conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide a description for a book titled The Ghost in the Electric Blue Suit about David, British, Barwise with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction.. End with the sentence ' --Joanne Wilkinson'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: In 1976, British college student David Barwise takes a job as a greencoat at a resort in a small coastal town on the North Sea. Along with an eccentric group of coworkers, he runs one daft entertainment after another, including judging the Glamorous Grandma competition and running the light show for the Italian tenor. David is having the time of his life, basking in the good cheer of vacationers hell-bent on enjoying their well-deserved break from the scruffy factories and the dirty coal mines of their industrial year. But David soon finds himself caught up in the politics of the National Front and in love with the wife of a menacing thug. Whats more, hes being haunted by visions of a man dressed in a blue suit who is holding the hand of a small, terrified child. The heat of a drought and an infestation of ladybugs only serve to heighten his sense of discomfiture. the author expertly captures a certain time and place, when family resorts were fading out and political extremism was on the rise, overlaying his snapshot with a subtle hint of the supernatural. --Joanne Wilkinson
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Ghost in the Electric Blue Suit
  It was 1976 and the hottest summer in living memory. The reservoirs were cracked and dry; some of the towns were restricted to water from standpipes; crops were failing in the fields. England was a country innocent of all such extremity. I was nineteen and had just finished my first year at college.
  But when I arrived in Skegness there wasn't a breath of wind, not even a sigh. The train rumbled in on hot iron tracks, decanted me and a few others onto the platform, and wheezed out again. The dirty Victorian red brick of the station seemed brittle, powdery. Flowers potted along the platform wilted and the grubby paintwork was cracked and peeled. I took a double-decker bus—mercifully open-topped—and asked the driver to drop me at the resort. He forgot and had to stop the bus and come up the stairs to tell me he'd passed it by. I had to backpack it a quarter of a mile, all in the shimmering heat. I followed the wire-mesh perimeter of the site with its neat rows of chalets and the seagull-like cries of the holidaymakers.
  I thought I might get a job as a kitchen porter or as a white-jacketed waiter bowling soup plates at the holidaymakers. Any job at all, just so long as I didn't have to go home. The manager in charge of recruitment—a dapper figure in a blue blazer and sporting a tiny pencil mustache—didn't seem too interested. He was preoccupied with sprinkling bread crumbs on the corner of his desk. As I waited to be interviewed a sparrow fluttered in through the open window, picked up a crumb in its beak, and flew out again.
  One of his eyebrows raised a notch. Encouraged, I added: "Actually I like children. And I can play a few chords. On the guitar."
  The first bit was true but the thing about the guitar was a good stretch. I mean I knew the rough finger positions for the E, the A, and the C chords. Go and form a band, as they said at the time. The sparrow winged in again, picked up more bread crumbs, and fluttered out.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide another paragraph.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: We'd been in my room for maybe ten minutes when we were brought to our senses by the sound of a key hitting the lock from the other side of the door. Fortunately I'd secured the door with my own key and left it hanging in the lock.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: In the spring we got a letter from Pinky asking if we wanted to work for him again the following summer.
  One night in April I was roused from sleep in the small hours by a tapping on the window. For a split second I thought it was going to be Colin, or perhaps the boy on the beach, all over again, because the boy never completely goes away. But it was only a friend, a fellow student who had locked himself out of his student lodge and wanted to sleep on our floor.
  Whether it's Madame Rosa, or her sister Dot in the steam laundry, or the mechanical fortune-teller on the pier, the advice comes down to the same thing: The future will be what we choose it to be, just so long as we carefully engineer the present. As for the past, it moves like sand under your feet. These things happened a long time ago yet remain luminous in my mind. As I write this I have resting on a pile of papers on my desk a glass paperweight. Scarlet with black spots, it is designed to look like a beautiful ladybug.
  The wonderful American writer Jeffrey Ford deserves a special mention for encouraging me to write this novel after I'd explained to him over a beer the colorful and almost incomprehensible institution of the British holiday center.
  Thanks and praise to my wife, Sue, who is my first reader and an indomitable critic, always rising far above my knitted brow and infernal mutterings.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Thanks and praise to my wife, Sue, who is my first reader and an indomitable critic, always rising far above my knitted brow and infernal mutterings..
  The wonderful American writer Jeffrey Ford deserves a special mention for encouraging me to write this novel after I'd explained to him over a beer the colorful and almost incomprehensible institution of the British holiday center. Scarlet with black spots, it is designed to look like a beautiful ladybug. As I write this I have resting on a pile of papers on my desk a glass paperweight. These things happened a long time ago yet remain luminous in my mind. As for the past, it moves like sand under your feet.
  Whether it's Madame Rosa, or her sister Dot in the steam laundry, or the mechanical fortune-teller on the pier, the advice comes down to the same thing: The future will be what we choose it to be, just so long as we carefully engineer the present. But it was only a friend, a fellow student who had locked himself out of his student lodge and wanted to sleep on our floor. For a split second I thought it was going to be Colin, or perhaps the boy on the beach, all over again, because the boy never completely goes away.
  One night in April I was roused from sleep in the small hours by a tapping on the window.In the spring we got a letter from Pinky asking if we wanted to work for him again the following summer