It's just your average school hall really; scratches and pockmarks on the varnished wood floor, eight lgiht-bulb chandeliers and five tall windows, running along the left side as you walk in, wiht half-hung curtains.

Right now it's filled with mis-matching desks and chair, a black board, and a clock. The pointless "SILENCE" signs, seem to shout and echo around this chamber of secret panic, their only competition being the rustle of paper, the zoom of biros and the humming minds of the young.

I'm sat at the back, third from the right as you look at it, gazing at the back of my colleagues' heads watching their whispers circle. The Honours boards proclaim a steady, patient stream of names, dates, places and talent. They are heeded only by the bored, who stare up every now and again, stifle a snigger, and return to work - Anything's funnier than an easy Latin Momentum..

Sir's sitting at the desk up front. I've always wondered how they cope with adjudicating.

The boy to my left, I can see from here, is copying out his translation again. These exams are pretty long; when people have time to go back and be neat, you know it's being taken too far.

Eleven minutes to go. I finished after forty five, checked, re-checked and let my eyes make the whole in the wall a little bigger. My middle finger's got a lump on the edge, cause i've been writing for so long. It'll be like this for a week or two, so it'd better get used to it.

I'm thirsty, and I really need the loo, damn OCR, why such long exams, why? The grand piano's just behind me. Oh what i wouldn't give to bash out "Summertime" or the "Moonlight" sonata, just to relieve this boredom. This waste of paper, this mindnumbing dullness.

I imagine the chandeliers falling in slow motion, one after the other, landing directly in between the rows, just avoiding people's toes (so as not to suggest morbidity, or sadism). I think of stories of birds in english exams, ambulances and shouting outside...

"Stop writing please..."