Problem: OPTIONS:
- not enough information
- Art class.
- History class.
- English class.
Q: Back in middle school, at least I think it was, I had art class. I didn't particularly love it but it was interesting enough at the least to hold my attention. We got to class and the teacher pulled up a list of instructions on the projector. She had each of us follow the instructions and she gave us 20 minutes to complete all of them. It may even have been a bit of a race too, to see who finished it first. This becomes a lot more evident in a second. I can't recall the exact details of the instructions, except that clearly it had to do with art such as having to draw a bunch of things. Anyways, we all went one by one down the instructions getting increasing nervous as to try to be the first one to finish. The class goes quiet while we work. Then I get to the last instruction which reads something along the lines of: "Step 15: Skip steps 114 and put your pencil down." You gotta be freaking kidding me. We're all so confused and mad at ourselves for not reading the whole of the instructions first. She turned this into a lesson for how we need to learn to read all the instructions first and then start, which was pretty clever. She got us! I remember this vividly to this day. But I look back now on this "prank" and I realize that she was kind ofwrong. Sure if the instructions are short like 15 steps it might be good to glance through before you start. But what about a whole load of instructions? Who the hell is going to read through the instructions for how to build their Death Star LEGO set before even starting to build it. Just a waste of time really. Note: I have never built a Death Star LEGO set. Question: What type of class did this take place at? === The answer to the above question is
Answer: Art class.

Problem:OPTIONS:
- He was slowly dying
- His health has newer been better
- There was nothing to worry about
- not enough information

Countess Nicolette de Gobignon pressed a wet cloth tothe King's brow. Though he lay there helpless, still she found him an awesome figure, like a fallen cathedral tower. Only two other men are as tall, she thought. Amalric and Orlando. She felt a pang of guilt. How could she be thinking about the troubadour here where her royal master lay slowly dying? She fixed her eyes on Louis, and on the ivory and wood crucifix that rose and fell on his chest with his labored breathing. Nicolette felt as if she, too, could hardly breathe. Across the crowded room a fire roared in a huge stone-lined fireplace. The air was stifling. She resented all that made it so, down to the woolen draperies and wall hangings and the thick carpets that sealed in the heat. But she knew that this northern chateau, Pontoise-les-Noyons, a day's ride from Paris, had had to be built to withstand cold, its walls thick and its windows tiny ? so totally unlike the bright, airy Languedoc manor she had grown up in. Sweat trickled down her brow and stung her eyes. Her breath was coming in little gasps. She felt as if she would faint if she couldn't go outside soon. Dozens of people, the King's family and courtiers, had packed themselves uselessly into the room, making it even more suffocating. Their whispers, like the buzzing of mosquitoes, irritated Nicolette. Almost all of them, she was sure, worried more about their own welfare than about the King's. And even Louis's wife and mother, though they grieved for him, were too distracted to do much to alleviate his suffering. She saw the King's lips quiver, and quickly she bent close to him. Any last words could be terribly important. "Jerusalem," he mumbled. "Towers - golden. Gates of pearl. Crystal waters." Then he panted heavily. "Hush, sire," she whispered. "Rest easy." Question: What Nicolette thought about King's welfare? === The answer to the above question is
****
A: He was slowly dying

input: OPTIONS:
- Narrator's grandfather
- Narrator's cook
- Narrator's grandmother
- not enough information Now, answer this question: My first memory of cooking was with my grandmother, Rosemary, in Sydney. She taught me how to make scrambled eggs on her electric stovetop, the kind with the coiled heating elements, in her small, linoleum-lined kitchen with cupboards that stuck a little when they closed. She was not an exceptional cook I can remember plenty of bland and overcooked vegetables and custard made with powder to pour into pre-bought pie cases with tinned pineapple, her specialty but she worked hard to put a balanced, home-cooked meal on the table three times a day, every day. The eldest of eight children, she dropped out of school during the Depression to help her single mother look after her siblings and work as a seamstress at David Jones. When the Second World War broke out and she was engaged to my grandfather, Aubrey, she started working on war-torn planes ("sometimes looking as if a steam roller has gone over them," she said) as a sheet metal worker, putting them back together, when many of the men who used to do this work were off fighting the war. She said it was just like dressmaking, only using different materials. She had a twinkle in her eye and a distinct laugh that can really only be described as a cackle. She was a strong, incredibly smart woman with a fighter spirit who led her female co-workers out on the airport tarmac one day on a strike to earn equal wages to men. I am so proud that her story is taught as part of the Australian primary school curriculum. Her dream was to have a home with that electric stove. In 1943 when she was 28 she was interviewed for Australian Women's Weekly magazine for an article on women in men's jobs during the war, where there is a photo of her that is etched in my memory, dressed in white, wearing a white bandana tied in a knot at the top of her dark curls, a plane behind her. Question: Who was Rosemary? === The answer to the above question is
A:
output:
not enough information