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!)