The Plight of All Students

Waiting for the release of exam results is right up there with the diagnosis of pubic lice, the loss of a limb and being subjected to Nicki Minaj on the radio in a list of things that could be described as slightly more than a bit bothersome. Not least when those exam results are the sole indication of whether or not the last year of your life has been at all worthwhile. All that said, the other day I received my results for the first year of University. Through some sort of ancient witchcraft, I conjured myself up a 2:1, and quite a substantial one at that, making me, forever your blogging friend, a very happy bunny indeed.

          Sitting the relative exams for these particular results was no less strenuous than any other exams I had previously sat, in fact, actually slightly more. Now, I imagine most people would agree that one of the worst things about exams, bar the actual exam itself, is the head invigilator. Anybody who has sat an exam in any capacity before will know how power-mad the head invigilator is; they get to read out the exam rules, allocate other invigilating minions to particular spots in the exam hall and co-ordinate the dismissal of the students afterwards. These crazed, I.D. wearing super-dictators, you would think, could not get any more mental if they possibly tried. Think again. Because university invigilators get given a weapon; a tool of majestic supervision, a piece of equipment to aid them in their almighty task of telling students to stop talking. I talk of course, of the loudhailer.

          Christ they’re terrifying. Which brainiac thought that would be a good idea? Picture the scene: You’ve been sat in an exam room for one hour and fifty-five minutes; it’s a two hour exam. You look up frantically at the large sports clock suspended in front of you and will the minute hand to slow down from the seemingly rapid pace it has suddenly picked up. You are deep in concentration, trying to jot down, in any capacity, your final point; it’s the point that’s going to get you the first, it’s the point that’s going to give the examiner a hernia as soon as he reads it, it’s the point that even the great bard himself would congratulate, then, suddenly, your deep concentration is shattered:

         ‘YOU HAVE FIVE MINUTES REMAINING. FIVE MINUTES REMAINING!’

          The noise reverberates around the hall, echoes in your ear and the point is lost. Goodbye first. Goodbye herniated examiner.

          This has happened in both of the exams I have taken in the large sports hall during my first year and blimey that loudhailer grabs you by the jugular. It seems to be the primary source of amusement and annoyance for everyone when they walk out (apart, of course, from exclaiming how badly they’ve failed) and long, I imagine, it will be so.

          My next blog, in case you’re interested, will come after my imminent holiday to Barcelona/Benicassim. If my anticipation serves me I would imagine I’d have enough stories to write an epic novel upon my return, so look out for that. And with that said I’m bereft of anything witty or clever to say to round this little scribble off, so go away. Ta.