Bassim
VIP Member
- Joined
- Mar 1, 2008
- Member Type
- Student or Learner
- Native Language
- Bosnian
- Home Country
- Bosnia Herzegovina
- Current Location
- Sweden
Would you please correct the mistakes in my text?
When Rosalie, the Prime Minister’s mum, visited her son for the first time after he had won the election, she didn’t mince her words.
“My poor Andy, my poor child,” she said, holding her hands together in front of her. “How could you allow yourself to be dominated by your wife?”
“Mum—”
“Please, don’t tell me anything. Your father must be turning in his grave.”
“Mum, let me explain—”
“No self-respecting man should let that happen. Don’t you remember how I taught you to be the real man all the time. Don’t you see, my poor child, that you have turned out to be a sissy?”
“Please, mum—”
“Don’t interrupt me. You shame me, child. The whole country is scoffing at you. You’ve become a laughing stock. Everybody says it is she who makes decisions, who sacks people as she pleases, and gives jobs to her friends. How can you allow that to happen? Don’t you have b*ls?”
“Mum, don’t believe all the papers say. It’s I who make decisions. Samantha isn’t interested in politics at all.”
“You’re gullible like a nun. I’m a woman, I know how women think. I warn you, son, if you aren’t watchful, she’ll throw you on the street and appoint herself the Prime Minister, and you can stand outside, homeless, and destitute, and curse your own nativity. She’ll cast a spell on Parliament, and they’ll dance to her tune, because they are stupid men.”
“Mum, please don’t exaggerate. I know Samantha well. We love each other. She’ll never do anything to harm me.”
Rosalie shook her head. “You’re so naïve, son. You’ll never know how women think, even if you lived two hundred years. By the way, where is she? I didn’t see her when I arrived.”
“She'd gone to Paris.”
“Paris! Alone? What is she doing there?”
“She went to buy some curtains.”
Rosalie looked up at the ceiling. “Oh God. Why did I give birth to an idiot? I see a pair of horns growing on your head. And when we are talking about your head, please have a proper haircut, son. You can’t go around with such untidy hair. You’re not a boy anymore.”
“Yes, Mum.”
When Rosalie, the Prime Minister’s mum, visited her son for the first time after he had won the election, she didn’t mince her words.
“My poor Andy, my poor child,” she said, holding her hands together in front of her. “How could you allow yourself to be dominated by your wife?”
“Mum—”
“Please, don’t tell me anything. Your father must be turning in his grave.”
“Mum, let me explain—”
“No self-respecting man should let that happen. Don’t you remember how I taught you to be the real man all the time. Don’t you see, my poor child, that you have turned out to be a sissy?”
“Please, mum—”
“Don’t interrupt me. You shame me, child. The whole country is scoffing at you. You’ve become a laughing stock. Everybody says it is she who makes decisions, who sacks people as she pleases, and gives jobs to her friends. How can you allow that to happen? Don’t you have b*ls?”
“Mum, don’t believe all the papers say. It’s I who make decisions. Samantha isn’t interested in politics at all.”
“You’re gullible like a nun. I’m a woman, I know how women think. I warn you, son, if you aren’t watchful, she’ll throw you on the street and appoint herself the Prime Minister, and you can stand outside, homeless, and destitute, and curse your own nativity. She’ll cast a spell on Parliament, and they’ll dance to her tune, because they are stupid men.”
“Mum, please don’t exaggerate. I know Samantha well. We love each other. She’ll never do anything to harm me.”
Rosalie shook her head. “You’re so naïve, son. You’ll never know how women think, even if you lived two hundred years. By the way, where is she? I didn’t see her when I arrived.”
“She'd gone to Paris.”
“Paris! Alone? What is she doing there?”
“She went to buy some curtains.”
Rosalie looked up at the ceiling. “Oh God. Why did I give birth to an idiot? I see a pair of horns growing on your head. And when we are talking about your head, please have a proper haircut, son. You can’t go around with such untidy hair. You’re not a boy anymore.”
“Yes, Mum.”
