PONS Kurzgeschichten: The Golden Teapot E-Book

Emma Bullimore

• Herausgeber: PONS
• Kategorie: Fremdsprachen
• Serie: PONS Landestypische Kurzgeschichten
• Sprache: Deutsch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Seitenzahl: 138

Beschreibung

Englisch lernen mit spannenden Kurzgeschichten Sie lieben England und alles was dazu gehört? Dann tauchen Sie ins Land ein und frischen Sie ganz nebenbei ihre Englischkenntnisse auf! Mit 20 abwechslungsreichen Kurzgeschichten rund um die Insel erweitern Sie spielend Ihre Lesekompetenz. Wortangaben auf jeder Seite helfen Ihnen dabei. Für Wiedereinsteiger (A2) und Fortgeschrittene (B1).

Leseprobe

The Golden Teapot

20 landestypische Kurzgeschichten zum Englischlernen

von Emma Bullimore Mary Evans

PONS GmbH

Stuttgart

PONS

THE GOLDEN TEAPOT

20 landestypische Kurzgeschichten zum Englischlernen

von

Emma Bullimore Mary Evans

Geschichten der Autorinnen im Einzelnen:

Emma Bullimore: Geschichte 1, 2, 4, 5, 7, 9, 11, 12, 15, 16, 18, 20Mary Evans: Geschichte 3, 6, 8, 10, 13, 14, 17, 19

Alle Personen und Handlungen sind erfunden. Ähnlichkeiten mit lebenden oder verstorbenen Personen und tatsächlichen Begebenheiten wären rein zufällig.

1. Auflage 2017

© PONS GmbH, Stöckachstraße 11, 70190 Stuttgart, 2017www.pons.de

E-Mail: [email protected]

Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Redaktion: PONS Verlag

Projektleitung: Canan Eulenberger-Özdamar

Logoentwurf: Erwin Poell, Heidelberg

Logoüberarbeitung: Sabine Redlin, Ludwigsburg

Titelfotos: Illustrationen: Shutterstock/Ziven, Wald: Shutterstock/Mny-Jhee, Teekanne: Shutterstock/joyfuldesigns, Schatzkarte: Thinkstock/Elena Schweitzer, Hut: Shutterstock/Claudio Divizia, Zielscheibe: iStock/Grafissimo, Flohmarkt: Shutterstock/g25

Covergestaltung: Anne Helbich, Stuttgart

Layout: PONS GmbH, Stuttgart

ISBN : 978-3-12-050112-1

EINIGE WORTE VORAB …

Sie lieben England, lesen gerne Kurzgeschichten und möchten etwas für Ihr Englisch tun?

Dann haben Sie sich für das richtige E-Book entschieden! Mit 20 heiter bis skurrilen, spannenden, manchmal nachdenklichen, aber niemals langweiligen Kurzgeschichten tauchen Sie ins Leben auf der Insel ein und frischen so ganz nebenbei Ihre Sprache auf. Unterwegs oder zu Hause – suchen Sie sich einfach Ihren Lieblingsplatz und lesen Sie los!

Die fett geschriebenen und nummerierten Wörter oder Ausdrücke zeigen, dass es hierzu Vokabelangaben gibt. Mit Klick auf ein fett geschriebenes und nummeriertes Wort öffnen Sie automatisch eine Fußnote mit der deutschen Übersetzung. Von hier können Sie zur Vokabelliste für das jeweilige Kapitel springen. Mit nochmaligem Klick auf das Wort in der Liste schließt sich diese wieder und Sie gelangen zurück zum Text.

Im Anhang können Sie nochmals alle Wörter und Ausdrücke in einer alphabetischen Wortliste nachschlagen.

Viel Spaß!

ÜBER DIE AUTOREN

Emma Bullimore is a British journalist, writer and translator, who lived in Hamburg, Berlin and Vienna, before settling down in jolly old London. After studying German at Oxford University, she went on to work at Stern, petra and Spiegel International before coming home to write for TV Times magazine. When she’s not interviewing Benedict Cumberbatch, Emma reviews TV on BBC national and local radio and translates for German theatres, scriptwriters and other creative folk. She loves dogs, stilettos and English chocolate (sorry Ritter Sport!). Twitter: @emmabullimore

Mary Evans lives, works and spends all her money in London. She is an author, journalist and scriptwriter and her debut children‘s novel, Who Let the Gods Out? was published in 2014. Mary has presented her stories at The Hay Festival, The Imagine Festival, schools around the UK and anyone who will listen to her on the bus.

INHALT

1. An Inconvenient King

2. Mayhem at the Manor

3. A Degree of Fun

4. Mr Taylor’s Terrific Toad in the Hole

5. You Shall Go to the Prom(s)!

6. A Picture Paints a Thousand Words

7. It’s Tough at the Top

8. The Secret Druid

9. Here Comes the Bride

10. A Different View

11. The Golden Teapot

12. Row, Row, Row Your Boat

13. One Man and His Allotment

14. Messing Around in Boats

15. Running into Trouble

16. If You Go Down to the Woods Today …

17. Bring and Buy

18. The Good Fight

19. Best in Show

20. Trivial Pursuits

FUSSNOTEN

WORTLISTE

1. AN INCONVENIENT KING

1st July 2012

What a frustrating day! I had a breakfast meeting this morning, so I set three alarms, and I was out of the door two minutes early. The traffic was unusually quiet, but when I pulled up at the car park opposite the office, I found a huge digger1, various tents, men dressed in white and a sign from the council2 saying something about an archaeological dig. In Leicester? Ridiculous.

2nd July 2012

I had to park my beloved new Mini on double yellow lines3 today. Sure enough, when I ran out to Marks & Spencer at lunchtime, there was a smug traffic warden writing me a parking ticket. Grrh! She took great pleasure in telling me the car park was going to be off limits4 for a while because they were digging up the skeleton of some old king.

I couldn’t believe it – something even more boring than the London Olympics!

4th February 2013

Finally they’ve confirmed it – that skeleton is Richard III! Everyone is talking about it at work, even with my headphones in, I can hear them. To be honest it gives me the creeps5. Why does everyone care so much? He’s not even handsome like Prince Harry. And didn’t he murder his nephews anyway? Meanwhile, finding a parking space is still a nightmare, especially now there are BBC vans everywhere. Apparently they’re looking at public records, trying to discover Richard’s celebrity relatives. How stupid.

7th February 2013

Work was so tedious6 today. The city is crawling7 with journalists because York and Leicester are now arguing over where Richard should be buried. Seriously, who cares? Anyway, Linda from the advertising department got interviewed by ITV lunchtime news, and we all had to gather round Sheila’s computer to watch her. It made me laugh – Linda’s always complaining about Leicester, but as soon as there’s the smallest royal connection, she suddenly loves the place.

12th December 2014

What a waste of time. I booked today off to go Christmas shopping, but I’ve spent most of the afternoon online, helping mum register for the Richard III ballot8. Apparently 5,000 people have applied for tickets for the funeral. What’s wrong with them all – doesn’t anyone have presents to buy? It’s getting beyond a joke9 now.

23rd March 2015

Getting anywhere was impossible today. The roads were blocked for Richard’s funeral procession10 and the streets were filled with thousands of people waving Union Jacks and waiting to see the coffin11. A bit weird if you ask me. I went to WH Smith’s to buy some biros (our office manager, Wendy, has been too busy on the BBC news feed to order stationery…) and even they are selling Richard III souvenirs. Paul from accounts12 went to the hairdresser’s and got himself a Richard III haircut. Idiot! And I got another bloody parking ticket… The actual funeral isn’t for three days yet. If I had the money to leave the country, I’d be on the first plane.

26th March 2015

Today was unbelievable. I wanted to stay indoors, but my dad sent me out to see if there were any Richard III fridge magnets13 left.

When I got to the end of the street, I spotted a familiar looking man, with messy black hair and a designer suit. He was looking at his phone, so I couldn’t see his face.

“Excuse me,” he asked, in a beautifully smooth voice. “My Google Maps aren’t working and I need directions to Leicester Cathedral.”

“YOU’RE BENEDICT CUMBERBATCH!” I squealed14 in his face. Not my coolest moment.

He smirked15. “Yes, that’s right. Apparently I’m related to Richard III and they want me to do a reading. But I’m a bit lost...”

“Just walk under the bridge, and you’ll see the crowds,” I said.

“Thanks,” he smiled and walked off fast. I didn’t tell anyone: they were all too busy talking about the ancient king. But I met a living, breathing showbiz royalty today, which makes up16 for an awful lot of parking tickets, if you ask me.

2. MAYHEM1 AT THE MANOR

One hundred years ago, Wycombe Manor was the wealthiest estate2 in the whole of England. It was owned by the generous Botham family, who employed countless loyal gardeners, servants and cooks, all of whom were proud to work at the country’s most beautiful stately home3. Once a year, Mrs Botham would invite the villagers to a grand ball at the house, and at Christmas she would serve mince pies4 during the annual carol concert. Visiting dignitaries5 would always admire the grand family portraits on the walls and sample the head cook’s famous steak and kidney pudding6.

But a century later and the world was a very different place. The Bothams had lost their fortune after several financial disasters; they’d waved goodbye to all but the most loyal staff, and the present Lord and Lady of the Manor were forced to open their doors to the public.

Now, every summer, coachloads of tourists would stomp over the perfectly manicured lawns7, leave chewing gum on priceless pieces of furniture and laugh at the one-armed statue on display in the drawing room8.

Meanwhile, the family would stay upstairs in their private quarters9, complaining and trying to come up with10 new ways to make money. They desperately needed funds to repair the roof, and keeping tourists out would be a great bonus.

That Thursday morning, the Botham family drank their tea and played cards as usual. They had just reached a very tense moment in their game of bridge when they heard screaming from the downstairs study, which these days was a gift shop selling Wycombe Manor pencils and postcards to tourists.

Horrified, they ran downstairs to see what all the fuss was about11. They imagined a burst pipe12 or a mouse brought in by one of the family’s ten cats, but the reality was far worse.

Standing there in front of them was a tall man, wearing a David Cameron mask and holding a gun. The intruder was aiming at a terrified tour guide, who was taking money out of the till13 as quickly as she could. But it wasn’t money this mysterious person wanted – it was the expensive paintings on the walls.

Lord Botham could see his butler desperately pushing the panic button14 hidden underneath the window sill. Of course the family hadn’t paid their security bills for months now, so the button was no longer wired up to the police station.

Feeling guilty, Lord Botham knew he had to act fast. It was his fault they were in this mess after all. Thinking fast, he picked up a fire extinguisher15 from the corner of the room and ran towards the criminal. The gun was now aimed directly at his forehead but he didn’t care.

Heroic Lord Botham held his nerve16 and sprayed the foam from the extinguisher straight into the masked man’s face. The gun immediately fell to the ground and suddenly he heard a familiar voice from behind him.

“Bertie, you stupid idiot, why did you have to choose today to be brave?!” It was Lady Botham, waving her fist17 at her husband. He turned back to the intruder, who was wiping the foam out of his eyes. Suddenly he realised it was his favourite gardener, Tim! Noticing the camera phones flashing in her face, Lady Botham walked up to her husband and whispered in his ear. “We were trying to get the insurance money18, you fool!”

“Ah,” said Lord Botham. “Could I offer anyone some tea?”

Of course the police couldn’t be fobbed off19 with a cup of Earl Grey, and Tim couldn’t escape a short stretch behind bars20 either (Lady Botham fluttered her eyelashes21 and got community service). But while they paid the price, heroic Lord Botham became a minor celebrity, appearing on talk shows, selling his story to The Sunday Times and even hosting an award at the BAFTAs.

By the end of the year, the Bothams were close to being millionaires again, builders had fixed the roof, and the house was in glorious condition. The only problem was that no company would insure it…

3. A DEGREE OF FUN

Marjorie had always had one big regret1 in her life. As a younger woman, she had decided university wasn’t for her – she had wanted to get out into the real world and get a job. Not for long, you understand. She had only been saving up to travel the world with her band, the Punk Princesses. Marjorie was going places2.

Thirty years later, and the furthest Marjorie had gone was a disastrous coach trip3 to Skegness. She had taken the first job she could find, working as a junior administrator4 in the Department for Work and Pensions. Her career had gone well enough – she was now a senior administrator – but her other plans never quite seemed to happen. The other three members of the band now worked as a teacher, an accountant5 and a chartered surveyor6, and she had sold her drum kit7 in her thirties to pay for unexpected dental work.

When Marjorie’s mother had passed away8 the year before, she had left her some money and a letter telling her to make the most of her life. Marjorie had been wondering how best to spend the money, but one day in August, as her daughter received her A-Level results, inspiration struck9. Marjorie was going to go to uni!

“But you can’t!” wailed10 her daughter, Rachel. “You’re too old! I’m the one going to university! What if I need my washing done?!” But Marjorie’s mind was made up. She hadn’t been this happy since her divorce. When she resigned from work, her colleagues were incredulous11. Kate even spat out her tea.

“What will you study?” asked Nigel from Human Resources12 at Marjorie’s leaving drinks13.

“History of Art,” Marjorie announced proudly.

“Why?” asked Colin from Finance.

“Why not?” replied Marjorie, looking around at the same faces she’d seen every day for nearly thirty years.

“And you’re moving into halls of residence14?” asked Faye from IT.

“I am,” said Marjorie, wondering how quickly she could get away.

“Hmmm,” said all of her colleagues in unison15, sipping from their lager shandies16.The start of term17 came round quickly, and before they knew it Marjorie and Rachel were in the car, driving to university.

“You have to pretend you don’t know me,” whined Rachel, not beating around the bush18. “The only things you’re allowed to do are cook for me and give me money, do you understand?”

“Of course, darling” said her mother, dropping Rachel off down the road as she had promised. “Have fun!”

Marjorie looked at her tiny room in the halls as if it were Buckingham Palace. She felt calm and content as she put out her new laptop and hung her clothes in the wardrobe – after she’d cleaned and dusted, of course. There were drinks for new students that night, and Marjorie couldn’t wait to party with the other kids. It was going to be wild... But at the drinks party, the only other people there were an exchange student from Lithuania and the cleaner.

“Where is everybody?” asked Marjorie.

“Lectures start at 9.00 a.m.,” explained the cleaner. “They’re all getting ready for the morning.”

Her explanation didn’t cut the mustard19. “But students don’t actually study,” insisted Marjorie. “They just have a great time!”

“University costs an arm and a leg20 now,” the cleaner replied. “No-one can afford a good time these days.”

Refusing to accept defeat21, Marjorie went to the shops and bought a box of wine, a crate of beer and bags of snacks. Back at her room, she laid out her food and drink, turned up her music and put a “Party! Everybody Welcome!” sign on her door. If university wouldn’t give her a party, she’d just have to make one.

It wasn’t long before there was a knock at the door.

“Hi, come in!” said Marjorie, forcing a beer into her guest’s hand.

“Er – no thank you,” said the young woman at the door. “I was just wondering if you could keep the noise down?“

“Oh – sorry,” said Marjorie, turning down her stereo as Rachel walked past and gave her a death stare22.

“Thanks for the booze23, though,” said the student. “I haven’t been able to afford any for months.”

With a heavy heart, Marjorie trudged off to the student union24 bar. This wasn’t what she’d hoped for at all. She might as well have gone to Colin’s quiz night at the local pub.

The student union was almost empty. Marjorie nursed25 a gin and tonic and was about to leave, when suddenly a group of people burst through the door in hysterics.

“Three pints!” shouted one of them, a tall man in his thirties.

“And a round of vodka shots!” called a woman from the floor, where she had tripped over her own shoes and was now rolling around laughing. “Make that two!”

“Finally!” thought Marjorie. “I’ve found my people!”