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Postcards always spoil my holidays. Last summer, I went to Italy. I visited museums and sat in public gardens. A friendly waiter taught me a few words of Italian. Then he lent me a book. I read a few lines, but I did not understand a word. Every day I thought about postcards. My holidays passed quickly, but I did not send cards to my friends. On the last day I made a big decision. I got up early and bought thirty-seven cards. I spent the whole day in my room, but I did not write a single card!

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It was Sunday. I never get up early on Sundays. I sometimes stay in bed until lunchtime. Last Sunday I got up very late. I looked out of the window. It was dark outside. ‘What a day!’ I thought. ‘It’s raining again.’ Just then, the telephone rang. It was my aunt Lucy. ‘I’ve just arrived by train,’ she said. ‘I’m coming to see you.’

‘But I’m still having breakfast,’ I said.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

‘I’m having breakfast,’ I repeated.

‘Dear me,’ she said. ‘Do you always get up so late? It’s one o’clock!’

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Last week I went to the theatre. I had a very good seat. The play was very interesting. I did not enjoy it. A young man and a young woman were sitting behind me. They were talking loudly. I got very angry. I could not hear the actors. I turned round. I looked at the man and the woman angrily. They did not pay any attention. In the end, I could not bear it. I turned round again. ‘I can’t hear a word!’ I said angrily.

‘It’s none of your business,’ the young man said rudely. ‘This is a private conversation!’

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