My friends and family haven’t seen or heard much from me during the past four weeks, but they are used to my annual disappearance. After a busy year teaching, I exhaust myself further by marking nearly 1,000 exam papers. The shift to online marking increases mistakes – tired eyes, tired wrists from placing electronic ticks on scripts.
As I mark, I try to guess from your handwriting what kind of person you are. I judge you if you dot every i with a circle or a heart. Are you male or female? Who are you? It doesn’t matter, though: your years of studying come down to a small amount of money for me; you are simply a candidate number on my screen worth £2-£5, depending on the subject I am marking. I try to stay focused, knowing that this pays for my annual holiday.
The monotony is broken at times by funny answers. I wish there were more of them. I want to tweet them but don’t for fear of being sacked. Were you trying to be funny when you said the White House was all you need to make an Act of Parliament? Do you really think a defendant walks free if he pleads not guilty? Someone needs to tell Gove – though maybe this is all his fault.
Blank scripts amaze me. How can you finish your years of studying and write nothing? Did something bad happen in your life? Was your teacher off ill a lot? Will the mark I give you mean you won’t get into university? This mark may make you cry tears of joy or tears of anguish in August. These thoughts go through my mind, before I remember I get paid per script regardless, and I click on to the next response.
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