*Question*
The sound of the clacking grew unbearable, so we turned the volume down. "Mute it." We muted it. "Turn it up; we might miss something." It's a silent movie. We won't miss anything. The sound of clacking gradually fills the room as my brother reluctantly turns up the volume. I can tell he's pressing hard on the button, jamming his thumb down in defiance or muted anger. He doesn't like for anyone to tell him what to do with the remote. But my grandmother wants the volume up, so we turn it up. We're all sitting along the edges of the tiny living room, staring at the fuzzy black-and-white images as they hazily walk across the television screen. I can hear a siren outside, barely discernable and then gone entirely. "Who's that?" my brother asks, evidently past his momentary and barely-noticeable indignation over the remote. "Uncle Arehl, and maybe his sister, Edna," my grandmother says, leaning in closer. "I think it's Edna," she says, in the tone of a doctor diagnosing a disease, as if the verdict was somehow relevant to someone who has only the vaguest idea who Arehl's sister is, or was. Uncle Arehl (I don't know precisely whose uncle he is, or for what the two initials of his name once stood) saunters slowly across a dry, patchy lawn, and the camera follows him. For some reason I'm more interested in the lawn--if it can be called that--than in the people on it. The sun in the movie is blazing, and everyone filmed looks only briefly at the camera before averting their faces once again to look at the stubbly grass. The camera pans once again and I can see an incredibly rutted path leading from the porch to the fence at the edge of the yard, broken pieces of concrete amid deep tire tracks fossilized in sun-baked mud. The fence is low, wire like a chain-link, but lower, with metal stakes holding it up instead of tubes. Question: Whose aunt was Edna? Options: - Narrator - Grandmother - not enough information - Arehl === The correct answer is
**Answer**
not enough information

*Question*
Valentine's Day sucks. Which may sound odd coming from someone who ceaselessly praises love and sex, but it is true. I am not a fan. My mother and father were married in a small Baptist Church on Valentine's Day in 1959. They are no longer together. They are still technically married but my father now lives in a residential care home for dementia patients and my mother lives alone. My father's disease makes him angry and aggressive leaving my mother with blurred and fading memories of his kindness. It is a sad day for all those whose partners are transformed into strangers by illnesses. Some things aren't fair. It is my step(ish) daughter's birthday on Valentine's Day (I am not married to my boyfriend so I can't claim to be a step-mum and there is no other term for it). The end of my boyfriend's marriage has put continents between him and his children. When he hangs up the phone after talking to his daughter, his eyes are dark with pain. It is a sad day for all those whose love is diluted by oceans. Some things can't be changed. I remember the last Valentine's Day I spent with my ex-husband. I was a couple of weeks away from moving out but I hadn't told him yet. I felt sick and scared and heartbroken. My husband and I passed the entire day without speaking. As I stood on the edge of the cliff summoning up the courage to jump, I felt entirely alone. It is a sad day for all those whose love has withered away. Some things can't be fixed. I want to believe that "love is all you need" because it feels as though it could almost be true, but then I remember, on days like this, that for as many hearts that sing, there are equally as many that struggle to beat. Question: What is probably true about the author? Options: - Regularly writes about relationships - Seldom writes about relationships - Is writing about relationships for the first time - not enough information === The correct answer is
**Answer**
Regularly writes about relationships

*Question*
NOT A PROBLEM: Person A: I was really surprised to learn that your mum used to live in Wales. Person B: My mum? No, she never did that. You must be thinking of someone else. Person A: No, I'm not. I told her how my parents are from Cardiff and she said she'd lived in Newport until she was 18. Person B: She did not. Person A: Yes, she did. Person B: Nope. She'd have told me. Person A: Well, where do you think she grew up, then? Person B: In Yorkshire, of course. Like the rest of us. Person A: You're wrong, you know. Person B: Bet I'm not. Person A: OK, well, I'm going to phone her and ask her. You'll see. PROBLEM: Person C: You still have my Kindle. Person D: I do not. I gave it back to you two weeks ago. Person C: No, you didn't. You said you were going to, but you never actually gave it to me. Person D: I did. I remember. It was when we were having lunch in Starbucks. Person C: No, that's when you said you'd left it in your car and would get it when we'd finished eating but then you forgot all about it. Person D: Look, I gave it back to you. I think you're just trying to get a new Kindle out of me, and let me tell you: it ain't gonna work. Person C: You're just trying to keep my Kindle for yourself. Well, I'm not going to let you get away with it. I'm going to tell your mum, so there. It really depends whether the parents are in a position to shed any light on the contentious issue or if involving them would just make an awkward situation worse. If parental input will be helpful, welcome the chance to confer with them; if it won't, let the other person do what they will and trust your parents to have more sense than to get involved in a purely private argument. Question: How long was the conversation between Person A and Person B's mom? Options: - about 7 hours - about 4 hours - not enough information - about 15 minutes === The correct answer is
**Answer**
about 15 minutes