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The measuring season

Exams: The invigilators’ shoes that squeak like dying mice, the bunkers pulling funny faces against the windows, the breathless panic of the tardy. And things forgotten: like pens, quotes, the English Anthology, compasses, calculators, exam numbers, set t

“The rest of your life depends on them!” threatens Ms Grim at a final 11th year assembly. Yikes! Without that “C” in English, you could soon be another poor derelict, sipping cider under Waterloo Bridge. Dear me.

Well, we’re once again in the thick of the examining season. The little mites must scribble for their lives in grim exam halls. What a dismal ritual. You may care to tick off this drear list – or not: the tension hanging like gallows, the big clock ticking as tots tick boxes, the wobbling desks with mascots and various religious relics, the arrival of The Paper from the Pentagon Vaults, your relief at guessing the dull questions, the pens scrawling the received wisdom about things like photosynthesis, metaphors, quadratics, tectonics, trade winds, cosines, subtexts, the Holocaust, foreign policies or Cartesian co-ordinates.

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