I thought this would be my 250th post, which might have merited some kind of celebration. But it's not. I've only published 248 before this one. The 249th was never published because I didn't think it was that funny and never finished it.
But I'll post it now to get it out of the way. I thought the idea had more legs than it ended up having. I don't know why more legs are seen as a sign of longevity. Even though she only has two legs, I'd back Paula Radcliffe in a marathon against a millipede.
Anyway, here is the great lost blog post, The Owl:
My name is Chris Fott and I'm a professional invigilator.
In my twenty-one years in the profession I've overseen examinations for everything from GCSE Spanish to Medical School Finals. Some of the most powerful people in the local area have climbed significant rungs of the social ladder under my watchful eye. I survey the room, ensuring everything is as it should be.
I'm like an owl.
Some people call me 'The Owl'.
I'm one of the best invigilators in the country, and certainly the best in the Thames Valley area. That's not arrogance, it is actually true. You can ask any of my colleagues. Helen Charleston (the head of the region's AQA Examinations Board) literally shook my hand after one particularly tricky Marketing examination (there were two epileptics in the room - and a disco ball).
I've managed to reach the pinnacle of my profession not just because of my years of dogged experience, but because of a natural aptitude for invigilation. Even as a child, I was able to sit quietly for hours on end. As early as five I was able to shepherd house guests to the toilets, wait outside until they finished, and then guide them back to the dinner party. I even made myself a badge. I still have it. I don't wear it any more of course! It's purely sentimental...
It's not the kindest of professions. People have a lot of misconceptions about the role on an invigilator. "It's just sitting down for a few hours," they say. Ha! But you get used to the ignorance. People take invigilators for granted. Just as they take electricity for granted. And water-skiing.
Some of my fellow invigilators claim that you know when you've done a good job, because no-one notices you.
I agree. But when you do a great job, people should think: "Wow, I didn't notice the invigilator at all - he is phenomenal".
Invigilation is an art. An obscure art, but an art nonetheless. We don't dismiss origami, just because most of us don't like the Japanese.
You have to be on your guard for up to four hours, ready for anything. If Johnny Maths Student needs a pencil, it's your responsibility. If he needs the toilet, it's your responsibility. If a frightened young child has an 'accident', it's up to you to set things right.
***
I ran out of steam at that point. And legs. And oomph. I'm always running out of oomph. It's one of those things you forget about when doing a big shop. Like bin-liners.
When I worked as a temp in Exeter, I invigilated an exam. It was quite a good temp job - mostly hovering about and giving out pencils. They were police exams, and the Bolshevik side of me wanted to sabotage their authoritarian ambition.
But I didn't in the end.
I should have pretended I had a gun, and afterwards claimed it was a surprise practical element to the test.
But I didn't in the end.
Everything went pretty smoothly. The only slight hitch was that no-one had remembered to bring a clock, so we had to keep time by watching the shifting shadows.
This gave all the exam responses a sense of wistful melancholy that, whilst interesting in discussions of philosophy, was a bit of a hindrance to the technical explanation of law enforcement techniques.
On the way home, I saw a group of police officers brutally beating an unarmed Hasidic Jew. With great power comes great responsibility, I thought (a bit like Spider-Man).
And slowly, my pockets bulging with stolen pencils, I made my way through the chill November night; the insects of conscience buzzing in my ears.
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