Let's take the heat out of exam stress, says JENNIFER SELWAY

When I was at the sharp end of exams nobody cared how we felt.

I adored exams: the adrenaline rush; the quiet of an exam room; the smell of oor polish; of Quink ink; the summer sun shafting through the windows as time ticked by.

Yes, I was a frightful, four-eyed swot.

Let’s move on.

This week, with teenagers facing tougher exams, a YouTube-ette called Jade Bowler, 18, who shared revision tips with 190,000 followers, posted a video of herself sobbing after a biology A-level.

“I just ran out of time,” she howled.

Sorry but being able to marshal your thoughts in a limited time is sort of the point of exams.

There’s a tip for your followers, Jade.

But I feel sorry for her because teenagers have been encouraged to think – by the media, by politicians, by teachers and by anxious parents – that exams are all important.

It’s time we took the heat out of the exam system.

Let the tinkering end.

Then let’s stop pushing children into universities when they’d be better off doing something else.

Then let’s try to remember that being asked to function under pressure is a useful skill to acquire and not a cruel and unusual punishment.

Book him Danno!

Graduate’s can now complete a 12-week fast-track course and become detectives!

Here, based on a lifetime of watching TV cop shows, is how I see the programme unfolding.

Watching the detectives

WEEK 1: Image workshops.

Detectives need a secret sorrow: alcoholism; missing children; a dead spouse; mental issues; unwanted pregnancy; a terminally ill parent.

Pick at least one of the above.

WEEK 2: Lifestyle guidance.

Detectives have unfeasibly luxurious homes (think Montalbano’s beach- front Sicilian gaff).

A woman detective will open the fridge in her divine kitchen, pour a bucket of chablis and spend time staring moodily at the laptop.

Emulate this, ladies.

WEEK 3: HR training.

Get to know the enemy. Criminals are not the enemy: your colleagues are.

The crafty thickos in uniform despise you.

Stitch them up whenever possible.

WEEK 4:

Reading week.

Agatha Christie, Dorothy L Sayers, Raymond Chandler, Conan Doyle etc.

Familiarise yourself with the modes operandi of private detectives: elderly spinsters, fastidious Belgians etc.

They will make you look like a box-ticking loser.

Deal with it.

WEEK 5: PR training.

No matter how many stiffs turn up don’t panic.

Refute suggestions that a half competent plod would have caught the killer ages ago and put an end to this wanton carnage.

WEEK 6:

Introduction to the CID incident room.

There are photos of victims and suspects stuck on plexiglass, joined up by lines drawn with a squeaky felt tip.

If you are the maverick genius you’re cracked up to be, clap your hand to your forehead, rearrange the pictures and say: “of course.

How could I have been so stupid?”

WEEK 7: Personal transport.

A car reflects your personality like Saga’s Porsche in The Bridge.

Engage in brittle but affectionate banter with your detective partner while driving.

WEEK 8: Workplace dress code lecture.

Never change your pants.

Wear skanky jeans and a malodorous leather jacket at all times.

Unless you’re Gillian Anderson in The Fall in your freshly-pressed silk shirts.

Or Lewis and Hathaway, or Barnaby.

They are proper gents in suits.

WEEK 9:

Holistic wellbeing seminar.

Forget about sleeping when on the case.

If you go to bed you’ll only be phoned at 3am to hear that yet another circuit judge has been found eviscerated on the junction 10 turn-off from the M25 with a mummied starling in his mouth.

“I’m on my way,” you say, getting out of bed in your pants (see Week 8).

WEEK 10:

Nutrition guidance.

Eating a slice of greasy pizza al desko shows dedication.

WEEK 11: Relationship counselling.

If you make a date with someone you’ll be late because of work and they’ll hate you. Or they’ll die.

Or you’ll have bleak, meaningless sex and go for a drive, filled with self- loathing as flickering street lights pass across the windscreen.

WEEK 12: Health and safety.

Avoid underground car parks.

Bad things happen.

Avoid hospitals where a witness has been admitted.

A nurse with suspiciously big feet will empty a syringe of poison in your neck.

Avoid chases on foot – that’s what your car is for.

Good luck everyone!

You can’t choose your children’s memories

We ran an article in the express in which people recalled their earliest memories.

Those that our celebs shared were rarely dramatic, just random fragments like the red potty that for some reason had lodged itself in Anthea Turner’s subconscious. Fascinating nonetheless.

We can’t pick and choose memories and it’s disappointing that your children never remember the stuff you want them to.

You set about creating memories for them with such enthusiasm: educational (but fun!) outings; idyllic picnics; building sandcastles; birthday parties; and so on.

The sort of mental souvenirs that well brought- up children should have.

Except that the chances are they’ll remember none of them.

“You know when we built a camp in the garden and toasted marshmallows?”

You’ll say, as hearty as Clare Balding.

And they’ll shake their heads and shrug.

After a while you begin to wonder why you bothered, all that money spent buying tat in museum shops, all those freezing afternoons digging holes in the sand.

You might just as well have let them watch telly and eat crisps 24/7 which – given the choice – they would probably have preferred.

Meanwhile they have memories that mean nothing to you at all.

“You know,” they’ll say, “when you made lunch and Celia was there and you were cross and there was lettuce.”

And you’ll have no idea at all what they’re talking about.

Who is Celia for a start?

But because you’re so pitifully grateful that at least some of the detritus from childhood has stuck you pretend to go along with them.

“Yes, that lettuce eh?” you say, hoping for a clue.

But you’ll never remember.

It’s gone, if indeed it was ever there.

After his week’s fun and games in the Commons I find that the phrase “tabled an amendment” has the same effect on me as “replacement bus service”.

As in: makes me want to lie down and pull a duvet over my head.

I sense a relentless new movie trend: self-congratulatory female empowerment films with big casts of wimmin.

We’ve just had The Book Club with Candice Bergen, Diane Keaton, Mary Steenburgen and Jane Fonda. Great cast but a turkey.

Now Ocean’s 8 is about to open with Cate Blanchett, Sandra Bullock, Rihanna Helena Bonham Carter etc playing a feisty feisty gang in the latest spin-off from the other Ocean caper movies.

Such excitement.

Hmm, Hope it lives up to the hype.

Netflix’s new rules for the #Metoo era state that there must be no flirting in the workplace from now on.

Goodbye to the office romance.

Employees may not stare at each other for more than five seconds...

Or suck their middle finger provocatively.

Or paw the ground.

OK, I made the last two up.

As an experiment i stared at my husband for five seconds and he said: “Why are you staring at me? What have i done now?”

I’m being fleeced on the internet

The spotted Richard pud