I could hear them in the kitchen. J

I could hear them in the kitchen. Joan was huffing as she put the dishes away. Mum was talking about global warming and Joan was saying she wouldn’t mind, but her legs were still pasty white. Then Joan said, “She’s moody this morning. You should have heard her snap.”“Why?” Mum asked. “Were you fussing again?”“No! Perhaps she’s heard from him.”I pushed myself out of the dining-bedroom and to the front door. I tried to hold the door open asI went out. It banged against my wheel. I listened. But they were busy arguing.“It smells of mouldy cheese in here.”“Don’t you dare spray any chemicals!” [...]The warmth was brimming outside. It was too hot for Manchester, even for July. The socialservices’ van drew up, large and cumbersome on this road of oak and beech trees and old ramblinghouses. I rushed past. Someone called my name. I ignored them with a smug feeling of rudeness as I clattered over the broken, uneven pavement and round the trees that seemed to burst from between the slabs.There was a bus stop on Delaney Road North. My arms were already tired and the movement was catching my back, the ache reaching into sharper, harder pains. At the kerb I halted. It was really high. I turned and went backwards, feeling the wheel go over the edge. A car beeped. It was right behind me. It beeped again and screeched off.I was shaking. What if I couldn’t get on the bus? What if it didn’t have disabled access? I crossed the road, but couldn’t climb the other kerb. I’d have to stay on the road till I found a driveway. Another car blew its horn and I tried to steer close to the pavement, circling each car.“Perhaps it was a freak occurrence,” the specialist had announced when I last saw him, as if I was some kind of weather. “Not everything,” he ruminated, “is known to man or science.” I wondered if he’d been talking to my mother. “There is evidence of neurological damage on the lower spinal cord, perhaps sustained after trauma. Have you had some kind of accident?” he asked. “The notes mentioned there was extensive bruising on your lower back... ”“No,” I said. Nothing. No one.He folded his arms and waited for more. I looked away and wiped something invisible off my skirt.I’d boxed up the fragments: the wooden stool beside me on the bed, its leg broken and bent; Radiohead7 playing in another room; the flashes of pain through a drunken blur; the murmured sounds of him talking to a housemate on the stairs before he left.On Delaney Road I joined the queue at the bus stop. They were fretting, glancing at watches andsquinting at the timetable. My eye line caught belts and girls’ bare midriffs. A little girl in a pushchair watched me, curious perhaps, at seeing an adult in a chair like her. Faces turned to look. I focused on my hands and knees, and scratched at the red paint on my chair.The bus drew up. The queue crowded at the door and piled on. Someone lifted up the pushchair. I edged closer and waited. When he saw me, the driver sighed. “Full up, love,” he said. “Already got the pushchair.”An old man next to me stepped up. “What do you mean?” There’s room,” he said. “Can you all move down? Can you make some room!”I could feel myself blushing. The bus driver wiped his forehead. The bus lowered and creaked till it was just higher than the curb. The old man pushed me on. “There you go love.”“Thanks.” I didn’t look at the driver, just said, “Return to Piccadilly.” “It’s free.”“It’s okay. I’ll pay.”“No love, the machine’s broken. Just get on.”I turned to find the rows of people staring. It’s a kind of stage, I said to myself. I parked in the wheelchair space, catching a woman’s bag and ankle. “Sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

Results (English) 1:

I could hear themself in the kitchen. Joan was huffing as she put the dishes away. Mum was talking about global warming and Joan was saying she would not mind, but here legs were still pasty white. Then Joan said, "She's moody this morning. You should be heard here snap. "
" Why? "Mum spurte. "Were you fussing again?"
"No! Perhaps she's heard from him. "
I pushed myself out of the dining-bedroom and two the front door. I tried two hold the door open as
I went out. It banged against my wheel. I listened. But they were busy arguing.
"It smells of moldy cheese in here."
"Do not you dare spray alanyl chemicals!" [...]
The warmth was brimming outside. It was too hot for Manchester, even for July. The social
Services' van drew up, large and cumbersome on this road of oak and beech trees and old rambling
houses. I rushed past. Someone called my name. I ignored themwith a sly feeling of rudeness as I clattered over the broken, uneven pavement and round the trees att seemed two burst from between the slabs.
There was a bus stop on Delaney Road North. My arms were allerede tired and the movement was catching my back, the ache Reaching into sharper, harder pains. At the curb in Halted. It was really high. I turned and went backwards, feeling the wheel go over the edge. A car beeped. It was right behind me. It beeped again and screeched off.
I was shaking. What if I could not get on the bus? What if it did not have the disabled access? I crossed the road, but could not climb the other curb. I'd be to stay on the road till I found a driveway. Another car blew its horn and I tried two steer close to the pavement, circling each car.
"Perhaps it was a freak occurrence," the specialist hatred meddelat da jeg last saw the sky, as if I was some kind of weather. "Not everything," he ruminated, "is known to two or science." I wondered if he'd er talking to my mother. "There is evidence of Neurological damage on the lower spinal cord, kanske sustained after trauma. Have you had some kind of accident? "He spurte. "The notes nämnde there was extensive Bruising on your lower back ..."
"No," I said. Nothing. No one.
He folded his arms and waited for more. I looked away and wiped something invisible off my skirt.
I'd boxed up the fragment: The Wooden stool beside Me on the bed, its leg bent and broken; Radiohead7 playing in another room; the flashes of pain through a drunken blur; the murmured sounds of sky talking to a housemate on the stairs before he left.
On Delaney Road I joined the queue at the bus stop. They were fretting, glancing to watches and
squinting at the timetable. My eye line caught belts and girls' just midriffs. A little girl in a pushchair watched Me, curious Perhaps, seeing that an adult in a chair like here. Faces turned two look. I focused on my hands and knees, and scratched at the red paint on my chair.
The bus drew up. The queue crowded at the door and piled on. Someone lifted up the pushchair. I edged closer and waited. When he saw me, the driver, regularity. "Full up, love," he said. "Already got the pushchair."
An old man next to me stepped up. "What do you mean?" There's room, "he said. "Can you all move down? Can you make some room! "
I could feel myself blushing. The bus driver wiped his forehead. The bus lowered and creaked till it was just higher than the curb. The old man pushed me on. "There you go laws."
"Thanks." I did not look at the driver just said, "Return to Piccadilly." "It's free."
"It's okay. I'll pay. "
" No laws, the machine's broken. Just get on. "
I turned two find the rows of people staring. It's a kind of stage, I said to myself. I parked in the wheelchair space, catching a woman's bag and ankle. "Sorry," I said. "I'm sorry."

Results (English) 2:

I could hear them in the kitchen. Joan was huffing as she put the dishes away. Mum was talking about global warming and Joan was saying she wouldn't mind, but her legs were still pasty white. Then Joan said, "She's moody this morning. You should have heard here snap. "
"Why?" Mum asked. "Were you fussing again?"
No! Perhaps She's heard from him. "
In pushed myself out of the dining-bedroom and to the front door. In tried to hold the door open as
In went out. It banged against my wheel. In listened. But they were busy arguing.
"It smells of mouldy cheese in here."
"Don't you dare spray any chemicals!" [...]
The warmth was brimming outside. It was too hot for Manchester, even for July. The Social
Services ' van drew up, large and cumbersome on this road of oak and beech trees and old rambling
Houses. In rushed past. Someone called my name. In ignored them with a alley feeling of rudeness as in clattered over the broken, uneven pavement and round the trees that seemed to burst from between the slabs.
There was a bus stop on Delaney Road North. My arms were already tired and the movement was catching my back, the ache reaching into sharper, harder pains. At the kerb in halted. It was really high. In turned and went backwards, feeling the wheel go over the edge. A car beeped. It was right behind me. It beeped again and screeched off.
I was shaking. What if I couldn't get on the bus? What if it didn't have disabled access? In crossed the road, but couldn't climb the other kerb. I'd have to stay on the road till I found a driveway. Another car blew its horn and in tried to steer close to the pavement, circling each car.
"Perhaps It was a freak occurrence," the specialist had announced when I last saw him, as if I was some kind of weather. "Not everything," he ruminated, "is known to man or science." In wondered if I'd been talking to my mother. "There is evidence of neurological damage on the lower spinal cord, perhaps sustained after trauma. Have you had some kind of accident? "he asked. "The notes mentioned there was extensive bruising on your lower back... "
"No," I said. Nothing. No one.
He folded his arms and waited for more. In looked away and wiped something invisible off my skirt.
I'd boxed up the fragments: the wooden stool beside me on the bed, its leg broken and bent; Radiohead7 playing in another room; The flashes of pain through a drunken blur; The murmured sounds of him talking to a housemate on the stairs before he left.
On Delaney Road in joined the queue at the bus stop. They were fretting, constantly at watches and
Squinting at the timetable. My eye line caught belts and girls ' bare midriffs. A little girl in a pushchair watched me, curious perhaps, to seeing an adult in a chair like here. Faces turned to look. I focused on my hands and knees, and scratched at the red paint on my chair.
The bus drew up. The queue crowded at the door and piled on. Someone lifted up the pushchair. In edged closer and waited. When He saw me, the drifts. "Full Up, love," he said. "Already got the pushchair."
An old man next to me stepped up. "What do you mean?" There's room, "he said. "Can you all Move down? Can you make some room! "
I could feel myself blushing. The bus driver wiped his forehead. The bus lowered and creaked till it was just higher than the curb. The old man pushed me on. "There You Go Love."
"Thanks." I didn't look at the driver, just said, "Return to Piccadilly." "It's free."
"It's okay. I'll pay. "
"No love, the machine's broken. Just get on. "
In turned to find the rows of people staring. It's a kind of stage, I said to myself. In parked in the wheelchair space, catching a woman's bag and ankle. "Sorry," I said. "I'm sorry."

Results (English) 3:

I could hear them in the kitchen. Joan was huffing as she put the dishes away. Mum was talking about global warming and Joan was saying she wouldn't mind, but her legs were still pasty white. Then Joan said, "She's moody this morning. You should have heard her snap."
Why? "Mum asked. Were you fussing again? "
"No! Perhaps she's heard from him."
I pushed myself out of the dining-bedroom and to the front door. I tried to hold the door open as
I went out. It banged against my wheel. The letters. But they were busy arguing.
It smells of mouldy cheese in here.
"Don't you give spray any chemicals! Residence [...]
The warmth was brimming outside. It was too hot for Manchester, even for July. The social
services'of drew up, large and cumbersome on this road of oak and beech trees and old rambling
Houses. I rushed in. Someone called my name. I ignored them with a smug feeling of rudeness as I clattered over the broken, uneven pavement and round the trees that seemed to burst from between the slabs.
There was a bus stop on Delaney Road North. My arms were already tired and the movement was catching my back, the ache reaching into sharper, harder pains. At the kerb I halted. It was really high. I turned and went backwards, feeling the wheel go over the edge. A car beeped. It was right behind me. It beeped again and screeched off.
I was shaking. What if I couldn't get on the bus? What if it didn't have disabled access? I crossed the road, but couldn't climb the other kerb. I'd have to stay on the road until I found a driveway. Another car blew its horn and I tried to steer close to the pavement, circling each car.
"Perhaps it was a freak occurrence," the specialist had announced when I last saw him, as if I was some kind of weather. "Not everything," he ruminated, "is known to man or science." I wondered if he'd been talking to my mother. "There is evidence of neurological damage on the lower spinal cord, possibly sustained after trauma. Have you had any child of accident? "he asked. "The notes mentioned there was extensive bruising on your lower back... "
"No," I said. Nothing! Not them.
He folded his arms and waited for more. I looked away and wiped something invisible off my skirt.
I'd boxed up the fragments: the wooden stool beside me on the bed, its leg broken and bent; Radiohead7 playing in another room; the flashes of pain through a drunken blur; the murmured sounds of him talking to a housemate on the stairs before he left.
On Delaney Road I joined the queue at the bus stop. They were fretting, shining at watches and
squinting at the timetable. My eye line caught belts and girls'bare midriffs. A little girl in a pushchair watched me, curious perhaps, seeing an adult in a chair like her. Faces turned to look. I focused on my hands and knees, and scratched at the red paint on my chair.
The bus drew up. The queue crowded at the door and piled on. Someone lifted up the pushchair. I edged closer and waited. When he saw me, the driver's reputation. "Full up, love," he said. Already got the pushchair.
An old man next to me stepped up. What do you mean? "There's room," he said. Can you all move down? Can you make some room! "
I could feel myself blushing. The bus driver wiped his forehead. The bus lowered and creaked to it was just higher than the curve. The old man pushed me on. There you go love.
"Thanks." I didn't look at the driver, just said, "Return to Piccadilly."
"It's okay. I'll pay."
"No love, the machine's broken. Just get on."
I turned to find the rows of people staring. It's a kind of internship, I said to myself. I parked in the wheelchair space, catching a woman's bag and ankle. "Sorry," I said. "I'm sorry."