Question 1 is about taking information from a source article and using it to create an imagined piece of your own. This question is worth 20 marks and you should spend about 45-50 minutes on it.
The question tests the reading objectives of:
- Understand and collate explicit meanings (Understand the literal ideas of the text)
- Understand, explain and collate implicit meanings and attitudes (Make inferences)
- Select, analyse and evaluate what is relevant to specific purposes (Find the best information to meet the question requirements)
These are worth 15 marks!
Your last 5 marks tests the writing objectives of:
Articulate what is thought, felt and imagined.
Order and present facts, ideas and opinions.
Understand and use a range of appropriate vocabulary
Use language and register appropriate to audience and context.
Make accurate and effective use of paragraphs, grammatical structures, sentences, punctuation and spelling.
This tests all the elements of your writing MOT.
To complete this question fully you will need to skim read the article first to get an idea of the main information in the text.
Then you will have to scan find key information you will need to meet the parts of the question (You will always be given 3 or so prompts of things you need to mention).
You will gain the most marks by:
Making inferences about the text / content / thoughts and feelings of someone rather than just stating what was in the text.
Imagine
you are the parents of Cal Flyn and are being interviewed by a reporter
about your daughter's adventures.
Write the words of the
interview with the reporter.
You should answer the
following questions:
Base
the report on what you have read in Passage A and be careful to use your own
words.
Up to fifteen marks will be available for the content of
your answer, and up to five marks for the quality of your writing.
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Passage A
My winter on a husky farm in
the Arctic Circle
Just over a year ago, I left my job at a national newspaper to work on a
husky farm, 130 miles within the Arctic Circle in the far north of Finland. I
handed in my security pass, packed away my notepads and prepared for a winter
in darkness and under snow. My reasons for leaving, I realised, as I tried to
explain my decision to friends and colleagues, were unclear. But, at 26, I was
restless. I was dreaming of Arctic landscapes, cold and bleak expanses, perhaps
in reaction to the noise and intrusion of London. Crowded living, urban
alienation; they make films about that, don’t they? So I found a farm near the
village of Hetta, deep in Finnish Lapland, that agreed to take me on as a dog
handler for a busy winter season.
November 6, London
In my suitcase: one down-filled jacket, one PrimaLoft insulating jacket,
four fleeces (varying heaviness), three pairs waterproof salopettes, two pairs
fleece trousers, numerous base layer tops and long johns, many pairs thick
socks (£21 a pop), head lamp, liner gloves, over-mitts, under-helmet balaclava,
two polar Buffs, climbing knife, three Christmas puddings, one bottle Russian
vodka. In summary, I’ve spent most of the money I’ve saved, and I haven’t left
London yet.
On my flight from Heathrow I find myself staring blankly at a page of
more than 100 husky mug shots I printed out before I left; I am meant to have
memorised their names by the time I get there, but I am distracted and panicky.
I put the page down and look out of the window instead.
December 17, Hetta
We are in the midst of a super-cold snap, with temperatures falling
below -30C. I can’t go outside for more than a few moments without fully
suiting up in cold-weather gear. The insides of my nostrils crackle with frost;
any hair left uncovered picks up a grey sheen, as though I’ve aged 50 years in
minutes. Occasionally my eyelashes freeze together. I learn that if any part of
my body sticks to metal, I mustn’t panic and wrench away, or I risk ripping the
skin clean off. One of the dogs, Monty, lost half of his tongue this way as a
pup when he licked a metal post. It nearly killed him, and it took months of
careful nursing and hand feeding in the house before he returned to work.
But while the temperatures drop, the tourist season is hotting up.
Lapland’s economy depends almost entirely on a few short weeks before Christmas
when visitors flood in from overseas. Suddenly it’s all go as we try to run as
many safaris as possible, often working from 7am till past midnight.
In a rush this morning, I sped with my team out of the gates and took
the first corner far too quickly. The sled flipped, dragging me through the
snow on my stomach until the bar slipped out of my grip. By the time I’d jumped
to my feet my dogs had overtaken the team in front and started a fight; I had
had to throw myself between the two teams and wrestle them apart, growling and
yelling. No harm done, but my nerves are jangling and my confidence has taken a
knock.
December 21, Hetta
While freeing two dogs that have become tangled in the lines, I stupidly
remove my gloves in -38C, and later find the colour has drained away from the
tips of my fingers. They also have an unpleasant needling sensation.
'Congratulations,’ Pasi says. 'Your first frostbite.’ I’m thrilled and show
them off to everyone.
December 25, Hetta and Valimaa
This week has been hard. We seem to be working non-stop and I haven’t
seen daylight in three weeks. This is the polar night. The sun will not rise
above the horizon for a further 10 days. It is dark enough to use head torches
for most of the day, but at noon the skies are incredible, streaked with
magenta and crimson and orange.
To tell the truth, I’m running on empty. Every waking moment for weeks
has been spent feeding or harnessing or sledding or shovelling snow or
shovelling shit. When, on Christmas Eve, I’m sternly told off for not cleaning
kennels properly, I’m so tired and it’s so unfair that I find myself in tears,
sobbing into a bucket of frozen meat as I chop it into pieces.
'Oh dear,’ Dot, another of the guides, says when she finds me. 'Feeling
fragile?’ I laugh. It is a bit ridiculous.
Christmas Day itself is just as dark and cold as all the other days but
it feels like we’ve turned a corner: the hardest part is over. The tourists will
soon return to wherever they came from, the daylight will return from wherever
it went. After a Christmas feast, five of us return to the wilderness farm. I
drive; others grab some sleep while they can. When we arrive, past midnight, it
strikes me how lucky we are. The air is so still and the sky is so clear, the
stars so incredibly bright.
Edited from an article by Cal Flyn in The Telegraph - Full article available here
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