listening 2º parcial

now here I was in 1975, a quarter of a century later on a bus from London to Warsaw travelling with my 3-year-old daughter. It was a very chilly dawn when we reached the border. The sight from the bus window looked like a cold war movie set. I was very nervous. We had to pass up our passports. I noticed as I handed mine in, that it was damp. I must have spilled something on it during the night.

naʊ hɪə aɪ wəz ɪn ˌnaɪnˈtiːn ˈsevntɪ faɪv ə ˈkwɔːtər əv ə ˈsenʧərɪ ˈleɪtər ɒn ə bʌs frəm ˈlʌndən tu ˈwɔːsɔː ˈtrævəlɪŋ wɪð maɪ θriː jɜːr əʊld ˈdɔːtə

ɪt wəz ə ˈverɪ ˈʧɪli dɔːn wen wi riːʧt ðə ˈbɔːdə

ðə saɪt frəm ðə bʌs ˈwɪndəʊ lʊkt laɪk ə kəʊld wɔːr ˈmuːvɪ set

aɪ wəz ˈverɪ ˈnɜːvəs

wi həd tu pɑːs ʌp ˈaʊə ˈpɑːspɔːts

aɪ ˈnəʊtɪst əz aɪ ˈhændɪd maɪn ɪn ðət ɪt wəz dæmp

aɪ məst həv spɪld ˈsʌmθɪŋ ɒn ɪt ˈdjʊərɪŋ ðə naɪt