Cambridge English · Learner e-book
Ten arguments about Britain, settled (or not) in the English of the exam
B2 First · CEFR B2 · 10 units · 100 minutes of audio · Units 1–2 live, 3–10 in production
Ten units, one season of arguments — each stop one British institution and one piece of the B2 First exam. Work in order: the language builds, and each unit assumes the one before it.
Unit 1 · Britain, Arguably
Queueing, fairness, and an etiquette built on resentment — argued out until one side gives way.
Before anything new: sixty seconds, from memory, no notes.
The world believes the British queue is ancient national character. The evidence says otherwise: the orderly queue became a national symbol during wartime rationing, when the government needed images of discipline — and six years of daily practice turned a poster into a personality. Today the etiquette runs so deep that Wimbledon's Queue has a printed code of conduct, the great queue of September 2022 stretched ten miles with its own live tracker, and supermarkets have engineered the resentment out of the checkout with a single snake feeding many tills. This unit argues about all of it.
The story is called “Twenty Minutes of Silence”. A woman barges to the front of a post-office queue in front of eleven British people. Predict, out loud: what do the eleven do?
[MUSIC: theme, 4 seconds, under]
MAYA (brisk) This is Britain, Arguably. I'm Maya, he's Josh, and every week we take one British institution and argue about it until one of us gives way.
JOSH (cheerful) And this week it's the big one. The queue. The thing the whole world believes about us.
MAYA Believes correctly, Josh. And I say that as a woman who has been holding a grudge since Tuesday.
JOSH (delighted) Oh, tell me everything. What has happened?
MAYA What happened, past simple, one terrible morning, is this. I went to the post office on Tuesday. By the time I reached the counter, I had been standing in that queue for twenty minutes. Twenty minutes, Josh. I've stood in some queues in my life, but this one had a special quality. It hadn't moved. It had simply... existed. Like a monument.
JOSH And yet I notice you stayed. You've just described twenty minutes of your life you'll never get back.
MAYA Of course I stayed. Leaving a queue is a defeat. But here is the point of the story. At minute fifteen, a woman walked in, looked at the eleven of us standing in line — and went straight to the front.
JOSH (gasp of theatre) She barged in? In front of witnesses?
MAYA She flouted every unwritten rule we have. And do you know what eleven British people did about it?
JOSH Nothing. I know exactly what they did, because I've seen it all my life. Absolutely nothing.
MAYA Not quite nothing. There was a glare. There was a tut — a proper one, from a man in a raincoat. A tut, for foreign listeners, is the tiny click of the tongue which in Britain counts as open warfare.
JOSH That's the idiom to unpack, isn't it — we held our tongues. Everyone was furious, and nobody said a word.
MAYA We held our tongues and we seethed. Quietly, politely, in an orderly line. For five more minutes.
JOSH (laughing) And you've been telling this story ever since. It's Thursday, Maya. You've been dining out on that tut for two days.
MAYA I have, and I intend to continue. Because that queue proves my point. Queueing is our national religion. First come, first served — it's the fairest sentence in the English language.
JOSH See, this is where I come in, because I don't think that story proves what you think it proves. What it proves is that we've built an entire etiquette on resentment. Nobody stopped her, Maya. Eleven people watched a rule being broken, and the punishment was a noise smaller than a sneeze.
MAYA The punishment was social, Josh. That woman will carry the memory of that tut to her grave.
JOSH (dry) Will she? Or had she got her stamps and forgotten all of you by lunchtime? Because that's the thing about the famous British glare. It lands hardest on the people who already follow the rules. The ones who barge in have never noticed it. That's precisely what makes barging in possible.
MAYA You've been saving that line up, haven't you. You've had it in a drawer since Monday.
JOSH (happily) Since Sunday, actually. And while we're here — the supermarket has quietly settled this argument. Have you noticed what the checkout has become? One long snake of a queue, feeding six tills.
MAYA I have, and I approve of it enormously. No more gambling on the wrong line. No more watching the queue next to you glide forward while yours has apparently been switched off at the wall.
JOSH Exactly — they engineered the resentment out. First come, first served, enforced by barriers and a sign. Which rather suggests that when fairness really matters to us, we stop trusting the etiquette and build a machine.
[PAUSE: 2 seconds]
MAYA (reluctant laugh) That is a genuinely upsetting question.
JOSH Here's mine, then. Is the famous British queue really about fairness — or is it about avoiding conversation? Because a queue is the one place in Britain where standing in silence next to strangers is not only allowed but required.
MAYA It can be both. Fair play and blessed silence. That's called civilisation, Josh.
JOSH Or it's called a country that would rather stand still in a huff than say "excuse me" out loud. What I will grant you is this: it works. Nobody fights. Everyone takes turns. The line holds.
MAYA The line holds. That's the most British sentence you've ever said. Put it on the flag.
JOSH (grinning) After the break, I've brought numbers, and Maya has brought a tent. Stay with us.
MAYA (over music) The tent will make sense. I promise the tent will make sense.
[MUSIC: theme, 5 seconds, up and out]
---A magazine feature · 470 words
The line that learned to feel. Nobody has ever been taught to queue. There is no law, no diagram at the bus stop, no examination — and yet by the time a British child has finished primary school, she has absorbed a system of rules that visitors spend years decoding. She has learned where a line begins. She has learned that the person who has been waiting longest holds a kind of office. She has learned, above all, what has become of people who barge in.
The strange part is how recently all of this has grown. Historians who have studied crowd behaviour point out that for most of its history, a British crowd pushed like any other. The patient line has been running for barely eighty years — but in those eighty years it has been gathering meanings the way a hull gathers barnacles. A queue is now a small society. It has a border, which everyone has silently agreed to defend; a memory, because every member knows exactly who arrived when; and a court, which has been in continuous session since the moment the second person arrived.
The court's punishments are famously quiet. Someone who has jumped a queue in Britain has rarely heard a word about it — but by the time she reaches the counter, eleven strangers have tried her, convicted her and sentenced her, entirely by glare. Sociologists have argued for decades about whether this counts as enforcement at all. By the time the tut arrives, the offender has usually got what she came for; the people it stings are the ones who had been waiting properly all along.
And yet the system holds — because it has never really been about punishment. It is a machine for making fairness visible. Every person in the line can see, at a glance, that the rule is working: those who have waited longest go first, and nobody's elbows count for more than anybody's time. That is why the modern checkout snake feels so satisfying, and why online waiting rooms hand you a number. The queue has been teaching the same one-line lesson since 1940, and the country has been learning it, patiently, ever since: your turn will come.
The rule in one line: perfect simple reports a result or an experience (I have stood in some queues); perfect continuous reports the activity itself, still running or freshly stopped (I've been holding a grudge since Tuesday). Worked example: “By the time I reached the counter, I had been standing in that queue for twenty minutes.” — past perfect continuous, because the standing was a continuing activity measured up to a past moment. Ask two questions of every sentence: is the time frame open or closed — and is this about the activity or its result?
Simple or continuous? Type or say the full verb.
One error per sentence. Correct it.
Combine each pair into one sentence using the aspect in brackets.
[MUSIC: theme, 4 seconds, under]
JOSH (quick) This is The Evidence — the part of the show where we stop arguing and check. Maya believes the queue is ancient British DNA. I've been reading the history, and it isn't.
MAYA Go on then. Ruin something I love. It's what you're for.
JOSH The word first. "Queue" came into English from French, where it meant a tail. For most of our history, a British crowd was exactly that — a crowd. Pushing, shoving, elbows out.
MAYA I refuse to believe it. We invented standing in line the way we invented the sandwich.
JOSH The orderly queue as a national symbol is really a wartime invention. When food rationing began in January 1940, millions of people suddenly had to wait, every day, for almost everything. The government had been looking for images of national discipline — and the patient queue became one of them. Posters, newsreels, photographs. The message was: we take turns, that's who we are.
MAYA So by the time the war ended, the story had become true. We'd practised it daily for six years.
JOSH Exactly — a habit first, an identity second. Which is why the etiquette runs so deep now. Nobody teaches it. There's no law. And yet everyone knows precisely where the line begins.
MAYA My turn, then, because I've brought the modern evidence, and it's magnificent. Wimbledon.
JOSH (groan) The tent. Here comes the tent.
MAYA Every summer, thousands of people camp overnight in a park for tennis tickets — in The Queue. Capital T, capital Q. It is so famous that it has its own printed code of conduct. There are stewards. There are queue cards with numbers on them. People have been coming back every year for decades. You may leave your tent briefly for a cup of tea. You may not, under any circumstances, hold a place for a friend.
JOSH I'll admit it: a queue with its own rulebook and loyal fans is fairly strong evidence for your side.
MAYA And then there's the one nobody who watched it will forget. September 2022, when the late Queen was lying in state. People joined a line along the river knowing they would be walking and waiting for something like twenty-four hours. At its longest it stretched about ten miles through London. It had its own live tracker, its own wristbands — and people joined it anyway, in their thousands, through the night.
JOSH And here's what's interesting: many of them said afterwards that the queue was the point. Strangers talked. People minded each other's places — the courtesy rules relaxed for once. Not the waiting itself, but doing it together. The queue had become the event.
MAYA And notice where the etiquette survives in miniature, every single day. The escalator. Stand on the right, walk on the left — nobody has ever handed you that rule, and yet you've known it forever.
JOSH True — and the modern twist is that half our queueing has gone invisible. When you buy concert tickets now, you sit in an online waiting room watching a little bar crawl across a screen. You've been queueing for an hour and you haven't stood up once.
MAYA Ah, but have you noticed what the website gives you? A number. "You are in position four thousand and twelve." They learned it from us, Josh. Even the internet has worked out that people will wait, provided the waiting is fair.
MAYA So run the scores for me, data man. What have we established?
JOSH One: the eternal British queue is younger than my grandmother — it was built, not born. Two: built or not, it has been running for eighty years and shows no sign of stopping. Three: what looks like a line of silent strangers is actually a small, temporary society — with a border, a memory, and a strong opinion about anyone who barges in.
MAYA In other words, I was right.
JOSH (laughing) You were half right, which on this programme counts as a landslide.
MAYA Right, your Talking Point for this unit — and be honest, because we will know.
[TALKING POINT]
MAYA Think about queueing where you live. What are the unwritten rules — and what happens to people who break them?
[PAUSE: 5 seconds]
JOSH Now go one step further. Has queueing anywhere changed since everything went online — or has it just moved?
[PAUSE: 5 seconds]
MAYA I've been thinking about that one all week, and I still haven't finished. That's The Evidence.
[MUSIC: theme, 5 seconds, up and out]
| Item | In the unit |
|---|---|
| queue / queueing | Leaving a queue is a defeat. |
| queue-jumping | The gravest of British crimes. |
| orderly | We seethed quietly, in an orderly line. |
| etiquette | An entire etiquette built on resentment. |
| unwritten rule | She flouted every unwritten rule we have. |
| resentment | They engineered the resentment out. |
| glare | There was a glare. There was a tut. |
| tut | The click of the tongue that counts as open warfare. |
| barge in | She barged in — in front of witnesses. |
| hold your tongue | Everyone was furious; we held our tongues. |
| fair play | Fair play and blessed silence. |
| first come, first served | The fairest sentence in the language. |
| checkout | One long snake of a queue, feeding six tills. |
| stand in line | Eleven of us were standing in line. |
| seethe | We seethed. Quietly, politely. |
| courtesy | The courtesy rules relaxed for once. |
| huff | A country that would rather stand still in a huff. |
| flout | To flout a rule is to break it openly. |
| take turns | We take turns — that is who we are. |
| give way | We argue until one of us gives way. |
Where this unit pays off in B2 First: Use of English Part 4 — key word transformations love the perfect-aspect switch (“I started waiting an hour ago” → BEEN → “I have BEEN waiting for an hour”). Listening Part 2 demands exact-word transcription: the dates and distances of the Evidence are that drill. And Speaking Part 4 asks you to extend, justify and defend an opinion under challenge — which is precisely what Maya and Josh model for ten minutes.
Six retrieval questions — no looking back.
Unit 2 · Britain, Arguably
Weather talk, the agreement rule, and a machine that is never about the weather.
Recall first — Unit 1 rides along. Sixty seconds, no notes.
Dr Johnson noticed it in 1758: when two Englishmen meet, their first talk is of the weather. The raw material never runs out — Britain sits where wet Atlantic air argues with dry continental air, so the sky changes its mind constantly — and the state maintains an entire department for it: the Met Office, founded in 1854. The strangest monument is the Shipping Forecast, read on the radio in a strict ~370-word format and adored by millions who have never owned a ship. This unit asks what all that talking is actually for.
Maya called weather talk “the national anaesthetic” in print — and the letters are still arriving. Predict, out loud: what will the letter from the widower in Carlisle say?
[MUSIC: theme, 4 seconds, under]
MAYA (brisk) Britain, Arguably. I'm Maya, he's Josh, and this week we are arguing about the weather.
JOSH (delighted) Not the weather itself — the TALKING about the weather. The national pastime.
MAYA Which I attacked in print last month, as you know, and I am still opening the letters.
JOSH You called it — I have the column here — "the national anaesthetic". You said, and I quote, "we are not talking about the weather; we are avoiding talking about everything else."
MAYA I stand by every word. Listen to any bus stop in this country. "Bit grey today." "Still, it's not raining." "No, mustn't grumble." That is not conversation, Josh. That is two machines exchanging pleasantries.
JOSH And yet here's what I noticed when I read your angry postbag. The letters that disagreed with you — and there were sacks of them — kept telling you stories. May I read one?
MAYA (wary) You're enjoying this far too much.
JOSH I'm enjoying it exactly the right amount. A widower from Carlisle writes: "Since my wife died, the lady at the corner shop says something about the weather to me every morning. Some days it is the only conversation I have. It is never about the weather."
[PAUSE: 2 seconds]
MAYA (quieter) That's a low blow, printing that.
JOSH You printed the column. And notice his last line, because it's the whole argument: it is never about the weather. Small talk is a machine, Maya — you're right about that. But look at what the machine is FOR. It manufactures contact between people who have no other excuse for it.
MAYA Or it manufactures the appearance of contact, which is cheaper and looks identical from a distance.
JOSH Then let's run your own bus stop through the machine slowly. "Bit grey today." What is that sentence actually doing?
MAYA It's stating the obvious. Both parties can see the sky. The information content is zero.
JOSH Precisely — and that's the design. Because the content is zero, the risk is zero. Nobody has ever been offended by "bit grey today". It's an icebreaker with no ice to fall through. You're not exchanging information; you're exchanging willingness.
MAYA (grudging) Willingness to what?
JOSH To talk at all. It's a handshake made of words. And the reply is calibrated too. "Still, it's not raining" means: I accept your handshake, and I raise you mild optimism. The widower's shopkeeper is sending one signal every morning, and it isn't meteorological. It's "I see you."
MAYA You've been rehearsing that line all week, haven't you.
JOSH I've been polishing it, which is different. Rehearsing is for amateurs.
MAYA (laughing despite herself) Fine. But grant me my half. Because the machine has a dark setting, and you know it. Watch two colleagues who dislike each other meet at the kettle. They do the weather. They do the weekend. They're keeping the conversation going the way you keep a patient breathing — technically, and with instruments. The silence underneath is still there. Small talk didn't fix it; small talk is the lid on it.
JOSH Agreed — and I'll go further. The true horror is the acquaintance you meet on a train. Forty minutes to town. You do the weather in ninety seconds, you both nod along, the conversation trails off — and now you're sitting in an awkward silence WITH A WITNESS. The machine got you onto the ledge and left you there.
MAYA (delighted) So you concede it fails.
JOSH I concede it has limits. A starter motor isn't a failure because it can't drive you to Leeds. Its job is one spark. What happens after the spark is up to the drivers.
MAYA A starter motor. You're being generous to a fault, as usual.
JOSH And you're being deliberately gloomy, as usual, because gloom photographs better in a column.
MAYA One more concession, then, since we're keeping score. There is a setting where the machine produces the real thing: extreme weather. Give this country a proper heatwave — three days above thirty — and the small talk becomes genuine news. Strangers compare temperatures like war stories. A cold spell does the same. For one glorious week, everyone actually means it.
JOSH The machine and the message finally match. And the moment it drops below twenty-five, we go straight back to the ritual — "warm for October" — and nobody minds at all.
MAYA (beat) That's fair, up to a point, and I'm not thinking about it any further on air.
JOSH (grinning) After the break: The Evidence. I've got a doctor from 1758, an anthropologist at a bus stop, and a radio broadcast with a strict word limit that half this country secretly loves.
MAYA (over music) The word limit will make sense. Nothing else about that broadcast will.
[MUSIC: theme, 5 seconds, up and out]
---A blog post · 430 words
Why I am learning to love the weather chat. As I write this, it is raining. Not dramatic rain — nothing is being flooded, nobody is being rescued — just the fine, apologetic drizzle this island does best. And all over the country, strangers are turning to each other at bus stops and saying so.
I used to think they were wasting their breath. I am an economist by training; I count things. Two people exchanging the sentence “still raining, then” are transmitting zero bits of information — both of them are standing in it. For years I filed the habit under national inefficiency, along with separate hot and cold taps.
I am changing my mind. Watch the exchange properly and you notice what is really being traded. The words carry no news, and that is their entire job: because the content is zero, the risk is zero. Nobody is offended, nobody is exposed, nobody is being asked for anything. What moves between the speakers is willingness — a signal that says I see you, and I am not a threat. The weather is not the message. The weather is the envelope.
There are rules, though nobody teaches them. You do not contradict — if a stranger says it is cold, it is cold, whatever the thermometer is doing. You do not lecture — the forecast belongs to the radio, not the bus stop. And you do not linger: two exchanges, three at the outside, and the machine has done its work. People who ignore these rules are not corrected. The conversation simply stops happening to them.
My economist self still mutters that it rains here far too often for the topic to stay interesting. My newer self replies that interest was never the point. The country is not discussing the sky. It is checking, several million times a day, that the strangers are friendly — and the sky is simply the one thing everybody is standing under.
The rule in one line: the continuous means in progress and temporary — snapshots take it (it's raining), the character of a place or person refuses it (it rains a lot here), and state verbs — know, believe, own, want, understand — refuse it always. Worked example: “You're being deliberately gloomy” — BE goes continuous only when it describes behaviour: a temporary performance, currently in progress, and revocable. And always + continuous (he's always quoting my columns) is grammar used as a raised eyebrow: affectionate complaint.
Choose the correct form.
Correct the sentences that need it; two are already right.
Rewrite each complaint with always + continuous.
[MUSIC: theme, 4 seconds, under]
JOSH The Evidence — where we stop arguing and check. And the first exhibit is old. In 1758, Dr Samuel Johnson wrote that when two Englishmen meet, their first talk is of the weather.
MAYA Seventeen fifty-eight. So the machine has been running for at least two and a half centuries.
JOSH At least. And here's why the raw material never runs out: the weather here genuinely is worth mentioning. Britain sits where wet Atlantic air argues with dry continental air, so the sky changes its mind constantly. You can get drizzle, sunshine and a downpour before lunch.
MAYA Four seasons in one day — which, I note, is a complaint disguised as a boast.
JOSH Most British weather talk is. "Overcast again" is said with something close to pride. Exhibit two: the state has an entire department for this. The Met Office was founded in 1854 — one of the oldest national weather services in the world — and its forecast is practically a public utility.
MAYA My grandmother treated the forecast as scripture and the actual sky as an unreliable rumour.
JOSH Which brings me to the beloved oddity: the Shipping Forecast. A few times every day, BBC radio reads out weather for the seas around these islands — Dogger, Fisher, German Bight — in a strict format with a limit of about 370 words. Three hundred and seventy.
MAYA And almost nobody listening owns a ship.
JOSH Almost nobody! Millions have drifted off to sleep to it. It's weather information experienced purely as ritual — the small talk machine running with no listener to talk to. I find that genuinely moving.
MAYA You WOULD find that moving. All right — my exhibit. The anthropologist. One researcher spent years standing at English bus stops and railway platforms, studying exactly this, and concluded that English weather-speak has grammar. Rules. The first rule: a weather remark is a greeting, not a forecast. And the second rule is the one I love — the agreement rule. If a stranger says "cold today", you may qualify, you may soften, but you do not flatly contradict. "Cold today." — "Mm, though the wind's dropping." Never: "No it isn't."
JOSH Because — say it, Maya, it hurts you but say it —
MAYA (through teeth) Because the remark was never about the weather. Contradicting the weather is refusing the handshake. Fine. The machine wins this round.
JOSH And now, the grammar of the machine itself, because our listeners are collecting it. Weather talk runs on the continuous: "It's raining again." "The wind's dropping." "It's brightening up." Happening now, changing as we speak. But the CHARACTER of the place takes the simple: "It rains a lot here." One is a snapshot; one is the climate.
MAYA And the state verbs stay out of the machine entirely. You know the sky is grey — you don't "are knowing" it. I believe the forecast; I'm not "believing" it. Know, believe, own, want — they describe states, not actions, so they refuse the continuous.
JOSH With one glorious exception that proves the rule: BE. "You're being generous," you told me earlier. Not "you are generous" — a permanent verdict I'd have framed — but "you're BEING generous": a temporary performance, currently in progress, and revocable.
MAYA It was entirely revocable. I've revoked it.
JOSH (happily) There it is. And one last tool from the box: the continuous with ALWAYS, for affectionate complaint. "You're always doing this." "He's always quoting my own columns at me." Grammatically it claims the action never stops; emotionally it means: this is so like you. It's a small-talk weapon disguised as grammar.
MAYA He's always explaining my own language to me, listeners. You see how it works. It sounds like a report; it lands like a raised eyebrow.
JOSH Right — the Talking Point.
[TALKING POINT]
MAYA What is the small-talk machine in your culture — the zero-risk opener a stranger can always use? And what are its unwritten rules?
[PAUSE: 5 seconds]
JOSH Now the grammar drill, out loud: describe what the weather is doing right now, this minute — and then what it usually does where you live. Feel the aspect change between the two sentences.
[PAUSE: 5 seconds]
MAYA Lovely weather for it, listeners. That's The Evidence.
[MUSIC: theme, 5 seconds, up and out]
| Item | In the unit |
|---|---|
| small talk | A machine — look at what it is FOR. |
| chit-chat | Bus-stop chit-chat, calibrated. |
| icebreaker | An icebreaker with no ice to fall through. |
| pleasantries | Two machines exchanging pleasantries. |
| forecast | A greeting, not a forecast. |
| drizzle | Fine, apologetic drizzle. |
| downpour | Drizzle, sunshine and a downpour before lunch. |
| overcast | Said with something close to pride. |
| spell (of weather) | A cold spell does the same. |
| heatwave | Three days above thirty, and everyone means it. |
| break the ice | What the machine is built to do. |
| keep the conversation going | Technically, and with instruments. |
| awkward silence | With a witness. |
| acquaintance | On a train, for forty minutes. |
| catch up | “We must catch up properly some time.” |
| make conversation | The polite name for the machine. |
| nod along | You both nod along. |
| trail off | The conversation trails off at minute two. |
| common ground | The sky — guaranteed. |
| safe topic | Zero content, zero risk. |
Where this unit pays off in B2 First: Use of English Part 4 — the BEING and ALWAYS transformations are house favourites. Listening Part 2 hides the continuous in contractions (the wind's dropping). And Speaking Parts 1 and 4 are, frankly, small talk with marks attached: the candidate who can open, soften, agree and extend is running the machine under examination.
Units 1 and 2 together — the interleaving is deliberate.
Unit 3 · in production COMING SOON
Sundays, car boots, DIY — narrated in the past perfect.
This unit follows the same shape as Units 1 and 2: outcomes, recall starter, the culture behind the unit, two audio segments with word-for-word scripts, a grammar-loaded reading passage, the Grammar Clinic with three practice sets and answer keys, the vocabulary bank, the exam link, and the review. It unlocks when its scripts are authored.
Unit 4 · in production COMING SOON
The seaside holiday, imagined and real.
This unit follows the same shape as Units 1 and 2: outcomes, recall starter, the culture behind the unit, two audio segments with word-for-word scripts, a grammar-loaded reading passage, the Grammar Clinic with three practice sets and answer keys, the vocabulary bank, the exam link, and the review. It unlocks when its scripts are authored.
Unit 5 · in production COMING SOON
The British abroad.
This unit follows the same shape as Units 1 and 2: outcomes, recall starter, the culture behind the unit, two audio segments with word-for-word scripts, a grammar-loaded reading passage, the Grammar Clinic with three practice sets and answer keys, the vocabulary bank, the exam link, and the review. It unlocks when its scripts are authored.
Unit 6 · in production COMING SOON
Media and trust.
This unit follows the same shape as Units 1 and 2: outcomes, recall starter, the culture behind the unit, two audio segments with word-for-word scripts, a grammar-loaded reading passage, the Grammar Clinic with three practice sets and answer keys, the vocabulary bank, the exam link, and the review. It unlocks when its scripts are authored.
Unit 7 · in production COMING SOON
Inventions and industry.
This unit follows the same shape as Units 1 and 2: outcomes, recall starter, the culture behind the unit, two audio segments with word-for-word scripts, a grammar-loaded reading passage, the Grammar Clinic with three practice sets and answer keys, the vocabulary bank, the exam link, and the review. It unlocks when its scripts are authored.
Unit 8 · in production COMING SOON
The press.
This unit follows the same shape as Units 1 and 2: outcomes, recall starter, the culture behind the unit, two audio segments with word-for-word scripts, a grammar-loaded reading passage, the Grammar Clinic with three practice sets and answer keys, the vocabulary bank, the exam link, and the review. It unlocks when its scripts are authored.
Unit 9 · in production COMING SOON
Local life and community.
This unit follows the same shape as Units 1 and 2: outcomes, recall starter, the culture behind the unit, two audio segments with word-for-word scripts, a grammar-loaded reading passage, the Grammar Clinic with three practice sets and answer keys, the vocabulary bank, the exam link, and the review. It unlocks when its scripts are authored.
Unit 10 · in production COMING SOON
The national character.
This unit follows the same shape as Units 1 and 2: outcomes, recall starter, the culture behind the unit, two audio segments with word-for-word scripts, a grammar-loaded reading passage, the Grammar Clinic with three practice sets and answer keys, the vocabulary bank, the exam link, and the review. It unlocks when its scripts are authored.