conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Morehead, Ruth, United with the genre: Children's Books, Holidays & Celebrations?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'A Touch of Love'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the first five paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A Touch of Love
  It had been sitting there for about a quarter of an hour before any of the passengers started to talk to one another. During that time there had nevertheless been a perceptible increase in the level of noise: the shuffling of feet, the crying of children, the rustle of packets of crisps, the clicking of angry tongues. Then a few isolated remarks:
  From these unpromising seeds tentative conversations began to grow: nothing special, in most cases, just the occasional anecdote about particularly outrageous delays suffered at the hands of British Rail. The sort of story that everybody seems to have stored up, somewhere.
  But at a table for four in one of the non-smoking carriages, a more interesting discussion was about to take place. On one side were sitting two doctors, eminent consultants from the Midlands, travelling down from a weekend's fishing in Scotland (it was a Sunday evening in late August): handsome, middle-aged, quite kindly looking men. On the other side were sitting two students, who were yet to get acquainted. One of them was called Robert – he came from Surrey and was about to start an MA in English at Birmingham University; the other was called Kathleen – she came from Glasgow and was doing a Ph.D. in biology at Leicester. The review section of the Sunday Times, which one of the doctors had been reading, was now lying on one of the tables, and Kathleen's eyes were fixed on the front page. Noticing this, the doctor pushed it towards her, and said:
  She leaned forward. 'My boyfriend? My boyfriend? My God, I've never set eyes on the man before, I sit next to him on a train, and you assume he's my boyfriend. The assumptions people make. The bloody assumptions!'
  They sat back and smiled; and as they did so, the train shuddered to a start, and there was a collective sigh of relief throughout the carriage. Some passengers cheered sarcastically.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know four more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Three o'clock found him walking through the rain to the bus station at Pool Meadow. There was an icy wind and in the distance, from the precinct, he could hear Christmas carols being played over a tannoy system. This reminded him that soon he would have to go back and visit his family, choose cards and presents, and he scowled. They would ask him the usual questions – 'When are you going to get yourself a job?', 'Are you seeing anyone at the moment?' – and he would have to suffer the subtle taunts of his younger brother who sold bathroom fittings for a company based in Aberdeen and made more money in a month than Hugh had ever earned in his life. But there would be decent meals and when it all got too much he could go up to his bedroom and smoke. Before anything else he would have to phone his parents and get them to send down the money for the rail fare home.
  He was one of three passengers on the bus, and had the top deck to himself for the whole journey. At various stops he looked out for familiar faces – friends, lecturers, students who might have been staying up for part of the vacation – but none appeared; perhaps the weather was keeping them indoors. Similarly, there were no other customers in the coffee bar. Friday afternoons out of term were always quiet, but today there seemed to be a level of inactivity which unsettled even Hugh, accustomed as he was to the atmosphere of empty cafés and deserted bars. Sometimes he chatted to the woman who served behind the counter but he could tell that she wasn't in the mood this time; she was reading a magazine, and anyway he couldn't think of anything to say. So he sat and made his cup of hot chocolate last for nearly half an hour, until another customer finally appeared: it was Dr Corbett, the English department's recently appointed senior lecturer. Being, like most of the staff, on cordial terms with Hugh, he came over and joined him. He had a beard and a leather jacket and had bought himself some coffee and a piece of chocolate cake. They exchanged murmured greetings, after which Corbett began eating his cake and Hugh was able to come up with nothing more original than:
  A lone student arrived at the periphery of the café, took a slow, mournful look around, and left. Hugh went over to the serving counter to order two coffees, but the woman was nowhere to be seen and his shouts of 'Hello' in the direction of the kitchen went unanswered.
  At this point Professor Davis himself wandered into the café, carrying a battered old briefcase and wiping his spectacles with a dirty handkerchief. After spotting Hugh and Dr Corbett, and after some brief hesitation, he came to join them. Corbett fetched him a chair and Hugh insisted on buying him some coffee and a macaroon. There was a long pause while he struggled to get the lid off his plastic carton of cream, sugared the coffee, ate about half of the cake and blew his nose. Then, looking thoughtful, he remarked:
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the last four paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Sometimes, after long absence, you return to a place which has painful associations, and this can be an unpredictable experience. You have certain expectations: that a particular street, or room, or café, once revisited, will inspire a particular feeling, and you are surprised when it fails to do so. And what is still more surprising is the sudden pang of memory provoked by scenes and locations which you would never have credited with such power to wound. It was like this when I returned to Coventry. All the places I had dreaded seeing again – my flat, the streets through which I had used to walk home from the bus, the university campus where most of my belongings were stored – they left me cold: I breezed in and out of them, level-headed and resolute. But then in the afternoon, having an hour or two to spare, we drove over to another part of town, where Robin had lived. It was a more upmarket district altogether, and in these neatly kept terraces and comfortable family houses, the rather sad diffidence with which they took their place in the world, I found echoes of Robin's melancholy presence. It was a cold and sunny autumn day, a day of sharp outlines, and those streets seemed very real again: I had been beginning to hope that I had imagined them. We parked the car and I took Josef to see the front door of Robin's flat. It had been re-let; the new tenant came to the window and stared warily at us. There was very little I could say. I had told Josef the story already and he knew something of what I was thinking and he didn't try to break in upon my silences.
  Several months after Robin died a Spanish student who had once been friendly with me at the university wrote me a letter inviting me to her wedding. I accepted the invitation and travelled to Spain, knowing that I would never come back to complete my studies. Borrowing money from my parents I then spent nearly ten weeks visiting Spain, France and Germany, which was where I met Josef. He was a good friend to me, bringing me much happiness, such happiness as I had never expected or even thought possible, after all I had been through, all I had seen. It surprises me that I do not think of him more often now. That day was our last day together, and it filled my head full of Robin, so that I had nothing to spare even for the pain of parting; but for this I think we were both grateful, in the end.
  Just as day was fading into twilight, we returned to the car and began the last stage of our journey together. As we drove out of Coventry I said my quiet farewells to this city which has been twice devastated, once by the bombs of a foreign army, once by the impact of a recession which was orchestrated by politicians, and which has bitten in the last few years, really bitten, spreading inertia and indifference, eating away at the work and the livelihood of the, people. Yet these people remain cheerful and humorous; they look on the dark side of life but are no more complaining than any of their countrymen. I got the impression, when I was living there, that nobody was thinking very hard. And as I left, I wanted to wind down the window of Josef's car, and shout at the top of my voice: You should think, think, think about what is happening all around you. Think until your heads hurt with the effort and the worry of it. Thinking is not always dangerous, you know. It killed Robin but it will not kill you.
  I didn't shout, anyway. It was a cold afternoon and we kept the window of the car closed. It was cold on the plane, too, as it came in to land; when I first saw the lights of my city, a chill began to shake my whole body, and when I thought of the faces of my father and mother, it was with a mixture of longing and fear. I had not forgotten that home can be the strangest place of all.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I had not forgotten that home can be the strangest place of all.. It was cold on the plane, too, as it came in to land; when I first saw the lights of my city, a chill began to shake my whole body, and when I thought of the faces of my father and mother, it was with a mixture of longing and fear. It was a cold afternoon and we kept the window of the car closed.
  I didn't shout, anyway. It killed Robin but it will not kill you. Thinking is not always dangerous, you know. Think until your heads hurt with the effort and the worry of it. And as I left, I wanted to wind down the window of Josef's car, and shout at the top of my voice: You should think, think, think about what is happening all around you. I got the impression, when I was living there, that nobody was thinking very hard. Yet these people remain cheerful and humorous; they look on the dark side of life but are no more complaining than any of their countrymen. As we drove out of Coventry I said my quiet farewells to this city which has been twice devastated, once by the bombs of a foreign army, once by the impact of a recession which was orchestrated by politicians, and which has bitten in the last few years, really bitten, spreading inertia and indifference, eating away at the work and the livelihood of the, people.
  Just as day was fading into twilight, we returned to the car and began the last stage of our journey together. That day was our last day together, and it filled my head full of Robin, so that I had nothing to spare even for the pain of parting; but for this I think we were both grateful, in the end. It surprises me that I do not think of him more often now. He was a good friend to me, bringing me much happiness, such happiness as I had never expected or even thought possible, after all I had been through, all I had seen. Borrowing money from my parents I then spent nearly ten weeks visiting Spain, France and Germany, which was where I met Josef. I accepted the invitation and travelled to Spain, knowing that I would never come back to complete my studies.
  Several months after Robin died a Spanish student who had once been friendly with me at the university wrote me a letter inviting me to her wedding. I had told Josef the story already and he knew something of what I was thinking and he didn't try to break in upon my silences. There was very little I could say. It had been re-let; the new tenant came to the window and stared warily at us. We parked the car and I took Josef to see the front door of Robin's flat. It was a cold and sunny autumn day, a day of sharp outlines, and those streets seemed very real again: I had been beginning to hope that I had imagined them. It was a more upmarket district altogether, and in these neatly kept terraces and comfortable family houses, the rather sad diffidence with which they took their place in the world, I found echoes of Robin's melancholy presence. But then in the afternoon, having an hour or two to spare, we drove over to another part of town, where Robin had lived. All the places I had dreaded seeing again – my flat, the streets through which I had used to walk home from the bus, the university campus where most of my belongings were stored – they left me cold: I breezed in and out of them, level-headed and resolute. It was like this when I returned to Coventry. And what is still more surprising is the sudden pang of memory provoked by scenes and locations which you would never have credited with such power to wound. You have certain expectations: that a particular street, or room, or café, once revisited, will inspire a particular feeling, and you are surprised when it fails to do so.Sometimes, after long absence, you return to a place which has painful associations, and this can be an unpredictable experience