Q: I end this small run of blog posts with the question posed by Professor Brian Boyd at the beginning of our evening: Do we want to close the achievement gap? We know we can close the gap. It's been done or almost been done before in Scottish education, but the answers have been ignored as they pass us by. The simple clue is this: poverty is single biggest predictor of achievement, and according to research (Hammonds sic, reference required), aged 10, a child living in poverty is 60% less likely to get to university. Boyd borrowed from his own mother's report card to ask us what kind of education we desire. Is it the academic success at all costs route, or is there another option we need to value as much, if not more? His mother's report card, one that prevented her from becoming a secondary school pupil in Glasgow, is filled with G and FG, until the last point: Character and conduct - excellent. What kind of pupils do we want to develop in Scotland? What do we value in our assessment system? Opening up opportunity for all is a tough game to play when the examination system rewards only certain types of behaviour, few of them related to what the Curriculum for Excellence says we stand for. In his own small community in East Kilbride, three secondary schools enter a period of meltdown as the local rag sets about creating its own local league table of performance, with those three 'teams' in competition for the top spot (or at least not the bottom one). Therefore, we must stop basing "the gap" largely on attainment. First of all, Boyd would like us to remove the traditional, and non-sensical academic/vocational divide. Is the law or medicine degree we value not vocational? (Are all General Practitioners not Plumbers, as Dr Murray on the panel suggests?) What grades did Boyd's mother get? A. good grades B. mediocre grades C. not enough information D. bad grades
A: D

Q: Kadin loved the desert. Many creatures lived in the desert. Some learned to survive within her harsh burning grip. Some even learned to thrive in her, building stone monuments to themselves and living their lives surrounded in the lavish luxuries of Gods. How puny their monuments were compared to the desert herself. Where they had castles surrounded by dry moats, the desert had mountains surrounded by thousand year sandstorms. Where they had silks and the most beautiful slaves serving their every greatest desire, she had dunes that stretched for a thousand leagues and a sun that burned huge and deep crimson in the violet sky. Where desert kings, the Danken, dined on the finest food and drank the finest wine, the desert drank every drop of water from the air itself and feasted on men. Kadin knew the desert. He knew her voice whispering in the dark of night like a dangerous lover. The sound he heard now was not her voice but a cry from one trapped within the desert's teeth. It was the cry of a woman. Kadin rose from his makeshift bed in the dip of two dunes. He stood quickly, tying the leather straps of his knife belt around his waist. He pulled on his boots and silently mounted White Ash. THe mare felt his soft touch and made no sound. Kadin listened and heard the cry again. He studied the dunes in the darkness of night. THe blood moon painted the desert a deep red. He felt the echos and turned White Ash towards their origin. He rode quietly into the night. Kadin saw the glow of torchlight long before cresting the hill. He guessed four riders from the sound of their horses and confirmed it when he rose above them. Three men, now on foot, chased a woman in black across the dune. Their horses stood back, panting from a hard ride. The woman's own stallion lay dead, a black arrow buried in its flank. Who whispers in the night? A. not enough information B. The three highwaymen. C. Kadin D. The desert.
A: D

Q: Let's rewind to January 2013 for a moment. It's a sunny and warm day in Los Angelesa bit of a weather shock to me after 11 years of Seattle's cold and rain. I've been officially on the job in the web department for all of 12 hours. I'm sitting in a conference room at a big wooden table, surrounded by my new coworkers and team members in the Getty's web group. A big monitor is displaying the prototype of the newly designed and almost-built Getty Iris. We're discussing The Iris logo you see at the top of this page, its multiple iterations, and, quite frankly, the pain involved in trying to get it to look right. Wait-wait-wait, let's pause for a moment. My name is Will Lanni. I'm a Web production specialist at the Getty, which is a complex way of saying I'm a developer and designer, which is a nice way of saying that I'm basically a "web monkey." Before I started at the Getty, I worked as a partner in a small web design and development firm for several years. I had some experience working for the GettyI built the Pacific Standard Time at the Getty site, the Pacific Standard Time Festival site, as well as the interactive Getty Impact map. And, at the time of my hiring, I was not only working on the new design and build of The Iris, due to go live in only a month, but also the soon-to-be-launched website for Pacific Standard Time Presents: Modern Architecture in L.A. So I wasn't exactly new to projects at the Getty, even though I was a brand-spanking-new full-time employee. OK. Now that you know who I am, let's get back to that moment. The Iris logo, and the hair-pulling it was causing for all of uswhich is a pretty good representation of the steps that Web projects go through as we move from idea, to execution, to setback, to solution. Who worked on the design and build of The Iris and the website Pacific Standard Time Presents? A. not enough information B. Will Lanni C. John Harold D. Steve Franco
A: B

Q: I showed up at the address on Columbine's invitation just before eleven; it was a converted warehouse in an industrial zone on the city's north side. Since it was a Saturday night, everything else was empty for miles. The parking lot was filled with sports cars, hybrids, and shiny suburban tanks. The door facing the parking lot was open, spilling out muted lights and the din of yuppie chatter. It cast a somewhat foreboding aura over the entrance. The first thing I noticed as I approached was the beefy refrigerator in a rented tux blocking the doorway. The second thing was the surveillance camera perched on the wall above his head. I had stopped home and changed first, so I was sure I was dressed mostly appropriately for some rich faux-hipster art party - charcoal gray pinstripe jacket over a TV on the Radio t-shirt, skinny cuffed jeans, Docs, and a black fedora. I certainly didn't look any worse than the other idiots I saw filing in and out of the door. I even had an invitation. So I was fairly confident I'd be able to gain admission to this thing without incident. "No, absolutely not," the doorman said, pressing a meaty palm into my chest. "I was invited!" I said, exasperated. "I have documentation." I waved the rave card in front of his face. "No dice." I stepped aside to let a couple of aging goths through the door and wondered for a moment if the doorman somehow knew who I was. Then I noticed the ear piece he was wearing and my eyes darted back to the surveillance camera. "Motherfucker," I spat and raised both arms to flip off the camera. I didn't know it at the time, but at that moment Dylan Maxwell was sitting in front of a wall of monitors, laughing his ass off. Where does the narrator go next? A. He calls the cops. B. He breaks into the party. C. not enough information D. He goes to talk to Dylan
A: D