Saturday 30 June 2012

The O-level? O no!


Dear Mum,

About this time every year the media takes to the subject of exams and slates the current education system.

Every year I find myself scrunching at newspapers, the blood rushing to my cheeks as I grimace and snarl at the headlines and read those undying words: “easier”, “new plans” “replace” and “properly testing.”

It seems students are never safe from new plans.

I feel for all of those students who have just finished their exams, reading Michael Gove’s plans to reintroduce O-levels over their morning porridge, previously elated at having jumped the first hurdle in examination procedure.

They must find this completely undermining. I certainly do.

My GCSE’s were the hardest exams I’ve taken and this includes my degree modules.

This being the first set of proper exams (SATS don’t count – they’re not on my CV) it was a whole new challenge... The sleepless nights of not knowing what to expect; the chopping and changing of subjects (German on Monday afternoon, maths on Tuesday morning, then history in the afternoon, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday...); all squashed into a couple of weeks, everything riding on how you felt on that day.

Come A-levels and university, I was a dab hand. There were coursework and exams throughout the academic year, not just in the summer, so I could hedge my bets. I knew what to expect in the hall (such as invigilators looking over your shoulder, judging me. They definitely do it). And I had selected the subjects I was interested in and, ultimately, good at, i.e. not foreign languages, maths, sciences, or any subject that persistently uses the word “hypothesis.”

The GCSE’s where physically and emotionally exhausting due to the number of exams, concentration of exams within a short space of time and resulting amount of revision required. Plus in some cases, primarily ‘hypothesis’ subjects, I had a lot to learn for the first time, lessons on trigonometry and the Doppler effect having gone over my head. At 200 miles an hour. In fact I doubted I was even in those lessons.

But here we are. Listening to a middle aged, middle class man bang on about a set of exams he has not taken.

It was so refreshing to read in last Sunday’s Sunday Times Magazine that a group of celebrities sat the 11+ and respectively failed to get into Grammar School.

Finally – a group of adults giving it a go before passing judgement.

Are GCSE exams easier? Or are students working harder?

After all, university places are more competitive than 30 years ago and they’re sodding expensive – most students are probably aware they need the best results to ensure they make the most of their future.

And, aware of the above, aren’t parents generally pushing their children more?

Plus teaching resources are vastly improved since you were at school – there are self-help books, practice papers and online sources.

Students are training themselves to give the examiners what they want, which is surely what exams boil down to.

And yet this is not enough.

Because us youngsters are working hard and succeeding an MP resolves to throw us a curve ball, to diminish all of that hard work by taking a social step backwards.

Perhaps next they’ll be re-introducing the cane and dunce hat.

We’ll be that grey area in history – The GCSE Debacle.

In twenty years time an employer will look at my CV with a puzzled expression, the GCSE column meaning very little, and I’ll lose out on a job to a younger or older O-level candidate. 

My year group also missed out on the A* at A-level, meaning an employer who does not know the year this initiative was introduced could look at our A-level grades sniffily.

There was clearly a reason for O-level exams being scrapped and replaced by GCSEs but this reason lies dead and buried and forgotten underneath the paperwork sitting on Michael Gove’s desk.

It doesn’t take a genius to note the faults in his new plans. My hypothesis is that Gove doubts students’ ability, ambition and the varying modes of revision at their disposal.

But then I only took those easy GCSE exams so what do I know...? 

Saturday 23 June 2012

Remember my journey through the world of scriptwriting...?


Dear Mum (and other family and friends),

You might remember a month ago I submitted a script to the BBC Writersroom – I kept a diary of my progress (from ‘One Day’ in April through to ‘Walking into the sunset’ in May).  

Well, I have some rather encouraging news...

Before you jump up and down, clapping your hands, and scream “Your script is going to be made into a radio drama! YOUR SCRIPT IS GOING TO BE MADE INTO A RADIO DRAMA!” --- It isn’t.

 I received an email t’other day from the Writersroom informing me they won’t be taking my script any further.

However...

The email informed me that they received a whopping 1900 scripts. They read the first 10 pages of each script and, from these 10 pages, decided which scripts would continue to the next stage.

Only 20% of received scripts were put forward to stage 2. And mine was one of them!

Which means just 380 scripts were put forward, and mine was one of them. Which means 1 in 5 scripts were put forward, and mine was one of them. Which means I’m not a total lost cause when it comes to writing a half decent script.

You might’ve guessed, I’m very excited!

Yes, that is the end of that venture. You won’t be hearing my name on Radio 4 any day soon.

But I’m one step closer to making a good stab at it...

Friday 15 June 2012

Lovely Sweet, not Hideous Kinky

Dear Mum,
This time last week I was lolling in the Moroccan sunshine, a mirage of orange juice sellers ready and willing to quench my thirst and a host of unrecognisable coins tinkling in my pocket.
Now I am penniless and shivering, the joy of my short lived city break embodied in a Moroccan scarf wrapped tightly about my neck and a fading henna tattoo.
I am remaining faithful to my New Years Resolutions and I have ticked Resolution Number 6's box in Arabic. This was my first trip to Africa and I felt oddly anxious. (I know you felt the same, having recited the ‘I-know-you-know-this-but-I’m-your-Mother-and-it’s-my job-to-say-it’ speech).
Fortunately for me, my travelling companion was my roommate from uni; a seasoned traveller and bona fide African, her parents residing in Kenya.
Swathed in maxi dresses we floated about the city, Nat’s golden tresses catching the amber light as it ricocheted off the red buildings, my pale (and uninteresting) skin letting our glamorous selves down by almost conducting the sunlight, like a living solar panel, blinding all passersby into donning their sunglasses.
(One friend once called me ‘whiter than white.’ After the initial ouch I accepted this as a truth, the proof of which is in all photographs as I tend to blur into one white blob – the sort of image of which is sent into cheap magazines on pages dedicated to paranormal activity).
We were made to feel very welcome by the Moroccan natives and particularly by the Marrakechi men. No doubt this was simply because men carry out the vast majority of business in their culture and upon witnessing two European faces (punctuated by Nat’s golden hair and my freckled, sweating, pink and peeling face) money signs materialise in their eyes, like the cartoons of yore.
In the context of the souks their flattering sales techniques was very successful. We had cash to spend and wanted to stock up on souvenirs. Where better than the Aladdin’s Caves that line the mini malls of Jemaa el Fna?
Flattery was an excellent prologue to our spending. It’s certainly nice to be appreciated.
While some salesmen simply asked us to just look at their stock, others complimented us on our outfits. This had us hook, line and sinker.
One chap, Abdul, called us sisters. “Goodbye, sisters! You’re welcome back to Marrakech anytime.” He was charming (and a totally hunk) and we did return to his stall… twice. Nat bought three leather bags from him.
This was largely down to his beautiful goods, partly due to his beautiful face (and arms), and most definitely because he made us, his sisters,  feel so welcome. He even offered to buy us tea! What’s not to like?
If we weren’t eager to make a purchase, we would assure the salesmen “Maybe we’ll have a look later.” A frequent reply to this was “later alligator.”
Others simply took note that we were English and croaked “Lovely Jubbly!” Whilst this was not a particularly appealing call (the image of Delboy pulling dodgy TV’s out of his yellow car’s boot not being on the top of my holiday wish list) it did make the two of us giggle like schoolgirls.
We were puzzled when the younger salesmen would attempt to attract our attention by yelling “Hey Lady Gaga! Lady Gaga!” or “Shakira! Shakira!”
On the one hand, both are influential women, both attractive, both talented. But as neither of us shimmied down the alleyways, neither bellydancing with hips that don’t lie and neither dressed in meat outfits, these nicknames were somewhat defunct.
Similarly, a food salesman telling us that his cuisine was like Sainsbury’s’ delicacies meant we both recoiled. No offence to the food connoisseur, and no offence to Sainsbury’s, but we were on our holiday and wanted to leave everything British behind us.
(Apart from, perhaps, a cup of tea. Ideally with Abdul).
Yet these were all enjoyable sales pitches. Similar declarations would undoubtedly fall on deaf ears in Lord Sugar’s boardroom. But for two young women looking for a good time in a foreign country we relished these situations.
We were at a scarf souk with a salesman who was determined for us to “Relaxxxxx!” and rest our bags on a side table. If we so much as nudged one of the bags he would order us to “Relaxxxx!” before returning the container to its original position.
We stood, bagless, and he draped beautiful scarves over our shoulders. If it hadn’t been 35◦ I would have bought more.
He took quite a liking to Nat and told us he would buy her for 5,000 camels. We both smiled indulgently.
If this happened in the UK I would have no problem throwing the guy a dirty look.
Indeed, when men in European countries toot their horns (I know I’m stereotyping, but as a rule they tend to be in vans), perhaps blowing kisses or licking their lips as they pass by, I have no problem in flipping the bird in their direction.
Oh dear, I sound like Samantha Brick


I must highlight this is not a regular occurrence. But I importantly never pander to their lusts or make use of their flattery by encouraging them to buy me a train ticket. 
But when the tables are turned, and men are flattering you so that you will give them money for a taxi ride, or scarf or leather bag, I confess I really enjoy it and I do indulge them.
Especially if they’re Moroccan.

Monday 4 June 2012

Hit the Road Jack


Dear Mum,

I felt very smug yesterday, watching TV from the comfort of my home. I’m inclined to think toward the end of the river pageant the Queen herself was thinking that an inside viewing with a lap blanket and a hot toddy would have been preferable.

The Duke of Edinburgh, on the other hand, looked like he was having a jolly good time and it was lovely to see the Queen light up when the warhorse bucked on top of the National Theatre.

It was clearly a well organised affair and with the highest security, especially with the top seven members of the Royal Family amassed and shivering on their royal barge.

I’m confident there is a member of Her Majesty’s Secret Service whom the Royal Family can always depend upon.

Someone who respects Her Majesty immensely, who will do anything to protect Her Majesty, whether wrestling a gobby protester bursting in on a royal meeting to the floor or holding an umbrella over her bouffant in drizzly rain.

Someone ruthless, streetwise and not distracted by the rears of any Duchesses or, more probably, Duchesses’ sisters.

Someone like Jack Bauer.

There are occasions where I wish I was Jack Bauer. Situations in which sense and logic are non-existent, where being polite and patient achieves bugger all.

When setting up a savings account, for instance.

I applied online for a high interest saving account and, almost a month after applying, received a letter requesting proof of identity.

Their list of acceptable ID documents included the usual examples – passports, driving licences, utility and credit card bills. This same letter pointed out “We would recommend, for security reasons, that you do not send original documents.”

Sensibly, therefore, I photocopied my passport and a credit card statement.

A week later, I receive a letter in which the photocopies were returned because “Photocopy document was not acceptable”, the same letter shortly after repeating “do not send original documents.”

What do they suggest? A photograph of these documents? A hologram? A video of me on my hand and knees, holding up my passport as I beg “Pleaaseee let me bank with you!!!”

The letter I received does not include ANY telephone number or contact email address, making the writers of this letter elusive and slightly suspicious.

It is occasions like this, when writing a letter which effectively gives a literary middle finger, does not make one feel better. And when “Dear Arsewipes” is probably not going to get the banking bozos on my side when they first open my letter.

These are the situations in which I wish I was an employee of CTU, the Counter Terrorist Unit and former employing body of Agent Jack Bauer.

My first move would be to hack into the bank’s system and tick the “Applicant has sent proof of ID” icon.

“I can’t get into their system. There firewall is like nothing I’ve seen before,” the slightly geeky but highly competent data analyst would say.

“Can’t you try getting around it?” I’d breathlessly insist.

“They’ve got security measures in place. Our system might be jeopardised if I hack into their trunkline.”

“Then get me an address.”

“I’m looking, I’m looking.”

“I need it NOW, Chloe!”

“I’m going as fast as I can.” (There is a long pause while Chloe trawls through data, satellite images flashing across her screen).

“Dammit, Chloe!”

“Okay, I’ve got it.”

With Chloe on comm., I’d climb into my white Toyota Yaris (this might be a fantasy but I can be a bit of a nervous driver so best stick to a car I’m familiar with) and put my foot down to the bank’s head office, wheels skidding around sharp corners, driving through red lights, never being stopped or running out of petrol.

I’d park up (in my fantasy I’m very good are parallel parking) and knock out the first security guard.

I’d bark “WHERE ARE THE ONLINE SAVINGS TEAM?” to the second, who’d nervously reply “Third floor.”

I’d run upstairs and burst through the third floor door. Ten heads would turn towards me, cries and hands to mouths as they glimpse my anger, panting heavily, sweating profusely. Someone not to be messed with.

“Bring up your applicant records.” I’d say to the nearest individual and I’d tell them to enter in my name.

My record pops up on their screen.

“Tick the ID box.”

“I can’t” the employee would say, “I need to see your passport.”

“I don’t have time for that. You’ve wasted enough of my time. If I’m going to start making some interest on my savings, you’re going to have to tick that box dammit.”

“But my boss... he’ll kill me.”

I need leverage. I pull a picture of Her Majesty from the wall.

“Tick the box or I’ll smash this.”

“...You wouldn’t...”

“Just try me.”

“But, it’s her Jubilee. Surely even you wouldn’t go that far.”

“Trust me, I don’t want to. But I’ve been put through enough thanks to your organisation. If you tick the box I promise I won’t do anything. I’ll leave the picture safely on the wall and we can forget about this whole affair.”

There is a pause as we stare at one another. I don’t blink. 


They slowly move their mouse, the cursor circling the screen. They tick the box.

I carefully place the picture of Her Majesty on their desk and back out of the room.

“You weren’t really going to smash that picture, were you?” I hear through my earpiece.

“Of course not. But thankfully my bluff worked. Put the kettle on, Chloe, I’m parched.”