Invigilation

If you read my blog, you have probably come to the conclusion that I have pretty much the best job that anyone can ask for. You may be right. I am happy. No Dilbert-esque complaints for me (although I do enjoy the sadistic advantage of sending them to stressed-out friends who made the asinine choice to join the rat race). However, the only part of it I’m not particularly fond of is the actual ‘work’ aspect, so currently it really annoys me.

Yes, there have been many Farmville-filled days, oodles of hours spent idle scrolling through the vast amount of internet-filth which clogs up my newsfeed and many minutes spent chuckling over cartoons like this:

But now, alas, the brief summer of our youth is over and it’s time to put foot to the grindstone, nose to the wheel, eyes to the heavens…that style ‘o fing.


What I am referring to is the worst aspect of any working, post-graduate étudiante’s life: invigilation. If it were only the simple task of watching students sweat it out over tests they have only half-studied for, I wouldn’t mind at all. 2 hours can easily be whiled away playing battleships or hangman. No, it is the preparation that kills me. First, I have to fight my own department to give me the test papers, as if I am asking them some serious favour. Then, there is the inevitable attempt to gain access to the keys from the caretaker of the relevant building. One basically has to pry the keys out of his hand, his eyes now nothing more than malevolent slits, your own heart beating so fast you think “Am I doing something wrong?” Like when a cop pulls you over and you instantly start lying about everything out of sheer panic.


The “Thou shalt not pass” key thing exasperates me intensely. It’s not only the building caretakers who have it, but the same reaction appears anywhere with someone in a not-so-important position with a hint of power. The secretary with the bathroom key. The tea lady who guards the coffee jar. All of them use their one hold over you to exercise some grasp of power, as if making that little part of your day shit will somehow validate their trifling existence. Do I speak too harshly? Perhaps. Clearly their pitiable attempt to infuriate me has worked. Dang.