|Did we do good..?|
In the night a storm has blown in, a lively sort, whips rain and wrestles tall trees. Some storms have an element of brooding: the ones you wait for are usually that way.
Yesterday we made the drag to Bristol, clutching coffee.
Since Friday the Academy has been busy with the people in the white training suits; they have been running up and down the stairs, packed with fears and hopes. They have been leaking sweat, and some tears.
At the foot of the stairs the breaking-horse sits. At the top on the left is the thin room, perfect for queuing, where the theory questions linger and sometimes answers come even under the pressure of those secluded hopes, those self defeating fears. At the top on the right is the room with the wooden floor, the main show. Everything else is peripheral. Here, observed, you test yourself.
If you were there, you know how you think you did. If your students were there, you know how you think they did. But the official stamp is withheld. Tuesday, the results release.
All day the storm lulls, flares, throws the rain about. Back to night and the panes are lashed, the fat-trunked ash tree cracks its sticks fighting back. Indoors we sit, tapping fingers on wood.
|Let's dare to hope!|