input: OPTIONS:
- The beginning of summer.
- The end of summer.
- The beginning of winter.
- not enough information Now, answer this question: Read the following context and answer the question. Context: The First of March is my most hated day of the year. Every year, without fail, I feel a little bit depressed on the First of March. I absolutely love summer. I love the hot weather, the skimpy clothes, the summer fruits and the party seasons. I only have good memories of summer - Christmas time, six weeks holidays when in school then three months off whilst at uni. In my eyes, there is not one bad thing about summer. That is why I hate the First of March. Yes, it is still hot. Yes, my summer fruits are still in season and I can still wear my skimpy clothes, but, in my mind, it means that winter is near. The weather is only going to get colder and my favourite time of the year is official over. In an attempt to lift my end of Summer blues I decided to give myself a bright, cheerful manicure. The colour I choose was a luscious purple cream from butter LONDON called Molly-Coddled. It was just about opaque after one coat, just ever so slightly streaky. Two coats, completely opaque and streak free. If you haven't previously heard of butter LONDON, it is a nail polish brand with a massive range of high fashion colours and it's products are formulated without the use of the harmful ingredients like Formaldehyde, Toluene, DBP or Parabens. butter LONDON was the first company to sell 3 Free nail lacquer in the United States. Formaldehyde is one of the biggest nasties that I make a real effort to avoid. I did my PhD in Forensics and spent a lot of time watching autopsies. Once the body parts have been harvested, they are stored in Formaldehyde to be preserved. The Formaldehyde alters the proteins in the tissue to stop them breaking down - fine for the dead, not something I want to use whilst I am alive. It is nasty, nasty stuff. Question: When did the author paint her nails to cheer herself up? Answer:
A:
output: The end of summer.

Read the following context and answer the question. Context: My then-teenage daughter and I went to a new restaurant. It was empty apart from the manager. We were told to find ourselves a table, so we sat in an attractive area sort of like a small stage. No waitress came by for 10 minutes, so we decided to visit the restroom; there was just one, with one toilet. But a woman rushed in ahead of us, carrying a bundle of clothes. Several minutes later, when she reappeared, we realized this was our waitressarriving late and pushing us customers out of the way so she could change. OK We each used the restroom and returned to our table. But it was not our table anymore. Along came the manager to explain she needed to set aside the stage-like area for a very special group. My daughter and I had already been debating whether to stay or leave. We stayed only because we were very hungry and worried that we'd have to start waiting all over again if we tried a different place. We were led to our new table: a lonely little table in the hall leading to the toilet. I was ready to get out of there, pronto, but my daughter spotted her favorite meal on the menu. But after another 15 minutes, with the lone waitress not appearing, we both shook our heads and got up Oh, here's the waitress! We ordered. Fifteen minutes later, no food. We got up again and exited past the stage-like area, which was just as empty as it had been when we were ejected. The very special people had not arrivedso (had we been served) we could have enjoyed our meal right there. We did find food elsewhere. The first place closed in less than a month. Good riddance! Question: what is the daughter's favorite food? Answer:

OPTIONS:
- not enough information
- lasagna
- pasta
- spaghetti

Answer: not enough information

Read the following context and answer the question. Context: The surgeon who had delivered my son by C-section an hour earlier stepping back from the table, and saying, "We're done, people. Good job, everyone!" That hour had been hell for everyone in the room, save only my little boy, sleeping peacefully in the warming crib, and his mother, who was just stirring from the general that had put her under about 55 minutes earlier. I had come within a few minutes, maybe seconds, of raising my boy as a single parent. Her OB/GYN had fought valliently to keep my family together, and won. Everyone who'd been awake knew exactly how close run a thing it had been. Mr. Murphy had been hanging around the whole time, and neither Doc nor mom was catching a whole lot of breaks that evening. But Doc only needed one, and he made full use thereof. One thing for all new dad's whose wives have had previous abdominal surgery. You never want to hear the muttered words, "Creative anatomy on the way out", when somebody has your wife's belly open. Those are about the worst words in the world, because they mean Doc's gotta put stuff to right in there, and he might not have what he'd like in order to get it done. But when he stands back, after the sponge count had to be done twice, and the tool count is right, and the belly is stapled closed, and everyone in the room is still breathing Just let it be known that the roving nurse has extra sponges for dad's nose. Oh yeah, and the neonatal nurses don't expect dad to change that first diaper. Maconium is nasty shit. Litterally. But I was happy to do it while talking to his groggy mom. Question: How long did the author's wife spend in the hospital before being discharged? Answer:
OPTIONS:
- not enough information
- 1 year.
- 1 week.
- 1 month.

Answer:
1 week.