Fleetwood Mac shouldn't be involved in any part of the education process.

Ah. It seems that a blog a day keeps boredom away. For about ten minutes. I'm running out of things to say. Pfft. No I'm not. I'll eventually start talking about how awesome the colour orange is.

Anyhoo, exams. Exams. Bloody exams. Well, not literally bloody. That would take some effort on the SQA's part. To date, I've sat nine national exams, all in quiet and stuff. I did okay in the first eight, I believe that I did BAD in the ninth. I don't think they were expecting me to compare Willy Loman to Hecate in my essay. Ah well. I'm stimulating their lovely examiner minds. Look BEYOND what he... wrote.... No. No. I've failed. That aside, y'know, the whole smart bit, I LOVE taking exams. Here's some space to get over that:


It's for the sole reason that the invigilators are from the most bizarre sections of society. I mean, I don't leave once I've finished the exam. I stay and WATCH them live their cheeky lives. There's an ex French teacher of mine who walks around the hall looking at everyone's answers. Now I'm no expert, but that's GOT to be wrong. And when she takes your exam.... she addresses you by name, then follows it with 'you'll be okay'. I had no doubt in my mind that I'd be okay, Mrs C. Now I do. In addition to exFrenchteacherlady, there's also Fleetwood Mac man, who is... epic. He really is. His hair is longer than mine and he's a gentleman of the Arran jumper. I love him a little bit, because during every exam he's sure to fall over. Now, I'm fully aware that older people falling over isn't funny... but it is when the older person's the one preventing you from having a bit of a chat about answers.

That's why I love exams. It probably doesn't serve me well to... watch... people... all Shia LaBeouf in Disturbia, but it's better than going outside and being accosted by a teacher screaming 'HOWDIDITGO?DIDYOUPASS?' Ow. My ears. My little ears.