Write the right answer to the question based on the context passage.

Ex Input:
I've shared my feelings about Temple Spa before in my review of Repose Aromatherapy Resting Cream. Basically, my first experience was a very pushy salesperson at a wedding fair several years ago which really put me off the brand, and it took me a while to try their products again. But when I did I was really impressed, and I can honestly say that nothing I've reviewed since has disappointed me!
Today I'm reviewing Temple Spa Trufflesque, an Ultra Hydration & Radiance Masque for the face. Trufflesque aims to give hydration and radiance to the skin, and plumps to help reduce the appearance of fine lines and wrinkles. It's a luxury mask suitable for all skin types, particularly dry or dull skin, and it helps to rejuvenate tired skin too. The impressive list of ingredients includes black truffles, gold and silk peptides, but unfortunately these expensive additives contribute to Trufflesque's slightly expensive price tag.
The first thing that strikes me about this product is the amazing packaging. All Temple Spa products have really amazing, premium packaging, and I feel that they add to the feeling that you are about to use something really special on your skin. The dark glass jar has a gold lid and it is nestled in a gold and chocolate brown box with the most amazingly cute mask brush slotted in too.
The mask itself is gold and it shimmers so prettily, if you look closely it's almost as if you can see the particles of real gold! To apply you just paint the golden mask onto your face with the cute little brush (it makes applying the mask so easy) then leave for 15-20 minutes. The mask doesn't dry completely, it stays a little bit tacky to the touch, and I find that it makes my skin tingle quite a bit. For extra benefits you can also then massage the mask into your skin for around 2 minutes, before removing with a damp muslin cloth or flannel. Question: Who had a really pushy salesperson?

Ex Output:
Temple spa

Ex Input:
With almost two years left of my law degree, and with no intention of doing anything so idiotic as actually attending lectures or studying law, I had plenty of time to come up with my next bid for online fame. The Griff Rhys Jones TV project had stalled after a couple of meetings when everyone involved realised that the idea - to pipe broadband comedy programming into the nation's workplaces under the noses of bosses - was a bit of a non-starter. But I had become quite good friends with Rhys Jones's partner in the project, a comedy writer called Charlie Skelton, and he, Clare and I frequently met to brainstorm possible projects we might work on together. It was during one of these meetings that Clare proposed the idea of starting a comedy magazine - something like Private Eye, but for the Internet generation.
My days as a school magazine publisher had taught me that printing magazines and distributing them was a royal pain in the arse and, anyway, if it was to be a magazine for the Internet generation then shouldn't it actually be on the Internet? The Zingin.com newsletter had attracted a ton of subscribers and had a distribution cost of basically nothing so why, I suggested, didn't we start a weekly comedy ezine, sent out by email? And, in a nod to Charlie's failed office comedy project, we could target it at bored office workers, sending the email to them on a Friday afternoon to cure the crushing boredom of those final few hours of the working week.
And with that, The Friday Thing was born.
To promote our fledgling publication we came up with a brilliant ruse: an online petition to have Friday afternoons declared a national holiday. British people worked harder than any other Europeans (we made up) and so it was only fair that our working week should end at noon on a Friday. We created an official website explaining our demands, registered a web address - letsgetitoff.com (snigger) - and sent a press release to the media. Clearly we had tapped into a seam of strong feeling among the nation's overworked journalists and the campaign was picked up by just about every major newspaper, local radio station and even made it on to the BBC. Question: Who would meet with the writer and Charlie Skelton to brainstorm projects?

Ex Output:
Clare

Ex Input:
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 of unpleasant creatures waiting to bite our hands as we groped around in the bin. I never worried about the monsters under my bed; just whatever was waiting for me in the potato bin.). Question: Who borrowed the grater?

Ex Output:
mother