250. The teacher (1/2)

 Today, the teacher (me) is marking exam papers.

I have no more excuses.

I have cooked my favourite mum-home-alone dish, eaten it.

I have made a pot of coffee (so as not to fall asleep on the papers).

I have done a little house work and a touch of tidying up - to avoid guilt pangs which would prevent me from giving my full attention to the aforementioned papers.

I have phoned my husband so as not to be interrupted while engrossed in thrilling compositions. Today he is busy helping Miss Hectic-Life turn back into Miss Organiser - which is essential to the household’s peace of mind, therefore to the fair marking of the compositions.

I have made a fire. This, strangely enough, also appears essential to the fair marking of papers. 

I have checked my phone.

Now there is no turning back. I have to tackle the huge ugly-looking pile of exam papers. The real reason I have to get on with this task today is that I am feeling ill at ease. No! Not because the kids are waiting or the administration has set a deadline (this is France, remember). No, it is this very peculiar feeling that … that they are becoming alive. Yes, talking papers Harry Potter style. I have moved this pile of papers a fair deal during the last week: taken out of my bag and dumped on the dining table. Moved from the dining table onto the family desk. Taken from that desk and dumped on the coffee table. Back on the dining table and finally dumped on my working desk. Now they are perched atop an other pile of books and photocopies … And it looks unsafe, if one of the kids slams the door the fragile scaffolding will collapse and tumble silently onto the rug. Then the dog might eat them. And it is as if the papers know that. As if they know I am being careless about them, they know I feel no desire to mark them. They feel rejected. As I walk past the desk I can almost hear them mutter.

‘The time has come, at last.’

‘Don’t get your hopes up.’

‘I’m beginning to feel quite cosy under this layer of dust.’

This situation is insane. Baby walks in. 

‘What did you say?’

‘Nothing. It’s just the papers … they’re talking … to me … you know, just like in Harry Potter.’

‘Mum? You ok?’

She doesn’t seem worried. Which is worrying. Maybe this is real? Maybe Baby can hear the voices? 

I pour myself a large cup of coffee and, dragging my feet, go and settle at the desk. I waste some more time sharpening a pencil. I’ve always marked papers using a pencil. This has horrified countless colleagues in all the schools I’ve been working in. ‘You mark papers with a pencil! This is weird.’ If these same colleagues knew I think exam papers speak to me … 

I grab a rough piece of paper, I hesitate between yellow and blue and finally settle for blue. I split it in to two parts which I label: forgivable errors and unforgivable errors. I am all set.