bulldozer that was advancing up his garden path.

Mr L Prosser was, as they say, only human. In other words he was
a carbon-based life form descended from an ape. More specifically
he was forty, fat and shabby and worked for the local council.
Curiously enough, though he didn't know it, he was also a direct
male-line descendant of Genghis Khan, though intervening
generations and racial mixing had so juggled his genes that he
had no discernible Mongoloid characteristics, and the only
vestiges left in Mr L Prosser of his mighty ancestry were a
pronounced stoutness about the tum and a predilection for little
fur hats.

He was by no means a great warrior: in fact he was a nervous
worried man. Today he was particularly nervous and worried
because something had gone seriously wrong with his job - which
was to see that Arthur Dent's house got cleared out of the way
before the day was out.

Don't Panic inscribed in large friendly letters on its cover.

But the story of this terrible, stupid Thursday, the story of its

extraordinary consequences, and the story of how these

consequences are inextricably intertwined with this remarkable

book begins very simply.

It begins with a house.

=================================================================

Chapter 1

The house stood on a slight rise just on the edge of the village.

It stood on its own and looked over a broad spread of West

Country farmland. Not a remarkable house by any means - it was

about thirty years old, squattish, squarish, made of brick, and

had four windows set in the front of a size and proportion which

more or less exactly failed to please the eye.

The only person for whom the house was in any way special was

Arthur Dent, and that was only because it happened to be the one

he lived in. He had lived in it for about three years, ever since

he had moved out of London because it made him nervous and

irritable. He was about thirty as well, dark haired and never

quite at ease with himself. The thing that used to worry him most

was the fact that people always used to ask him what he was

looking so worried about. He worked in local radio which he

always used to tell his friends was a lot more interesting than

they probably thought. It was, too - most of his friends worked

in advertising.

It hadn't properly registered with Arthur that the council wanted

to knock down his house and build an bypass instead.

At eight o'clock on Thursday morning Arthur didn't feel very

good. He woke up blearily, got up, wandered blearily round his

room, opened a window, saw a bulldozer, found his slippers, and

stomped off to the bathroom to wash.

Toothpaste on the brush - so. Scrub.

Shaving mirror - pointing at the ceiling. He adjusted it. For a

moment it reflected a second bulldozer through the bathroom

window. Properly adjusted, it reflected Arthur Dent's bristles.

He shaved them off, washed, dried, and stomped off to the kitchen

to find something pleasant to put in his mouth.

Kettle, plug, fridge, milk, coffee. Yawn.

The word bulldozer wandered through his mind for a moment in

search of something to connect with.

The bulldozer outside the kitchen window was quite a big one.

He stared at it.

"Yellow," he thought and stomped off back to his bedroom to get

dressed.

Passing the bathroom he stopped to drink a large glass of water,

and another. He began to suspect that he was hung over. Why was

he hung over? Had he been drinking the night before? He supposed

that he must have been. He caught a glint in the shaving mirror.

"Yellow," he thought and stomped on to the bedroom.

He stood and thought. The pub, he thought. Oh dear, the pub. He

vaguely remembered being angry, angry about something that seemed

important. He'd been telling people about it, telling people

about it at great length, he rather suspected: his clearest

visual recollection was of glazed looks on other people's faces.

Something about a new bypass he had just found out about. It had

been in the pipeline for months only no one seemed to have known

about it. Ridiculous. He took a swig of water. It would sort

itself out, he'd decided, no one wanted a bypass, the council

didn't have a leg to stand on. It would sort itself out.

God what a terrible hangover it had earned him though. He looked

at himself in the wardrobe mirror. He stuck out his tongue.

"Yellow," he thought. The word yellow wandered through his mind

in search of something to connect with.

Fifteen seconds later he was out of the house and lying in front

of a big yellow bulldozer that was advancing up his garden path.

Mr L Prosser was, as they say, only human. In other words he was

a carbon-based life form descended from an ape. More specifically

he was forty, fat and shabby and worked for the local council.

Curiously enough, though he didn't know it, he was also a direct

male-line descendant of Genghis Khan, though intervening

generations and racial mixing had so juggled his genes that he

had no discernible Mongoloid characteristics, and the only

vestiges left in Mr L Prosser of his mighty ancestry were a

pronounced stoutness about the tum and a predilection for little

fur hats.

He was by no means a great warrior: in fact he was a nervous

worried man. Today he was particularly nervous and worried

because something had gone seriously wrong with his job - which

was to see that Arthur Dent's house got cleared out of the way

before the day was out.