Question: Once, while grating potatoes to make potato pancakes, I had a Proustian moment. I can't lay claim to much in the way of literary knowledge, but I do know that Proust's 'Remembrance of Things Past' was prompted by his biting into a pastry and feeling a sense of overwhelming pleasure with no recognizable cause. In my case, I was instantly transported back to the grandmother's kitchen as she and my mother grated potatoes in order to make 'poutine rapee', also known as 'poutines'. People will immediately flash to the Quebecker ethnic food known by the same name. However, in spite of all the Franco-culinary posturing, this is really only French Fries with gravy and, oh yeah, can I have some cheese curds on that? One etymological source indicates that 'poutine' really means 'mess'. If you come from my part of the country, the Quebecker poutine is just another entry in the long list of dishes that will cause you to keel over from a myocardial infarction while shoveling a foot of snow out of the driveway shortly after you've retired; sometimes before. Nope, poutines as I know them are a different creature entirely. They seem to be more of an Acadian thing and none of my friends had even heard of them, much less eaten a single one. Because of the work involved, my mother only made poutines for special times: Christmas, say or Easter. My mother would borrow this grater that was about two feet long and she and my grandmother would set to work. Generally, they started off with an enormous paper sack of potatoes, about 25 pounds or so (We used to buy potatoes by the cartload and store them in a wooden bin in the basement. Because we were cheap labour, the kids would be sent down to retrieve a few for the family meal. It was creepy to descend into the dank cellar, feel our way through the dim obstacle course formed by my grandfather's thousands of tools and bits of wood and locate the bin. After a time in storage, the eyes on potatoes began to sprout pale tendrils and it didn't take much imagination to visualize all kinds... According to the above context, choose the correct option to answer the following question. Question: After the story ended the main character made Options: A. french fries B. not enough information C. poutine D. potato pancakes
Answer: C

Question: I lost my baby boy at 31 weeks of pregnancy in February 2013. My heart shattered into a million pieces that weekend in February. I knew that I wanted the chance to bring home another live, healthy baby in my arms. I had some medical issues that would concern doctors during a uncomplicated pregnancy and would put me at high risk if, and that at the time was a big if I was able to get pregnant, and could I make it past the second trimester. I had doctors who supported my decision to try again, but my body wasn't co operating. 2015. I got pregnant, straight on the medication I needed, lots of blood tests. Got a horrible sinking feeling something went wrong at the 6 week stage, bleeding at 8 weeks. At 9weeks of pregnancy, got a scan and no heartbeat was found. I choose the d&c operation, I couldn't deal with seeing the miscarriage blood for days. I tried to convince myself to give up, move on. Wasn't an easy thing to do, but the depression and sadness wasn't fair to my 6 year old son. He needed his mummy who was always sad, in his mind. About 6 months later, I was having a scan. This time, I had a strong heart beat on screen. The pregnancy was extremely high risk, consultant led, daily injections, scans every 2 weeks from 18 weeks. No guarantees of a good outcome. Planned c section at 38 weeks. Healthy baby girl. I was lucky, I got the chance to have my happy ever after. Was it worth the heartache and infertility caused by stress - yes Was it worth the terrifying 34 weeks of pregnancy- yes Do I miss and wish the baby boy I lost at 31 weeks was here - every day For me, being bloody minded and stubborn worked out for me. According to the above context, choose the correct option to answer the following question. Question: At the end of the story, the family is probably: Options: A. Terribly depressed B. Happy and intact C. Estranged D. not enough information
Answer: B

Question: If you turned on the TV towards the end of 2002 you could have been forgiven for thinking that Britain had gone absolutely horseshit mental. Every week, it seemed, another pretty young girl from a nice family, who was happy and popular and always did well at school, was being kidnapped or murdered by what the Sun newspaper cheerfully termed 'evil paedo scum'. Naming and shaming was as popular a feature in the Murdoch press as Page Three girls and discounted holidays to Butlin's. Of course you can't blame parents for wanting to keep their children safe; that's pretty much the job description of a parent. And, on the face of it, the tabloids were doing a public service in warning us about the paedophile menace lurking in our midst. The problem came when it turned out that a huge number of these concerned tabloid-reading parents were also absolute fucking morons. For every story of an actual sex offender being driven from their house by a baying mob there was one like that of Dr Yvette Cloete, a doctor at the Royal Gwent Hospital in Newport, South Wales, who returned home from work to find that a group of 'concerned parents' had daubed the word 'paedo' on her front door in bright red paint. Dr Cloete was a consultant paediatrician. Easy mistake. If you're an absolute fucking moron. And so it was that one hung-over morning, after reading yet another story about vigilantes who had threatened to stone Maxine Carr, the girlfriend of Soham killer Ian Huntley, to death during her high-profile trial for perverting the course of justice, I decided to set up a website parodying this collective national madness. The result of two or three hours of hung-over labour was thinkofthechildren.co.uk, a spoof campaign site which claimed to offer a handy online guide for crazy vigilantes of all stripes to co-ordinate their crazy vigilante efforts. Although there are a few parts of the site I'm still a bit proud of, the majority of it was, I freely admit, satire of the lowest order. According to the above context, choose the correct option to answer the following question. Question: Whose front door had the word "paedo" painted on it? Options: A. not enough information B. Yvette Cloete C. The narrator D. Maxine Carr
Answer:
B