综合英语教程2课文文本-4
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2020年07月29日 22:49
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英语投诉信-礼数的意思
Try to speak more
Conversation (A and B are teachers.)
Conversation
A Hello, Mary, what do you think of today's topic of writing? It is MY HAPPY CHILDHOOD. Do you like it?
B Oh, it's all nonsense. You see, Helen, ... my mother used to say "We didn't have the conditions you enjoy today. You must blah, ... blah, ... blah..." I'm a bit fed up with this.
A Well, that's funny. Many people say childhood is the happiest moment in one's life.
B It may not be. Think of your years at school; what about those examinations? ... What about those words like "if you can't pass the examinations, you may..." and this or that.
A Well, you may have a point there. But that's necessary because the students have to learn to take responsibility... or... to become independent...
B Oh, could they? ... by taking heaps of exams, doing homework day and night, being criticised around the clock?
A Well, adults are more tired, worried.... Children at least have a fresh start, and everything is new and unspoilt.
B A fresh start? It could be a bad start. Have you heard of those irresponsible parents, adults or even teachers? ... The childhood of many kids is ruined because of them!
A Well, you might be right to a certain extent. But we have missed one important fact: we often miss that part of our life.
What are they for?
Actual Words Spoken
a The job can be done by Wednesday if I get extra help.
b Take your umbrella-you might need it.
c There's a possibility that she'll lose her job.
d Unfortunately, the manager is very busy so it will be impossible for him to see you today.
e Alice can't be at home. I saw her just now in the cafe.
f It's still possible to make some money if you invest wisely.
Text
He Was My Father
I remember the smell of the soap as he scrubbed his hands. Pungent, because this was for removing ground-in dirt and oil from beneath hardened fingernails and from calloused hands. I can still see the darkness of the water in the basin after he had cleaned his face.
He always spoke to me as he washed before eating his dinner, told me tales of his own childhood and let little drops of moral tuition fall into my lap. "A promise is a promise," he'd say. It was. He never broke one. He was my father.
He drove a London taxi for 40 years. It was a job that paid a decent wage if a man was willing to work 12-hour days, six days a week.
When I was small, he would sometimes pick up people who were hailing cabs along the way. He wasn't supposed to, not with me in the vehicle. But I was six or seven and was barely noticed.
I could never understand why the passengers treated him with such patronizing disregard. He was "cabbie" and "driver" and "you!" No, he wasn't; he was my dad.
He always looked so strong, so able to protect me, so powerful. Powerful enough to cry when he felt the need. He wept when my grandmothe
r died. Confusing. He came into my room, saw the fear and apprehension on my face, and recited a short prayer with me for my grandma and his mother. He kissed me, held my hand and then drove me to school before putting his 12 hours in. He was my father.
I remember his euphoria when I went to university, the first in his family to do so. Of course he was gauche when I graduated, took too many photographs, and didn't understand the Latin that was spoken before the ceremonial meal. So what? All that concerned this working man in a suit was that his son would not follow in his footsteps. "Do you know why I work such long hours?" he'd ask me. "So that you won't have to."
He couldn't afford to go on holidays with us like other dads. There just wasn't the money. He'd stay on his own, work even longer hours, and live on sandwiches and tea. We'd ring him from a cold beach hotel and tell him how much we missed him. But he knew that. He was my father.
And when my first child was born, this extraordinary ordinary man said very little. Just stared at the baby and then at me. He spoke through his eyes, and I understood. Son, he was telling me, let him be able to say just one thing when he grows up: he was my father.