Write the right answer to the question based on the context passage.

Ex Input:
With almost two years left of my law degree, and with no intention of doing anything so idiotic as actually attending lectures or studying law, I had plenty of time to come up with my next bid for online fame. The Griff Rhys Jones TV project had stalled after a couple of meetings when everyone involved realised that the idea - to pipe broadband comedy programming into the nation's workplaces under the noses of bosses - was a bit of a non-starter. But I had become quite good friends with Rhys Jones's partner in the project, a comedy writer called Charlie Skelton, and he, Clare and I frequently met to brainstorm possible projects we might work on together. It was during one of these meetings that Clare proposed the idea of starting a comedy magazine - something like Private Eye, but for the Internet generation.
My days as a school magazine publisher had taught me that printing magazines and distributing them was a royal pain in the arse and, anyway, if it was to be a magazine for the Internet generation then shouldn't it actually be on the Internet? The Zingin.com newsletter had attracted a ton of subscribers and had a distribution cost of basically nothing so why, I suggested, didn't we start a weekly comedy ezine, sent out by email? And, in a nod to Charlie's failed office comedy project, we could target it at bored office workers, sending the email to them on a Friday afternoon to cure the crushing boredom of those final few hours of the working week.
And with that, The Friday Thing was born.
To promote our fledgling publication we came up with a brilliant ruse: an online petition to have Friday afternoons declared a national holiday. British people worked harder than any other Europeans (we made up) and so it was only fair that our working week should end at noon on a Friday. We created an official website explaining our demands, registered a web address - letsgetitoff.com (snigger) - and sent a press release to the media. Clearly we had tapped into a seam of strong feeling among the nation's overworked journalists and the campaign was picked up by just about every major newspaper, local radio station and even made it on to the BBC. Question: Who would meet with the writer and Charlie Skelton to brainstorm projects?

Ex Output:
Clare


Ex Input:
In the cosmic scheme of things, this was relatively minor. But very annoying.
I had met a woman. Actually, at 19, she was still a girl. I lived in Pittsburgh. She lived in London, Ontario. She was, to put it bluntly, hotter than hell. On top of that, she's one of the sweetest, nicest people you were ever going to meet.
Needless to say, I was quite smitten, and quickly arranged to spend a week in London with her. When I showed up, she was wearing very interesting pajamas. At least for a few minutes.
Unfortunately, my two cats, who had never spent a night in my home without me being there, were, less than impressed when I didn't show up by 5 PM the day I left, despite having arranged for one of my parents to come over each day to feed them and make sure they had water, etc. Playing with them was optional, but neither would show themselves during that week.
Nothing looked amiss on the first floor to Mom or Dad. The food was eaten, the water, apparently drunk, etc.
When I got home and went upstairs I found something quite different.
There was a trail of toilette paper strewn all over the hallway.
My pillow was in the bedroom door and shredded.
My alarm clock was on the floor. The power cord had been pulled from the wall and chewed through.
There were several…uhmmm… "presents" in the middle of the bed, where they had pulled the sheets back. Some of them were still wet.
I figure that trip cost me somewhere in the neighborhood of $1k to repair the damage.
So I did what any 24 year old would do when faced with that situation.
I cleaned up, went to bed, and went back to London a few weeks later. But I cat proofed the house first. (Yes, they still lived with me for another 12 years before passing away.)
Like I said, she was wearing very interesting pajamas when I got to London. At least for a few minutes. Question: who was wearing pajamas?

Ex Output:
the girl the man flew to meet


Ex Input:
When a friend tells you she has wild roses blooming everywhere, it's not hard to imagine where the conversation headed to next… to turning them into rose petal jam, of course.
My friend Simona Quirini and her family run the beautiful Canto del Maggio, a B&B, restaurant and garden, about one hour's drive from Florence. We arrived to catch Simona with a wooden crate in her hands, already half full of blush pink flower heads, small and as fragrant as honey.
It wasn't just roses that were bursting out of their bushes with colour and fragrance. In fact, every time I go to Canto del Maggio, I notice how lush the property is with fruit, flowers and plants, and every season there are bounties to be collected. The first time I was there I noticed the myrtle bushes and heirloom fruit trees — little tiny, red pears and apples. The garden was full of summer produce and I stole green-skinned figs harbouring raspberry-red flesh off the trees. The next time I went, we picked ripe olives off the trees around the pool and took them down to the local frantoio, olive oil mill, to press the bright green oil out of them. I also came home with buckets of corbezzoli, or Irish strawberries, to make jam. This spring, I noticed the hedge rows of flowering wild strawberries and this last visit we picked the berries off them for an afternoon snack.
With the help of my daughter (who was slightly more interested in playing with Simona's new puppy), we filled a crateful of roses and picked the petals delicately off and into bowls. We were using the rose petal jam recipe and the technique I learned between two wonderful sources — Pellegrino Artusi's 1891 cookbook (this pastry recipe below is also inspired by it) and the Armenian monks on Venice's Isola di San Lazzaro Island where I worked for two autumns. The secret, other than having beautiful, small and fragrant roses to begin with, is in massaging the petals with a bit of the sugar and the lemon juice until almost a pulp to release the essential oils. Question: Who notes how lush the property is with fruit when she goes to Canto del Maggio?

Ex Output:

The narrator


