Guitly until proven innocent.

Ladies and gentlemen, today, there shall not be a video. Neither shall there be snark, nor blather, nor kidding of any kind, for I have had a sobering experience that inspires in me no desire to joke. Believe me when I say that I can hardly bear the thought of re-living this horror, but in the interest of posterity, I shall tell the woeful tale of the time I took a final at the University of Queensland.

I know what you are thinking, kind gentlefolk: that if I would only study, finals would not be such a burden. Alas, if only it were so simple. You see, it was not the content of the final that has me in such a state; it was the manner in which this University chose to conduct it. So read on, fair listener, and let this be a warning to you, if ever you should consider life down under.

Said final was for my class on Australia's Marine Environment, codename MARS2005, and it was to be conducted in the Heath Room of the UQ Union building, at 8 in the morning on Monday, 8th November. I arrived easily fifteen minutes early, eager to complete the test and move on to more pressing issues, like my final paper for cinema class. I'd been careful to stock all of my testing necessities: pencil, pen, eraser, glasses, water bottle, sweatshirt in case I got cold. I was prepared. In the foyer outside the testing facility, I was greeted by my many peers, and we began to swap travel plans, blissfully unaware of the trials we were about to endure.

Five minutes before the test was to start, one of the proctors opened the doors to glare dolefully out into the throng. "Final exam for International Studies 7068?" she called, more a demand than a question. We looked at each other, startled.

"No," one brave student replied. "We're marine biology students."

The proctor sniffed at him indignantly. "We aren't ready for you yet. There's nobody here from IS7068?"

A moment of silence reigned before another student managed to murmer, "they might be outside."

The proctor let out an exasperated growl and stomped through the crowd, allowing the doors to slam behind her. I glanced at Julie. She shrugged. We waited. Eventually, the proctor came back, this time flanked by six graduate students, all skipping to keep up with her, student cards held before them as though they were warding off a vampire with crosses. At the door, the proctor held them up to exam every card, on both sides, scrutinizing the students' faces.

I took the hint, and dug out my ID card, glad that I'd had the foresight to bring my entire purse rather than just my writing materials. Once the proctor had finished with the grad students, she peered suspiciously out at us and then called our class name, bracing herself as though for a stampede.

Because I was close to the door, I was one of the first to meet her critical eye. I held out my ID card, doing my best to retain a straight face through the trepidation. She scanned the list on her clipboard, scoffed, then slapped a number into my hand, as though reluctant to give it up. A sigh of relief escaped me as I slipped past her, sparing a moment of pity for the fool behind me, who I heard pleading, "...but it's all the way at home. It would take me an hour. Please, isn't my license good enough?"

Thinking I'd made it past the hard part, I studied the room and quickly worked out that the number in my hand correlated to a desk on the other side of the room. I started to make my way across the room, but suddenly found myself face-to-face with the second proctor, also a woman and equally irritable.

"You have to leave your bags here," she said.

"Oh," I replied, stupidly, before turning toward the wall and setting down my purse and bag, reflecting that this meant I wouldn't have my sweatshirt if it got cold. But, in the interest of not breaking the rules, I opted to only take what I absolutely needed: my pens, glasses and water.

Having safely stowed my items, I headed toward my desk once again, but was met by the second proctor. "You can't leave them there," she said. "You have to leave them by the door."

"Oh," I said again, wondering why she hadn't told me that in the first place, but choosing to hold my tongue. I moved the bags, then made my way to my seat, this time arriving without further incident.

The desk was small and wooden, but not uncomfortable. It had a number taped in the corner, as well as my testing packet and answer sheet, and a small purple slip of paper labeled "attendance." I was studying this slip, having neatly set down my things, when the third proctor approached my seat.

"You can't have that water bottle." She told me.

"What?" I replied, too surprised to agree.

"You can only have clear water bottles."

Mine was a solid bright green. I furrowed my brow. "Why?"

"Because it's against the rules. Now get rid of it."

I obeyed, sadly reuniting my water supply with my sweatshirt while trying to think of any possible advantage a student with an opaque water bottle might have over a student with a transparent one. Aside from the ability to store alcohol, which is hardly an advantage in a test-taking situation and could be done in a clear water bottle anyway given the correct variety of alcohol, nothing came to mind. I pushed the thought aside and returned to my seat.

I was now left with only my pencil case and my glasses case, and I thought to myself, "surely there's nothing wrong with these?" I should have known better.

After all the students had filed in, each strictly reminded that this was a TESTING SITUATION and therefore NO TALKING would be tolerated, and any attempt to speak would be taken as an attempt to CHEAT, the second proctor set about reading the instructions.

"Turn off your phones and put them under your seat."

Check.

"Put any items other than writing utensils and glasses under your seat."

Check.

"If there are any paper items among the items under your desk, you must volunteer them now, or else be written down for cheating."

I froze, remembering that there was a paper towel in my pen case and a small sheet of simple Italian phrases in my pencil case leftover from my trip to Italy four years ago. Unwilling to risk getting a zero, I pulled these out and showed them to the proctor nearest me, who studied them and me with an expression reminiscent of a prosecuting attorney at a child molestation case. I shrunk in my seat, holding my breath until she finally relinquished them, begrudgingly admitting that there was nothing on them that I could use to cheat. I returned them to the pile under my desk, chastised.

"Align your seat number, number card, student card and attendance sheet with the edge of your desk."

I did so. The proctor raised an eyebrow at me. I aligned them on a different edge. She nodded.

"Fill out your attendance sheet in PENCIL."

I did so, wondering what the point of having an attendance sheet was when we were about to put our names on a test, but no longer in a state to question anything that was going on. I sat quietly while the proctor rattled through a long list of things we weren't allowed to do, resolving to do absolutely nothing but fill out my test.

"MARS2005 students may not touch their writing utensils during perusal period."

That got my attention. Can't use our pencils?

"Any student caught writing during perusal period will be expelled from the exam room."

Well crap. I can't wait to get out of this backward country.

"Perusal period" started immediately and lasted about 15 minutes. Taking cues from other students, I simply read through the test packet. The questions were all fairly easy, which I found reassuring, but the fact that I couldn't write on the packet was throwing me for a loop: usually, I just plunge right into the test and start marking off answers. Having to wait 15 minutes was more than a little disconcerting.

Then, finally, the proctor announced that we could write on our answer sheets. I set off immediately, but still felt off my game because I couldn't write on the question packet, and therefore I couldn't mark off wrong answers. Everything about the situation felt awkward, and it didn't help that the proctor wandered past every minute or so, pausing beside each desk to stare reproachfully down at the stressed out students.

The end of the test did come, though; I finished with a good half hour left in testing time. When I looked up, though, I realized I had no idea what the protocol for turning papers in might be. The last thing I wanted to do was stand up and get accused of trying to copy off someone else's paper. I kept my head low and watched what the other students were doing, and eventually worked out that the trick was to make eye contact with a proctor. After about five minutes of staring at the proctor's back, willing her to look up, she finally did and came over to my desk. I proudly handed her my test sheet, excited to escape the oppressive room. She looked at me like I was an idiot.

"You have to write your name on the test packet, too."

Exasperation set in. "You mean you can write on the packet?"

She raised an eyebrow at me. "Of course you can. Why wouldn't you?"

She shuffled away, leaving me to fill out my name on the packet, perhaps pressing down on the pencil with a little more strength than was absolutely necessary. When the proctor came back around, I handed them to her. She shook her head.

"You have to put the answer sheet under the first page of the packet."

I did so, not trusting myself to say anything. She collected the packet, cheerfully clucking her tongue at my ignorance. I hastily collected my things and high-tailed it out of the room as quickly as I could, wistfully remembering sunshiny years of frolicking through exam rooms at UW.

And that's why UQ sucks.