Exam Day

I am not a great fan of exams. I know this because in every exam I have ever taken I get panic-fuelled heart lurches and extreme palm-sweats whenever one is fast approaching. No matter how many times I promise to revise, I always end up with the 48-hour cramming session, where I prise my eyelids open in front of the page, eating only cereal and muttering incoherently. This is because I fear preparation. Preparation seems endless; the fools who plan months in advance must therefore work solidly for said months, lest they lose invaluable information two days prior to exam-day. Instead, I rely on my brain to get me through this hysterical period, promising that next time, I will draw spider-diagrams, mock questions, lists and charts with the very best of them. The thing is, I can't help thinking that a good, healthy dose of panic sets you up pretty well...when the power-hungry invigilator says 'go', I am like a rocket. The curve in my finger where my pen sits is crimson, I am furiously scribbling, wrenching my hair back from my face and refusing myself even the merest sip of water until I've written eight pages. It's almost brutal, yet it works. My brain, bullied into submission, delivers at the crunch, and thus far I haven't fared too badly come results-day. However, I shouldn't be complacent - instead of setting myself up for a fall, I have purposefully selected all the final-year modules which select essays over exams. This seems to be the general consensus throughout my course, hence they are all over-subscribed and next-years exams will consist of five people grouped together, sweating copiously and promising themselves that if they pass, they will read a book a day for the next year-and-a-half.
This exam was almost laughable. There was a ripple of tension, mingled with pre-elation at it being the last exam we will ever take. Ever. Hence, amid the visible nerves and furious riffling of notes, people are still laughing and joking. The atmosphere extends into the cavernous exam hall, set in the somewhat unsuitable Premier Inn, Newcastle. People were actually checking in and out during our two-hour stint of scribbling. Tourists looked terrified at three hundred students bursting out of the conference suite, screaming with relief at breathing fresh air (well, more so than the stuffy confines of exam-hall). The sun is shining, which we all take for a good omen, as we all were drenched from the torrential downpour preceding the exam. Now, people who wouldn't even nod at each other in corridors are embracing, drunk on their own freedom, and boasting about Summer plans involving more alcohol than is available in the entire Bigg Market. I feel relief mingled with a hollowness which I feel has less to do with hunger for lunch, and more to do with a fear that I really did not study hard enough. Unfortunately, my bedroom is chock-a-block with distractions. Even if I manage to ignore the Internet, radio and phone, I find something. This time around, I even cleaned the bathroom to avoid my hideous anthology. When I finally sat down to revising, I drifted off into some dream-like torpor, where I woke to find myself curled around my many books, an ink imprint of Ezra Pound plastered against my cheek. And, despite my close proximity, the knowledge did not seep into my brain. A good friend swears by a night's sleep with three or four critical essays tucked underneath his pillow - his other revision consists solely of information gleaned from Wikipedia and Sparknotes...he rarely reads the primary texts yet without fail receives a solid 2:1. I find this distinctly unfair, yet anybody who can slumber atop a hard-backed mouldering library book deserves credit. I personally stack my books by my bed, so when I stagger to the bathroom in the morning (I'm showing off here, I rarely emerge before lunch-time) I can stub not just my toe, but my entire calf. This generally hits the spot, and I enjoy casting the books aside after I skim them and take appropriate notes.
So, when I receive the ominous brown envelope in the post mid-July, I refuse to be disappointed with my mark. It was the final exam, and whatever revision I did or did not achieve, my mark will be a reflection of the day itself. Which probably means I failed, as I only remember counting the number of people excused to go to the toilet. It was 23.