Post-exam bliss 'n' blues

It's over - I did my last exam on Thursday morning (Spanish GCSE, for anyone (if there is anyone out there) who didn't know I was taking it this year). And it is a mighty strange feeling, to have it all behind me.

It's a funny business, taking an exam as an adult. Sitting in the school hall on Monday afternoon, all the mature students in a row down the length of it, like warships steaming out of Scapa Flow, and two or three rows of schoolkids as well, to our left; on the hottest day of the summer so far, with the curtains drawn to keep out the glare and occasionally lifting in the breeze from the big windows; in silence, except for the squeak of chairs and click-clicking of pen tops; the invigilator sat up on the stage watching us all - I hadn't expected it to bring back so clearly those summers forty years ago when I sat my "real" O- and A-level exams, the ones that mattered.

Because this exam doesn't matter, not in the way it matters to the year 11 students sitting it with us. Our future in work and higher education doesn't depend upon it. We said we'd like to do it, as a challenge, and to keep us focussed on our evening classes, as a bit of fun, we said. We weren't going to get stressed about it, we said. Ha! We've been worse than any 16-year-old. We've been obsessively revising, learning vocabulary on the train, doing practice papers every weekend, swotting up on our irregular verbs at any odd moment that could be spared (and some that shouldn't have been). We've probably been hell to live with. I don't think there is any one of us who doesn't have a first degree; and several have postgraduate or research degrees. We've all had demanding careers. We've all had families and personal problems and difficulties to overcome. We are experienced and we are used to achieving. But when it came to the exam, we were worse, much worse, than any 16-year-old. So yes, there is a sense of relief now that I can sit back and discover how much more time I have got. Heck, I can go back to reading a book (instead of a textbook) on the train!

But there was a real sense of release in sitting the exam. I'd forgotten what it was like. That wonderful moment when you can sit down, relax (there's nothing more you can do), turn the paper over - and just let it go, all those things you have learnt, putting it all down. Perhaps it is like a concert pianist, with all the months of practice, all the rehearsals, behind; finally waiting for the conductor, in silence, then lifting her hands on to the keys and playing. It is deeply satisfying. And addictive.

So, what next? I doubt I shall continue with the Spanish next year. I think the rest of the class want to do more conversation, and that isn't what I enjoy about a language. I don't have Spanish friends, I don't have Spanish family, we don't always go to Spain on holiday, I am not going to retire over there. So what use would it be to me to learn how to talk in Spanish? I'd love to do more reading and writing, but I'll have to accept that I will be in the minority in this respect. It seems a shame to put it all away and gradually forget it... But.

Horror

That is what I felt when I staggered downstairs this morning to make the tea and found, lying in the usual place where the cats leave their little "offerings" (in the hall, just outside the kitchen door) not the usual mouse, rat or bird but... a guinea-pig. Quite dead. Not mangled at all, looking almost peaceful, but... OMG!

I scooped it up into the dustpan (which acts as the temporary mortuary in such cases) and put it safely at the back door where the cats couldn't get at it again, although, to be honest, once dead they tend to lose interest in such things. And I made the tea and crept back upstairs to Husband and told him. We agreed it was best to say nothing to our Children, on the grounds that the fewer people knew the truth the better and we didn't want to risk them blurting something out where they might be overheard. They do have voices like foghorns.

Chances were that the guinea pig came from two doors down, where the nice people live who gave us the greenhouse, who have two young children and where we know there is a hutch in the garden. They are often away at the weekends. We didn't want to think what the children would say when they came home to find the hutch ransacked and their little darling gone. Of course, we reasoned, just because the corpse was in our house didn't mean that it was one of our cats that did the dirty deed - after all, they have two cats of their own - one of ours might just have brought it back for a decent burial. But it would take good criminal lawyer to make the defence stick.

So we did with it what they did with Sir John Moore at Corunna -

We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning,

By the struggling moonbeam's misty light

And the lanthorn dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest

With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

(Well, not exactly the dead of night, but certainly surreptiously). If anyone knocks on the door tonight, we're out. And if anyone asks, we know nothing.

Retail therapy

Given that I had to go to the dentist (my least favourite invasive procedure) it didn't seem unreasonable (not to me, anyway) to pop into the shops on the way. I knew I was winning when I nipped into Robert Dyas for some seeds and was given a fre copy of Gardeners' World magazine. It's not my top favourite reading, but hey, it's free!

After that it was heavy clothes shopping. I never shop without thinking of my friend C (yes, you know who you are) who always points out the shoddy workmanship, poor quality fabric and so on, and who knows that she or I could make up the same garment at home for half the price and twice as well (in her case, anyway - she's a better seamstress than I will ever be). And she is always right. Anyway, I ended up with a pair of black linen trousers (which need shortening and the buttons changing because they are horrible) and a nice little skirt suit which needs a different belt but is otherwise OK. So all I need now is - a new belt, a couple of tops to go under the suit, a pair of shoes and enough time to do the alterations. And then - and only then - I shall have some new clothes to wear.

Garden

It has been another frustrating weekend weather-wise. It was pouring down on Sunday, so I did all the indoor jobs - the cleaning, cooking, ironing, all the boring stuff - and on Monday, as it was still very wet underfoot and with better weather promised for the afternoon, I did the same again in the morning - all the boring indoor stuff. After lunch, out I went into the garden. There were still heavy showers, but I could dodge them by doing sowing and stuff in the shed or in the greenhouse; and then I did lots of tidying in the shed and the greenhouse... and still there were heavy showers, too close together to be worth getting outdoors in between them. I don't mind getting wet myself, but I do hate working with tools with wet handles. The sky would clear, the sun would come out, and I would just be thinking, ha ha, now's my chance - when along would come the next downpour. In the end, and in bad mood, I gave up and came in. And it never rained again for the rest of the day!

Today I have to go up to town as I have a dentist's appointment, and already the sky is clouding over. But I must get another row of peas in when I get back if I possibly can...

The only good thing about the rain is that everything in the garden looks lush and green and healthy. And the rhubarb has put on another three inches over the last few days, so there will be rhubarb crumble next weekend.