Тест 33. Чтение. ЕГЭ по английскому языку

1) Установите соответствие между заголовками 1 — 8 и текстами A — G. Используйте каждую цифру только один раз. В задании один заголовок лишний.

1. Secrets of storing for better taste
2. Element of culture
3. From fields to tables
4. From local use to international trade
5. Secrets of popularity
6. Shades make difference
7. Recipes for all tastes
8. Deceiving likeness

A. The first mentioning of coffee goes as far back as the ninth century. At first, coffee remained largely confined to Ethiopia, where its native beans were first cultivated. But the Arab world began expanding its trade horizons, and the beans moved into northern Africa and were mass-produced. From there, the beans entered the Indian and European markets, and the popularity of the beverage spread.

B. While processing, a coffee bean absorbs heat, and the color shifts from green to yellow and then to varying shades of brown. Depending on the color, the beans are labeled from light to very dark. Darker beans are generally smoother, because they have less fiber content and the flavor is more sugary. Lighter beans have more caffeine, which result in a slight bitterness, and a stronger flavor.

C. Coffee is one of the world’s most widely consumed beverages. People often have it in the morning, when they feel tired or want to stay awake in the evening. Many office workers take a coffee break when they have low energy. It happens because coffee contains caffeine, a bitter, white crystalline chemical that has a vitalizing effect in humans.

D. For the best quality of brewed coffee it is necessary to buy whole beans and grind them before brewing. If you keep an open package of beans in the freezer it remains fresh for a month. Ground coffee should be used up within two weeks and also kept in a tightly closed container in the refrigerator. But an absolutely fresh coffee can be made from green beans that just need to be roasted first.

E. For occasions when one wants to enjoy the flavor of coffee with almost no stimulation, decaffeinated coffee is available. It is processed from beans while they are still green by either soaking beans in hot water or steaming them. Decaffeinated coffee usually loses some flavor over regular coffee, but it looks the same and can easily mislead inexperienced users by its smell and even taste.

F. The adoption of coffee created a unique social atmosphere that depends heavily upon coffee, espresso in particular. Coffeehouses, the places where people can get together, have traditionally been used not only for drinking coffee, but also as artistic and intellectual centers. For example, cafes of Paris which are popular tourist attractions because they are also associated with artists, intellectuals and writers.

G. A coffee bean is the seed of the coffee plant, which ripens around eight months after the emergence of the flower, by changing color from green to red, and they should be harvested. In most countries, the coffee crop is picked by hand. After this coffee beans are wet processed and then dried. Finally the last layers of dry skin are removed; the beans are sorted by size and density, roasted and sold to consumers throughout the world.

A	B	C	D	E	F	G

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2) Прочитайте текст и заполните пропуски A — F частями предложений, обозначенными цифрами 1 — 7. Одна из частей в списке 1—7 лишняя.

The Show Begins Му Uncle Jim took me to all the Broadway shows in New York City, and I was star struck! Actually he wasn’t my real uncle — that’s just what we called him. He was a close friend of my parents. He was a bit stocky with red hair, ___ (A).

I remember the theaters on Broadway, ___ (B). The curtains were made of this real heavy, dark red material. There were huge chandelier lights hanging from the ceiling. The walls were dark, paneled wood. The seats were red and cushy ___ (C).

The orchestra sat at the base of the stage in a pit. I usually went down to the front to see the musicians ___ (D). They were all crammed into such a tiny space. I played the flute myself and my dad kept encouraging me that if I kept it up, ___ (E). But truly, I didn’t want to be tucked away down there. I wanted to be on top, front and center.

Most people dressed rather finely, and certain fragrances took center stage as various women passed by. The sounds of the audience ___ (F) at their seats were clearly heard while last minute patrons filled in. There was electricity in the air and then the lights would go down and up, and you knew it was time for the show to get started. The lights dimmed. The music began. And you were swept up into a whole new world. I loved it!

1. and set real close together
2. getting ready and warming up
3. laughing and chattering away
4. which were so old and posh
5. and he had a beard and moustache
6. I wasn’t that good at music
7. I could be playing down there someday

A	B	C	D	E	F

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3) Прочитайте текст и запишите в поле ответа цифру 1, 2, 3 или 4, соответствующую выбранному Вами варианту ответа.

Показать текст. ⇓

The Slob’s Holiday Му husband and I went to Reno for our holiday last year. ‘Isn’t that place where people go to get a quickie divorce?’ asked my second son. ‘Yes’, I said, trying to look enigmatic and interesting. ‘You are not getting divorced, are you?’ he asked bluntly.

‘No,’ I said, ‘we are going to an outdoor pursuit trade fair.’ The children sighed with relief and slouched away, muttering things like ‘boring’. I call them children, but they are all grown up. My eldest son has started to develop fine lines around his eyes — fledgling crow’s feet. A terrible sight for any parent to see. Anyway, the piece isn’t about children. It’s about holidays.

The first thing to be said about holidays is that anybody who can afford one should be grateful. The second thing is that planning holidays can be hard work. In our household it starts with somebody muttering, ‘I suppose we ought to think about a holiday.’ This remark is usually made in July and is received glumly, as if the person making it has said ‘I suppose we ought to think about the Bolivian balance of payment problems.’

Nothing much happens for a week and then the potential holiday-makers are rounded up and made to consult their diaries. Hospital appointments are taken into consideration, as are important things to do with work. But other highlights on the domestic calendar, such as the cat’s birthday, are swept aside and eventually two weeks are found. The next decision is the most painful: where?

We travel abroad to work quite a lot but we return tired and weary, so the holiday we are planning is a slob’s holiday: collapse on a sunbed, read a book until the sun goes down, stagger back to hotel room, shower, change into glad rags, eat well, wave good-bye to teenagers, have a last drink on hotel terrace, go to bed and then lie awake and wait for hotel waiters to bring the teenagers from the disco.

I never want to be guided around another monument, as long as I live. I do not want to be told how many bricks it took to build it. I have a short attention span for such details. I do not want to attend a ‘folk evening’ ever, ever again. The kind where men with their trousers tucked into their socks wave handkerchiefs in the direction of women wearing puff-sleeved blouses, long skirts and headscarves.

I also want to live dangerously and get brown. I want my doughy English skin change from white sliced to wheat germ. I like the simple pleasure of removing my watch strap and gazing at the patch of virgin skin beneath.

I don’t want to make new friends — on holidays or in general; I can’t manage the ones I have at home. I do not want to mix with the locals and I have no wish to go into their homes. I do not welcome tourists who come to Leicester into my home. Why should the poor locals in Holidayland be expected to? It’s bad enough that we monopolize their beaches, clog their pavements and spend an hour in a shop choosing a sunhat that costs the equivalent of 75 pence.

So, the slob’s holiday has several essential requirements: a hotel on a sunny beach, good food, a warm sea, nightlife for the teenagers, a big crowd to get lost in, and the absence of mosquitoes.

As I write, we are at the planning stage. We have looked through all the holiday brochures, but they are full of references to ‘hospitable locals’, ‘folk nights’, ‘deserted beaches’, and ‘interesting historical sights’. Not our cup of tea, or glass of sangria, at all.

The parents’ choice of holiday destination made the narrator’s children feel
1) jealous.
2) excited.
3) alarmed.
4) indifferent.

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4) Прочитайте текст и запишите в поле ответа цифру 1, 2, 3 или 4, соответствующую выбранному Вами варианту ответа.

Показать текст. ⇓

The Slob’s Holiday Му husband and I went to Reno for our holiday last year. ‘Isn’t that place where people go to get a quickie divorce?’ asked my second son. ‘Yes’, I said, trying to look enigmatic and interesting. ‘You are not getting divorced, are you?’ he asked bluntly.

‘No,’ I said, ‘we are going to an outdoor pursuit trade fair.’ The children sighed with relief and slouched away, muttering things like ‘boring’. I call them children, but they are all grown up. My eldest son has started to develop fine lines around his eyes — fledgling crow’s feet. A terrible sight for any parent to see. Anyway, the piece isn’t about children. It’s about holidays.

The first thing to be said about holidays is that anybody who can afford one should be grateful. The second thing is that planning holidays can be hard work. In our household it starts with somebody muttering, ‘I suppose we ought to think about a holiday.’ This remark is usually made in July and is received glumly, as if the person making it has said ‘I suppose we ought to think about the Bolivian balance of payment problems.’

Nothing much happens for a week and then the potential holiday-makers are rounded up and made to consult their diaries. Hospital appointments are taken into consideration, as are important things to do with work. But other highlights on the domestic calendar, such as the cat’s birthday, are swept aside and eventually two weeks are found. The next decision is the most painful: where?

We travel abroad to work quite a lot but we return tired and weary, so the holiday we are planning is a slob’s holiday: collapse on a sunbed, read a book until the sun goes down, stagger back to hotel room, shower, change into glad rags, eat well, wave good-bye to teenagers, have a last drink on hotel terrace, go to bed and then lie awake and wait for hotel waiters to bring the teenagers from the disco.

I never want to be guided around another monument, as long as I live. I do not want to be told how many bricks it took to build it. I have a short attention span for such details. I do not want to attend a ‘folk evening’ ever, ever again. The kind where men with their trousers tucked into their socks wave handkerchiefs in the direction of women wearing puff-sleeved blouses, long skirts and headscarves.

I also want to live dangerously and get brown. I want my doughy English skin change from white sliced to wheat germ. I like the simple pleasure of removing my watch strap and gazing at the patch of virgin skin beneath.

I don’t want to make new friends — on holidays or in general; I can’t manage the ones I have at home. I do not want to mix with the locals and I have no wish to go into their homes. I do not welcome tourists who come to Leicester into my home. Why should the poor locals in Holidayland be expected to? It’s bad enough that we monopolize their beaches, clog their pavements and spend an hour in a shop choosing a sunhat that costs the equivalent of 75 pence.

So, the slob’s holiday has several essential requirements: a hotel on a sunny beach, good food, a warm sea, nightlife for the teenagers, a big crowd to get lost in, and the absence of mosquitoes.

As I write, we are at the planning stage. We have looked through all the holiday brochures, but they are full of references to ‘hospitable locals’, ‘folk nights’, ‘deserted beaches’, and ‘interesting historical sights’. Not our cup of tea, or glass of sangria, at all.

The narrator’s words ‘A terrible sight for any parent to see’ refer to
1) the way children behave.
2) the fact that children are aging.
3) the way children change their image.
4) the fact there is a generation gap.

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5) Прочитайте текст и запишите в поле ответа цифру 1, 2, 3 или 4, соответствующую выбранному Вами варианту ответа.

Показать текст. ⇓

The Slob’s Holiday Му husband and I went to Reno for our holiday last year. ‘Isn’t that place where people go to get a quickie divorce?’ asked my second son. ‘Yes’, I said, trying to look enigmatic and interesting. ‘You are not getting divorced, are you?’ he asked bluntly.

‘No,’ I said, ‘we are going to an outdoor pursuit trade fair.’ The children sighed with relief and slouched away, muttering things like ‘boring’. I call them children, but they are all grown up. My eldest son has started to develop fine lines around his eyes — fledgling crow’s feet. A terrible sight for any parent to see. Anyway, the piece isn’t about children. It’s about holidays.

The first thing to be said about holidays is that anybody who can afford one should be grateful. The second thing is that planning holidays can be hard work. In our household it starts with somebody muttering, ‘I suppose we ought to think about a holiday.’ This remark is usually made in July and is received glumly, as if the person making it has said ‘I suppose we ought to think about the Bolivian balance of payment problems.’

Nothing much happens for a week and then the potential holiday-makers are rounded up and made to consult their diaries. Hospital appointments are taken into consideration, as are important things to do with work. But other highlights on the domestic calendar, such as the cat’s birthday, are swept aside and eventually two weeks are found. The next decision is the most painful: where?

We travel abroad to work quite a lot but we return tired and weary, so the holiday we are planning is a slob’s holiday: collapse on a sunbed, read a book until the sun goes down, stagger back to hotel room, shower, change into glad rags, eat well, wave good-bye to teenagers, have a last drink on hotel terrace, go to bed and then lie awake and wait for hotel waiters to bring the teenagers from the disco.

I never want to be guided around another monument, as long as I live. I do not want to be told how many bricks it took to build it. I have a short attention span for such details. I do not want to attend a ‘folk evening’ ever, ever again. The kind where men with their trousers tucked into their socks wave handkerchiefs in the direction of women wearing puff-sleeved blouses, long skirts and headscarves.

I also want to live dangerously and get brown. I want my doughy English skin change from white sliced to wheat germ. I like the simple pleasure of removing my watch strap and gazing at the patch of virgin skin beneath.

I don’t want to make new friends — on holidays or in general; I can’t manage the ones I have at home. I do not want to mix with the locals and I have no wish to go into their homes. I do not welcome tourists who come to Leicester into my home. Why should the poor locals in Holidayland be expected to? It’s bad enough that we monopolize their beaches, clog their pavements and spend an hour in a shop choosing a sunhat that costs the equivalent of 75 pence.

So, the slob’s holiday has several essential requirements: a hotel on a sunny beach, good food, a warm sea, nightlife for the teenagers, a big crowd to get lost in, and the absence of mosquitoes.

As I write, we are at the planning stage. We have looked through all the holiday brochures, but they are full of references to ‘hospitable locals’, ‘folk nights’, ‘deserted beaches’, and ‘interesting historical sights’. Not our cup of tea, or glass of sangria, at all.

When the need for holiday planning is first announced in the narrator’ family, it
1) is regarded as an important political issue.
2) is met with enthusiasm by all the family.
3) seems like an impossible task.
4) is openly ignored.

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6) Прочитайте текст и запишите в поле ответа цифру 1, 2, 3 или 4, соответствующую выбранному Вами варианту ответа.

Показать текст. ⇓

The Slob’s Holiday Му husband and I went to Reno for our holiday last year. ‘Isn’t that place where people go to get a quickie divorce?’ asked my second son. ‘Yes’, I said, trying to look enigmatic and interesting. ‘You are not getting divorced, are you?’ he asked bluntly.

‘No,’ I said, ‘we are going to an outdoor pursuit trade fair.’ The children sighed with relief and slouched away, muttering things like ‘boring’. I call them children, but they are all grown up. My eldest son has started to develop fine lines around his eyes — fledgling crow’s feet. A terrible sight for any parent to see. Anyway, the piece isn’t about children. It’s about holidays.

The first thing to be said about holidays is that anybody who can afford one should be grateful. The second thing is that planning holidays can be hard work. In our household it starts with somebody muttering, ‘I suppose we ought to think about a holiday.’ This remark is usually made in July and is received glumly, as if the person making it has said ‘I suppose we ought to think about the Bolivian balance of payment problems.’

Nothing much happens for a week and then the potential holiday-makers are rounded up and made to consult their diaries. Hospital appointments are taken into consideration, as are important things to do with work. But other highlights on the domestic calendar, such as the cat’s birthday, are swept aside and eventually two weeks are found. The next decision is the most painful: where?

We travel abroad to work quite a lot but we return tired and weary, so the holiday we are planning is a slob’s holiday: collapse on a sunbed, read a book until the sun goes down, stagger back to hotel room, shower, change into glad rags, eat well, wave good-bye to teenagers, have a last drink on hotel terrace, go to bed and then lie awake and wait for hotel waiters to bring the teenagers from the disco.

I never want to be guided around another monument, as long as I live. I do not want to be told how many bricks it took to build it. I have a short attention span for such details. I do not want to attend a ‘folk evening’ ever, ever again. The kind where men with their trousers tucked into their socks wave handkerchiefs in the direction of women wearing puff-sleeved blouses, long skirts and headscarves.

I also want to live dangerously and get brown. I want my doughy English skin change from white sliced to wheat germ. I like the simple pleasure of removing my watch strap and gazing at the patch of virgin skin beneath.

I don’t want to make new friends — on holidays or in general; I can’t manage the ones I have at home. I do not want to mix with the locals and I have no wish to go into their homes. I do not welcome tourists who come to Leicester into my home. Why should the poor locals in Holidayland be expected to? It’s bad enough that we monopolize their beaches, clog their pavements and spend an hour in a shop choosing a sunhat that costs the equivalent of 75 pence.

So, the slob’s holiday has several essential requirements: a hotel on a sunny beach, good food, a warm sea, nightlife for the teenagers, a big crowd to get lost in, and the absence of mosquitoes.

As I write, we are at the planning stage. We have looked through all the holiday brochures, but they are full of references to ‘hospitable locals’, ‘folk nights’, ‘deserted beaches’, and ‘interesting historical sights’. Not our cup of tea, or glass of sangria, at all.

To find a two-week slot for a holiday potential holiday-makers have to
1) negotiate the optimum period for travel.
2) cancel prior business appointments.
3) re-schedule individual summer plans.
4) make a list of the things to be taken into account.

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7) Прочитайте текст и запишите в поле ответа цифру 1, 2, 3 или 4, соответствующую выбранному Вами варианту ответа.

Показать текст. ⇓

The Slob’s Holiday Му husband and I went to Reno for our holiday last year. ‘Isn’t that place where people go to get a quickie divorce?’ asked my second son. ‘Yes’, I said, trying to look enigmatic and interesting. ‘You are not getting divorced, are you?’ he asked bluntly.

‘No,’ I said, ‘we are going to an outdoor pursuit trade fair.’ The children sighed with relief and slouched away, muttering things like ‘boring’. I call them children, but they are all grown up. My eldest son has started to develop fine lines around his eyes — fledgling crow’s feet. A terrible sight for any parent to see. Anyway, the piece isn’t about children. It’s about holidays.

The first thing to be said about holidays is that anybody who can afford one should be grateful. The second thing is that planning holidays can be hard work. In our household it starts with somebody muttering, ‘I suppose we ought to think about a holiday.’ This remark is usually made in July and is received glumly, as if the person making it has said ‘I suppose we ought to think about the Bolivian balance of payment problems.’

Nothing much happens for a week and then the potential holiday-makers are rounded up and made to consult their diaries. Hospital appointments are taken into consideration, as are important things to do with work. But other highlights on the domestic calendar, such as the cat’s birthday, are swept aside and eventually two weeks are found. The next decision is the most painful: where?

We travel abroad to work quite a lot but we return tired and weary, so the holiday we are planning is a slob’s holiday: collapse on a sunbed, read a book until the sun goes down, stagger back to hotel room, shower, change into glad rags, eat well, wave good-bye to teenagers, have a last drink on hotel terrace, go to bed and then lie awake and wait for hotel waiters to bring the teenagers from the disco.

I never want to be guided around another monument, as long as I live. I do not want to be told how many bricks it took to build it. I have a short attention span for such details. I do not want to attend a ‘folk evening’ ever, ever again. The kind where men with their trousers tucked into their socks wave handkerchiefs in the direction of women wearing puff-sleeved blouses, long skirts and headscarves.

I also want to live dangerously and get brown. I want my doughy English skin change from white sliced to wheat germ. I like the simple pleasure of removing my watch strap and gazing at the patch of virgin skin beneath.

I don’t want to make new friends — on holidays or in general; I can’t manage the ones I have at home. I do not want to mix with the locals and I have no wish to go into their homes. I do not welcome tourists who come to Leicester into my home. Why should the poor locals in Holidayland be expected to? It’s bad enough that we monopolize their beaches, clog their pavements and spend an hour in a shop choosing a sunhat that costs the equivalent of 75 pence.

So, the slob’s holiday has several essential requirements: a hotel on a sunny beach, good food, a warm sea, nightlife for the teenagers, a big crowd to get lost in, and the absence of mosquitoes.

As I write, we are at the planning stage. We have looked through all the holiday brochures, but they are full of references to ‘hospitable locals’, ‘folk nights’, ‘deserted beaches’, and ‘interesting historical sights’. Not our cup of tea, or glass of sangria, at all.

The slob’s holiday is the type of holiday for people, who
1) do not want to go on holiday abroad.
2) go on holiday with teenagers.
3) do not like public life.
4) prefer peaceful relaxing holidays.

🔗

8) Прочитайте текст и запишите в поле ответа цифру 1, 2, 3 или 4, соответствующую выбранному Вами варианту ответа.

Показать текст. ⇓

The Slob’s Holiday Му husband and I went to Reno for our holiday last year. ‘Isn’t that place where people go to get a quickie divorce?’ asked my second son. ‘Yes’, I said, trying to look enigmatic and interesting. ‘You are not getting divorced, are you?’ he asked bluntly.

‘No,’ I said, ‘we are going to an outdoor pursuit trade fair.’ The children sighed with relief and slouched away, muttering things like ‘boring’. I call them children, but they are all grown up. My eldest son has started to develop fine lines around his eyes — fledgling crow’s feet. A terrible sight for any parent to see. Anyway, the piece isn’t about children. It’s about holidays.

The first thing to be said about holidays is that anybody who can afford one should be grateful. The second thing is that planning holidays can be hard work. In our household it starts with somebody muttering, ‘I suppose we ought to think about a holiday.’ This remark is usually made in July and is received glumly, as if the person making it has said ‘I suppose we ought to think about the Bolivian balance of payment problems.’

Nothing much happens for a week and then the potential holiday-makers are rounded up and made to consult their diaries. Hospital appointments are taken into consideration, as are important things to do with work. But other highlights on the domestic calendar, such as the cat’s birthday, are swept aside and eventually two weeks are found. The next decision is the most painful: where?

We travel abroad to work quite a lot but we return tired and weary, so the holiday we are planning is a slob’s holiday: collapse on a sunbed, read a book until the sun goes down, stagger back to hotel room, shower, change into glad rags, eat well, wave good-bye to teenagers, have a last drink on hotel terrace, go to bed and then lie awake and wait for hotel waiters to bring the teenagers from the disco.

I never want to be guided around another monument, as long as I live. I do not want to be told how many bricks it took to build it. I have a short attention span for such details. I do not want to attend a ‘folk evening’ ever, ever again. The kind where men with their trousers tucked into their socks wave handkerchiefs in the direction of women wearing puff-sleeved blouses, long skirts and headscarves.

I also want to live dangerously and get brown. I want my doughy English skin change from white sliced to wheat germ. I like the simple pleasure of removing my watch strap and gazing at the patch of virgin skin beneath.

I don’t want to make new friends — on holidays or in general; I can’t manage the ones I have at home. I do not want to mix with the locals and I have no wish to go into their homes. I do not welcome tourists who come to Leicester into my home. Why should the poor locals in Holidayland be expected to? It’s bad enough that we monopolize their beaches, clog their pavements and spend an hour in a shop choosing a sunhat that costs the equivalent of 75 pence.

So, the slob’s holiday has several essential requirements: a hotel on a sunny beach, good food, a warm sea, nightlife for the teenagers, a big crowd to get lost in, and the absence of mosquitoes.

As I write, we are at the planning stage. We have looked through all the holiday brochures, but they are full of references to ‘hospitable locals’, ‘folk nights’, ‘deserted beaches’, and ‘interesting historical sights’. Not our cup of tea, or glass of sangria, at all.

When the narrator says ‘I also want to live dangerously’, she means
1) getting lost in the crowd.
2) going sightseeing without a guide.
3) choosing herself the parties to go to.
4) lying long hours in the sun on the beach.

🔗

9) Прочитайте текст и запишите в поле ответа цифру 1, 2, 3 или 4, соответствующую выбранному Вами варианту ответа.

Показать текст. ⇓

The Slob’s Holiday Му husband and I went to Reno for our holiday last year. ‘Isn’t that place where people go to get a quickie divorce?’ asked my second son. ‘Yes’, I said, trying to look enigmatic and interesting. ‘You are not getting divorced, are you?’ he asked bluntly.

‘No,’ I said, ‘we are going to an outdoor pursuit trade fair.’ The children sighed with relief and slouched away, muttering things like ‘boring’. I call them children, but they are all grown up. My eldest son has started to develop fine lines around his eyes — fledgling crow’s feet. A terrible sight for any parent to see. Anyway, the piece isn’t about children. It’s about holidays.

The first thing to be said about holidays is that anybody who can afford one should be grateful. The second thing is that planning holidays can be hard work. In our household it starts with somebody muttering, ‘I suppose we ought to think about a holiday.’ This remark is usually made in July and is received glumly, as if the person making it has said ‘I suppose we ought to think about the Bolivian balance of payment problems.’

Nothing much happens for a week and then the potential holiday-makers are rounded up and made to consult their diaries. Hospital appointments are taken into consideration, as are important things to do with work. But other highlights on the domestic calendar, such as the cat’s birthday, are swept aside and eventually two weeks are found. The next decision is the most painful: where?

We travel abroad to work quite a lot but we return tired and weary, so the holiday we are planning is a slob’s holiday: collapse on a sunbed, read a book until the sun goes down, stagger back to hotel room, shower, change into glad rags, eat well, wave good-bye to teenagers, have a last drink on hotel terrace, go to bed and then lie awake and wait for hotel waiters to bring the teenagers from the disco.

I never want to be guided around another monument, as long as I live. I do not want to be told how many bricks it took to build it. I have a short attention span for such details. I do not want to attend a ‘folk evening’ ever, ever again. The kind where men with their trousers tucked into their socks wave handkerchiefs in the direction of women wearing puff-sleeved blouses, long skirts and headscarves.

I also want to live dangerously and get brown. I want my doughy English skin change from white sliced to wheat germ. I like the simple pleasure of removing my watch strap and gazing at the patch of virgin skin beneath.

I don’t want to make new friends — on holidays or in general; I can’t manage the ones I have at home. I do not want to mix with the locals and I have no wish to go into their homes. I do not welcome tourists who come to Leicester into my home. Why should the poor locals in Holidayland be expected to? It’s bad enough that we monopolize their beaches, clog their pavements and spend an hour in a shop choosing a sunhat that costs the equivalent of 75 pence.

So, the slob’s holiday has several essential requirements: a hotel on a sunny beach, good food, a warm sea, nightlife for the teenagers, a big crowd to get lost in, and the absence of mosquitoes.

As I write, we are at the planning stage. We have looked through all the holiday brochures, but they are full of references to ‘hospitable locals’, ‘folk nights’, ‘deserted beaches’, and ‘interesting historical sights’. Not our cup of tea, or glass of sangria, at all.

The main reason the narrator doesn’t want to mix up with locals is because she
1) doesn’t let tourists to her house at Leicester.
2) doesn’t want to add to their inconveniencies.
3) is afraid to make friends with local people.
4) values her own privacy above all.

🔗