Juliette Murray was, like me, a kid at school who got 5 "A"s, which in the West of Scotland put a certain degree of pressure on one's shoulders to study either medicine or law. I studied European Law, and became a teacher - that's what a European Law degree does to you. She studied medicine and is today a practicing doctor, but the education bug is firmly rooted in what she chose to do next. Murray noticed that, particularly in her local area, fewer students were applying to study medicine than the population number would suggest should. Not only that, nationally the number of medical students dropping out after beginning their course of study is increasing. She wondered if we might we persuade a more representative cross section of the community to become doctors. She set about improving the opportunities for local youngsters, aged 14/5, at the time of their work experience choices. Existing work experience for those who want to gain an insight into the world of medical doctors is a sanitised course in an educational skills centre, where bored teenagers endlessly take each other's blood pressure. They have more chance of a realistic insight by breaking their arm and turning up to Accident and Emergency. As any dad-to-be donning surgical greens knows, getting into an operating theatre is where a passion for surgery will be born or, in my case, definitely put to one side as a career option. So, the question became: how might we offer a more realistic experience of what being a doctor, surgeon or other medical profession feels like? Starting with her local hospital, Wishaw General in NHS Lanarkshire, she set about overcoming what she describes as a "culture of obstacles". Two years later, though, and students are indeed undertaking real life surgery work experience, experiencing a live operation theatre and seeing the pressure of the job first hand. What grades did Juliette Murray get in school? - not enough information - Excellent grades - Barely acceptable grades - Failing grades
Excellent grades

(Question)
Some years ago a woman on our staff came into my office to, basically, tell me off and complain to me about others and about myself. This woman had not been very supportive of me in my role ever since I began working there. I couldn't figure out if she was arrogant or lacking in self esteem. During this meeting / confrontation, she told me, in no uncertain terms, just what she didn't like about some recent decisions I had made. I listened to her speak for about 30 minutes. She, quite methodically, tore me apart. Initially, I had planned to hear her out, make a few vague remarks, and send her on her way, thinking that maybe she just needed to be heard. But about 20 minutes into her harangue, I had a change of heart. I decided that, if she asked for a response for me, if she asked my advice, I was going to tell her exactly what I thought. She did, in fact, ask me for a response. I asked her if she was a happy person, and said that I suspected that she was not, as she came across as a bully and was acting like a horrible person. She sat and looked at me, then burst into tears. I waited. Looking up, she said, "Yes, you are correct. I am a horrible person. And I am miserable. What can I do?" We spent some time discussing what she could do, and (even though I didn't want to take the time to do it) I asked her if she would like a mentor me? She said that she would like such a thing. This woman and I ended up becoming fairly, no, very good friends and she has been one of my strongest supporters. I didn't expect that. What finally happened to the woman after the meeting. - not enough information - She mentored other staff members - She bullied staff members - She got a mentor
(Answer)
She got a mentor

Ques: What would you do you're driving past hundreds of citrus trees. With a better look, they're mandarins, or, more precisely clementines. On the roadside is a truck selling crates of them for 1 euro a kilo. You stop, right? And buy a crate of 10 kilos. Even though you have to get on a plane the next day. I couldn't help myself. Marco, who I had already made turn 180 degrees to drive back to the truck, gave me that look of disapproval when I want to do something totally unreasonable like impulse buy citrus fruit that we can't keep. "What are we going to do with these?" He questioned. I wasn't sure. I wanted to taste them, I wanted to photograph them. And maybe I could even squeeze some of them into our tiny bag to take home. "It won't be a waste, I'll give the rest away!" I reasoned. He just shook his head, giving in. I bought them, a big grin on my face. We were just outside the port city of Taranto, on the western coast of Puglia in Italy's deep south, where we spent a long weekend recently and where clementines have special IGP (Protected Geographical Indication) status. These clementines a hybrid of oranges and mandarins grow in the fertile soil around the gulf of Taranto, particularly around the town of Palagiano (also known as "the city of clementines" they celebrate the symbol of their city with a sagra, a food festival, every December) and the delicate fruit is harvested by hand. We don't get these in Florence, it was my only chance to taste them they are small with very few, if any, seeds, and they are very sweet. Where did the narrator and Marco probably go after the end of the story? - Back to the roadside seller - Back home - Back to Taranto - not enough information
Ans: Back home

Ques:The sweet taste of cold and wood smoke hung in the air. Marlin rode low in the saddle, his shoulders curled against the hungry wind. His hat was pulled down tight and his eyes didn't move as he passed the crude shacks at the edge of town. He tied his horse in front of the saloon, unwinding his long body as if a sudden movement might snap it. He turned down the collar of his greatcoat and checked to make sure his big Army Colt was loose in its holster. The saloon door was a single chunk of white pine, still oozing sap, and he had to put his shoulder to it to force it open. The long room inside was quiet, and not much warmer than the street. Clusters of people sat nursing coffee and drinks, talking quietly if they talked at all. Marlin spotted a few farmers the railroad had brought in from Europe: rounded hats, nervous eyes, skin as red as blood. At the far end of the room a half-dozen cowboys turned over cards with patient boredom. Marlin walked up to the bar. "Whiskey," he said, and when the drink came he tossed it straight down and felt it pull his lips into a grimace. He nodded for a refill. When he turned to face the room they were all watching him. "I'm looking for a man named Kraamer," Marlin said. "Anybody here know of him?" One of the cowboys turned casually and rang the spittoon with a stream of tobacco juice. Marlin knew the long, thin face from somewhere, the blond hair that fell limply to his shoulders. He smiled at Marlin and showed his brown-stained teeth. Marlin felt the lines in his own face, the gray in his hair, the chill in his bones. He was too old for this. He set a half dollar on the bar and started for the door. "Don't get in a huff," the bartender said. Marlin looked back. "Kraamer lives about a mile west of town. Follow the railroad and take the first trail south." Marlin felt like: - The farmers were intelligent - not enough information - He is too old to look for Kraamer - The whiskey was bad

Ans:
He is too old to look for Kraamer