Exams

The half term is over, and Tonbridge’s every covered space is full of regimented desks. Exam season proper is here. When I first started teaching, this induced quite a thrill of vicarious nervousness. It had not been that long since my own Finals and A’ levels. The sad truth is that it had also not been that long since my O’ levels. And now that GCSEs are being are being sat by a second generation, it is fair to say that my own exam experience feels like it happened quite a while ago. Now, in fact, the overwhelming thought when the exam tables go out, is how boring invigilation will be.

Invigilation. A bizarre word. It sounds like a medical process. To undergo invigilation should involve something being painfully removed. One’s vigils, perhaps. Whatever they may be. It would certainly be a process resulting in the unfortunate victim being left only able to silently walk up and down, automaton-like, in straight lines.

There are ways to make the time pass more quickly. It is always a joy when candidates – for that’s what your pupils have become – start asking for more paper. The race to provide extra sheets is a glorious form of minority sport. The race participant has to not only arrive at the relevant desk first, but he also has to spot the hand going up, and walk in a dignified fashion, as quickly as possible, in order to beat his fellow dignified competitors to the wire. Dead heats are quite common, at which point seniority comes into play. Undignified walking or any hint of breaking into a bustle result in obvious disqualification. However, at Tonbridge, I have so far been unable to persuade anybody to take part in my favourite invigilation pastime – exam battleships. This really has to be reserved for schools where one’s feet are well and truly under the classroom desk. The game is familiar. Certain lines of desks are designated as a competitor’s frigates, destroyers and battleship. Each invigilator then takes turns to take shots. These are achieved by standing behind a desk and giving the pre-arranged signal. Perhaps a cough. The game can get quite exciting. Lines of candidates can potentially get quite nervous about the extra attention they are receiving. A sunken battleship can be celebrated by a quite fabulously inappropriate display of triumph. A short exam can create almost unbearable tension in a difficult game. All so much better than simply trotting around with a handful of sweaty treasury tags.

Sadly, Tonbridge’s exam season is inducing a different variety of nervousness this summer. My sense of the growing inevitability of a summer of unemployment. Glyndebourne cannot now employ me until March at the earliest, and even my few performances of Barber of Seville are looking ever less likely as I continue to sport my unorthodox leg-wear. The Count’s costume, after all, consists of tights and breeches. One cyberman in search of temporary gainful employment. Isn’t that why we took those exams in the first place?