There are, apparently, people who thrive in exam situations. While I am sure these people exist, I have never actually met one, or if I have, they certainly haven’t said: “Ooh, an exam – I can’t wait!” In fact, judging by the faces of all the people who were waiting with me when I took my last exam, no one was looking forward to it. No one could speak. Most had the expression of someone about to face a firing squad. Most were doing last minute revision. I have come to the conclusion that this is probably a good idea. It must be better to have something other than everyone else’s terrified face to focus on in those last few minutes.
I’ve done three exams now – and they all reduced me to a gibbering wreck. I get obsessed about revision. From the minute the last TMA is sent off, it starts. All my waking hours and, if my dreams are anything to go by, much of my sleeping ones too, are filled with frantic (and largely futile) fact-cramming. I really envy those blessed with a photographic memory. In photography terms my memory is like one of those sepia photos of your great-grandma looking faded and scratched.
In my first exam I tried to be too clever and revised selectively. I realised as I read the exam paper through that by doing that I was leaving an awful lot down to luck – and I was particularly unlucky that day with not one question that I felt I could answer properly. I learnt by my mistake, and in my second exam I revised everything comprehensively. I made fact sheets, mind-maps, study cards (I even laminated them and made them into a small book to carry everywhere). I thought this had paid off when I read the exam paper – there were several I felt I could do. I have no idea why, then, I actually got a lower mark than in my first exam. Third time lucky perhaps – I did some selective revision, but did it much more thoroughly. I did find three questions that kept me fully occupied for the three hours, but I know deep down I could have done better. My sieve mind just cannot retain facts. As I enter the exam room all my knowledge goes down the plughole and I am left with a pan of mushy overcooked cauliflower.
So I would much rather do an End of Course Assessment (ECA). I like being able to do them when I am in the mood, at my own pace, producing something I am much happier with – and perhaps more to the point – getting much better marks. To do that I need thinking time and a comfortable chair. Not sitting there feeling too embarrassed to ask to go to the loo. I enjoy the simple things like being able to not only rattle my sweet papers, but to nip round to the shop to get a big bar of chocolate mid-paragraph. Humming to myself. An endless supply of coffee. Not having to suffer the humiliation of having my passport photo examined. And – oh the absolute bliss of not having to use a pen.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Monday, October 13, 2008
In the beginning...
I can be impulsive. I’m not much of a planner. Act – then think, is usually my approach. So sending off (on a whim) for the OU course guide was an impulse. By the time it arrived, and I’d idly flipped through a few pages, it was out of my system, and it went in the bin. Then I made the mistake (or not…?) of telling my boss, thinking she’d laugh, and say, “How foolish of you. What on earth gave YOU the impression you’d be able to do something like that!” Instead she virtually demanded I retrieved it and brought it into work.
Within a couple of months I was doing an ‘Openings’ course, and so the OU addiction began. Six years later and I am just about allowing myself to think that a degree isn’t out of the question. Although I’ve been working towards a BA (Hons), I haven’t really thought much about it. I’ve been taking it a course at a time. "Just get through them, don’t think too much about the future, or what if…", I've said to myself. Of course I can do this because I’m not doing it for career purposes. I’m 50 now and I can’t imagine me doing anything life changing – it’s been more a voyage of discovery. What I could have achieved had I not given up on education when I failed the eleven plus. Pretty much all my time at school after that was spent plotting and scheming disruptive behaviour – the one thing I really was good at, and I left with 2 ‘O’ levels. I suppose because a degree isn’t the main goal, I can’t really imagine an ‘end’ at the moment. I’ve already found a course to keep me occupied during the wait for results of what should be my last exam. Then what? Am I going to be able to ‘let go’? Or will I keep finding something else? What happens when I run out of 10 pointers? Will I try a 30? How long before I find a 60-pointer to do ‘just for fun’?
Within a couple of months I was doing an ‘Openings’ course, and so the OU addiction began. Six years later and I am just about allowing myself to think that a degree isn’t out of the question. Although I’ve been working towards a BA (Hons), I haven’t really thought much about it. I’ve been taking it a course at a time. "Just get through them, don’t think too much about the future, or what if…", I've said to myself. Of course I can do this because I’m not doing it for career purposes. I’m 50 now and I can’t imagine me doing anything life changing – it’s been more a voyage of discovery. What I could have achieved had I not given up on education when I failed the eleven plus. Pretty much all my time at school after that was spent plotting and scheming disruptive behaviour – the one thing I really was good at, and I left with 2 ‘O’ levels. I suppose because a degree isn’t the main goal, I can’t really imagine an ‘end’ at the moment. I’ve already found a course to keep me occupied during the wait for results of what should be my last exam. Then what? Am I going to be able to ‘let go’? Or will I keep finding something else? What happens when I run out of 10 pointers? Will I try a 30? How long before I find a 60-pointer to do ‘just for fun’?
Tutorials
The course that’s currently keeping me busy is the first one where I haven’t been able to attend any of the tutorials. The reason being the travelling time would be much longer than the tutorial itself. It would involve a bus journey (and the associated waiting time), a train journey (ditto) and a further bus journey (tedious). If I could guarantee no waiting time or delays I think I’d probably go – but making time allowances for every eventuality usually means arriving ridiculously early, because when you make such allowances, invariably everything runs like clockwork. Then, after two hours of tutorial, the reverse journey home. Not really knowing which side the road to stand on to get back to the City. Waiting for my train. Waiting for my bus. We’re talking about being out for at least 8 hours – all for a 2 hour tutorial. Just think what I could achieve in 8 hours in essay writing terms – at least a paragraph.
At this point I suppose I should confess that I own a car, but due to a 25 year gap between passing my test (in a sleepy country place) and driving again (in today’s traffic madness) – I am just too scared. I’m one of the few people who can make £20 worth of petrol last over a year. So driving to the tutorial isn’t an option. Also, I can’t park. I rarely go backwards. A simple trip to the local supermarket has the same effect on me as going on every white knuckle ride at Alton Towers. I’m not really clear about overtaking, although it’s rarely an issue – the only things I tend to catch up are milk-floats and aging vicars going uphill on bikes – and they can make surprisingly abusive hand signals if you accidentally catch their cassocks with your wing-mirror.
So, in missing these tutorials, I do feel I have missed out. I like ‘people watching’ and tutorials are great places to do this. At every tutorial I’ve been to, there is always a ‘Maggie’ – not someone called Maggie – it’s just the first one I encountered reminded me of Mrs Thatcher. They feel compelled to voice all their opinions on every subject, and they are always right, even when they are wrong. It can be particularly tiresome when they disagree with every point made by the tutor, although this can be when it gets interesting. Everyone else can sit back, watch the show, and see who cracks first. As I work in a school I am aware that – unlike when I was at school – the teachers are not so quick to say that an answer is wrong. “That’s a good answer,” they will say, “but have you thought about ...” or, “Not quite – but it was a very good try.” (Yes – it’s a Primary school.) And I have witnessed a similar approach by tutors. And ‘Maggie’ – the first Maggie that is – seemed Hell bent on disagreeing with pretty much everything the tutor said. After a couple of weeks of pussyfooting around, the tutor realised that her “Oh that’s an interesting thought, Maggie… but have you considered…” approach was totally pointless. Maggie was being particularly stubborn over something the tutor had said, and finally the tutor cracked. As Maggie launched into what looked like being a lengthy explanation on why she was right (yet again), the tutor stopped her in her tracks with a “NO”, and a silent cheer in knowing-look form passed between the rest of the students.
Another year, another course, and the ‘Maggie’ was a man who wore the same stripy jumper to every tutorial. I wittily called him ‘Stripy’ (not to his face, obviously – not only am I not that rude, he never shut up long enough for any other students to speak). When the tutor was speaking, 'Stripy' and 'Morticia', the woman who always sat next to him would sit whispering and canoodling. By the end of the course I decided they must have been having an affair. Perhaps going to tutorials was the only way they could get to see each other. I did wonder though why they didn’t just pretend to do the course and use the money they saved to get a hotel room.
A personal favourite of mine was ‘Minty’. Not the mechanic from Eastenders, but a woman who spent an entire day-school crunching her way through a seemingly endless supply of mints. She reminded me of a Thellwell Shetland pony. I lost count eventually, but by lunchtime she was definitely on the eleventh packet. Although these people did get on my nerves, I do sort of miss them, and I wonder - is it only me that gives the other students nick-names, or does everyone do it? If so – I wonder what they call me.
At this point I suppose I should confess that I own a car, but due to a 25 year gap between passing my test (in a sleepy country place) and driving again (in today’s traffic madness) – I am just too scared. I’m one of the few people who can make £20 worth of petrol last over a year. So driving to the tutorial isn’t an option. Also, I can’t park. I rarely go backwards. A simple trip to the local supermarket has the same effect on me as going on every white knuckle ride at Alton Towers. I’m not really clear about overtaking, although it’s rarely an issue – the only things I tend to catch up are milk-floats and aging vicars going uphill on bikes – and they can make surprisingly abusive hand signals if you accidentally catch their cassocks with your wing-mirror.
So, in missing these tutorials, I do feel I have missed out. I like ‘people watching’ and tutorials are great places to do this. At every tutorial I’ve been to, there is always a ‘Maggie’ – not someone called Maggie – it’s just the first one I encountered reminded me of Mrs Thatcher. They feel compelled to voice all their opinions on every subject, and they are always right, even when they are wrong. It can be particularly tiresome when they disagree with every point made by the tutor, although this can be when it gets interesting. Everyone else can sit back, watch the show, and see who cracks first. As I work in a school I am aware that – unlike when I was at school – the teachers are not so quick to say that an answer is wrong. “That’s a good answer,” they will say, “but have you thought about ...” or, “Not quite – but it was a very good try.” (Yes – it’s a Primary school.) And I have witnessed a similar approach by tutors. And ‘Maggie’ – the first Maggie that is – seemed Hell bent on disagreeing with pretty much everything the tutor said. After a couple of weeks of pussyfooting around, the tutor realised that her “Oh that’s an interesting thought, Maggie… but have you considered…” approach was totally pointless. Maggie was being particularly stubborn over something the tutor had said, and finally the tutor cracked. As Maggie launched into what looked like being a lengthy explanation on why she was right (yet again), the tutor stopped her in her tracks with a “NO”, and a silent cheer in knowing-look form passed between the rest of the students.
Another year, another course, and the ‘Maggie’ was a man who wore the same stripy jumper to every tutorial. I wittily called him ‘Stripy’ (not to his face, obviously – not only am I not that rude, he never shut up long enough for any other students to speak). When the tutor was speaking, 'Stripy' and 'Morticia', the woman who always sat next to him would sit whispering and canoodling. By the end of the course I decided they must have been having an affair. Perhaps going to tutorials was the only way they could get to see each other. I did wonder though why they didn’t just pretend to do the course and use the money they saved to get a hotel room.
A personal favourite of mine was ‘Minty’. Not the mechanic from Eastenders, but a woman who spent an entire day-school crunching her way through a seemingly endless supply of mints. She reminded me of a Thellwell Shetland pony. I lost count eventually, but by lunchtime she was definitely on the eleventh packet. Although these people did get on my nerves, I do sort of miss them, and I wonder - is it only me that gives the other students nick-names, or does everyone do it? If so – I wonder what they call me.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
eTMAs
I love some aspects of the eTMA system. I love not having to discover that I’ve misplaced my stash of PT3 forms, or that my large envelope supply has been raided by the kids, or that it’s raining, and the Post Office is due to close in about 3 minutes. And I love not having to face Medusa, the sour-faced dragon. I always seem to end up at her window; I never get the smiley friendly woman. Asking Medusa for a proof of postage always elicits a scathing look, like I’m accusing her of being incapable of getting my envelope into a sack a mere 2 feet away, or suggesting she sets fire to my essays in her tea-break. And when I ask for it to go first-class, she always insists telling me the second class price as well. Perhaps she judges me by my post-TMA bedraggled appearance, and assumes I need every penny I can get. Then she says, in a sarcastic tone of voice, “Are the contents worth anything?”
“No.” I reply, with the doomed feeling that my latest offering is completely worthless. Oh but the joy of walking away from the Post Office with a spring in my step, thinking, “It’s gone! It’s posted! Tra-La-La…” as I skip home. THAT I miss.
Somehow a few simple mouse-clicks never really convinces me that it’s actually gone. I imagine it floating around in cyber-space for all eternity. Perhaps it doesn’t feel ‘gone’ because it’s still there, on my desktop. Looking at me. Taunting me. Saying, “Go on, open me up again, have another read and discover all those typos you missed!”
You know the ones – those that remain invisible until just after the deadline has passed, but then suddenly become the most obvious things in the world. And I always have at least one weird sentence that makes no sense at all because careless cutting and pasting has left the full stop dangling somewhere in the middle.
I’ve also had to change my ‘opening ritual’. Coming home to a returned postal TMA was always exciting. (A letter addressed to me that wasn’t a bill was always a bonus). It was more of an opening ceremony than opening an envelope.
Step one – ignore the envelope and make a cup of coffee, and find a Chunky Kit-Kat (vital). Step 2 - sit down and look at envelope for a while.
Step 3 – open the envelope carefully, ensuring contents are face down. (Don’t want to catch sight of the words “THIS IS UTTER WAFFLE” written across the PT3 form.)
Step 4 – remember I am not at school now, and tutors tend not to make the ‘waffle’ comment.
Step 5 - slowly turn the contents over to reveal the mark. If disappointed, eat the Kit-Kat and drink the coffee before reading the comments and finding out what went wrong. If happy – celebrate with the Kit-Kat.
Now I have had to get used to checking the eTMA system, and because one of my tutors once returned an essay within 24 hours (a record), a couple of days after the deadline has passed I get this compulsion to check. Yes – I know you get an email when it’s been marked, but the trick for me is to catch the returning eTMA before the email hits the in-box. This means checking at least every 5 minutes. The bit I have yet to come to terms with though is having the mark up on the screen. It’s too soon – I need that ‘thought-gathering’ time to prepare myself for any sudden shocks.
By far the best thing about eTMAs is being able to read the tutors’ comments. I once had a tutor whose writing was so “alternative”, he couldn’t actually read it himself. It’s not easy trying to respond to feedback that looks like it’s been written with the feathery end of a quill, on a windy dark night, half way up a mountain, by someone whose just consumed 4 bottles of vodka. (Oh – I’ve just described my own hand writing!)
“No.” I reply, with the doomed feeling that my latest offering is completely worthless. Oh but the joy of walking away from the Post Office with a spring in my step, thinking, “It’s gone! It’s posted! Tra-La-La…” as I skip home. THAT I miss.
Somehow a few simple mouse-clicks never really convinces me that it’s actually gone. I imagine it floating around in cyber-space for all eternity. Perhaps it doesn’t feel ‘gone’ because it’s still there, on my desktop. Looking at me. Taunting me. Saying, “Go on, open me up again, have another read and discover all those typos you missed!”
You know the ones – those that remain invisible until just after the deadline has passed, but then suddenly become the most obvious things in the world. And I always have at least one weird sentence that makes no sense at all because careless cutting and pasting has left the full stop dangling somewhere in the middle.
I’ve also had to change my ‘opening ritual’. Coming home to a returned postal TMA was always exciting. (A letter addressed to me that wasn’t a bill was always a bonus). It was more of an opening ceremony than opening an envelope.
Step one – ignore the envelope and make a cup of coffee, and find a Chunky Kit-Kat (vital). Step 2 - sit down and look at envelope for a while.
Step 3 – open the envelope carefully, ensuring contents are face down. (Don’t want to catch sight of the words “THIS IS UTTER WAFFLE” written across the PT3 form.)
Step 4 – remember I am not at school now, and tutors tend not to make the ‘waffle’ comment.
Step 5 - slowly turn the contents over to reveal the mark. If disappointed, eat the Kit-Kat and drink the coffee before reading the comments and finding out what went wrong. If happy – celebrate with the Kit-Kat.
Now I have had to get used to checking the eTMA system, and because one of my tutors once returned an essay within 24 hours (a record), a couple of days after the deadline has passed I get this compulsion to check. Yes – I know you get an email when it’s been marked, but the trick for me is to catch the returning eTMA before the email hits the in-box. This means checking at least every 5 minutes. The bit I have yet to come to terms with though is having the mark up on the screen. It’s too soon – I need that ‘thought-gathering’ time to prepare myself for any sudden shocks.
By far the best thing about eTMAs is being able to read the tutors’ comments. I once had a tutor whose writing was so “alternative”, he couldn’t actually read it himself. It’s not easy trying to respond to feedback that looks like it’s been written with the feathery end of a quill, on a windy dark night, half way up a mountain, by someone whose just consumed 4 bottles of vodka. (Oh – I’ve just described my own hand writing!)
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