(A poem in praise of KICD’S curriculum reform)
It’s just me, half a pencil and multiple choice. The metal roof is groaning in the sunlight, which does not reach me. The blackboard looms
in front of me, as empty as my desk, the world before me and my memory: the square of the hypotenuse is equal to the sum of either radius,
or something of the sort. The old invigilator hovers. I can almost hear him tutting at my answers. If you guess, they say – mark A, B, C or D
in random order – you can still gain eighty marks, or was it more? I can’t remember. D. Some bird is at the window. B. The clock says
FIVE MORE MINUTES. C. The clever boy has finished: A, of course. I do not want to be a doctor. Mum’s a farmer, dad drives someone else’s Skygo.
Still I love them. ‘Children, TIME! Please put your pencils down and stand.’ I won’t, not yet. Instead I scribble over everything: I’LL PLAY FOR MAN UNITED. Stephen Partington email@example.com