AQA GCSE English Language 8700/1 - Explorations in creative ...

Mark Scheme

Introduction

The information provided for each question is intended to be a guide to the kind of answers anticipated and is neither exhaustive nor prescriptive. All appropriate responses should be given credit.

Level of response marking instructions

Level of response mark schemes are broken down into four levels (where appropriate). Read through the student's answer and annotate it (as instructed) to show the qualities that are being looked for. You can then award a mark.

You should refer to the standardising material throughout your marking. The Indicative Standard is not intended to be a model answer nor a complete response, and it does not exemplify required content. It is an indication of the quality of response that is typical for each level and shows progression from Level 1 to 4.

Step 1 Determine a level

Start at the lowest level of the mark scheme and use it as a ladder to see whether the answer meets the descriptors for that level. If it meets the lowest level then go to the next one and decide if it meets this level, and so on, until you have a match between the level descriptor and the answer. With practice and familiarity you will be able to quickly skip through the lower levels for better answers. The Indicative Standard column in the mark scheme will help you determine the correct level.

Step 2 Determine a mark

Once you have assigned a level you need to decide on the mark. Balance the range of skills achieved; allow strong performance in some aspects to compensate for others only partially fulfilled. Refer to the standardising scripts to compare standards and allocate a mark accordingly. Re-read as needed to assure yourself that the level and mark are appropriate. An answer which contains nothing of relevance must be awarded no marks.

Advice for Examiners

In fairness to students, all examiners must use the same marking methods.

1. Refer constantly to the mark scheme and standardising scripts throughout the marking period.
2. Always credit accurate, relevant and appropriate responses that are not necessarily covered by the mark scheme or the standardising scripts.
3. Use the full range of marks. Do not hesitate to give full marks if the response merits it.
4. Remember the key to accurate and fair marking is consistency.
5. If you have any doubt about how to allocate marks to a response, consult your Team Leader.

SECTION A: READING - Assessment Objectives

AO1

• Identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas.
• Select and synthesise evidence from different texts.

AO2

• Explain, comment on and analyse how writers use language and structure to achieve effects and influence readers, using relevant subject terminology to support their views.

AO3

• Compare writers' ideas and perspectives, as well as how these are conveyed, across two or more texts.

AO4

• Evaluate texts critically and support this with appropriate textual references.

SECTION B: WRITING - Assessment Objectives

AO5 (Writing: Content and Organisation)

• Communicate clearly, effectively and imaginatively, selecting and adapting tone, style and register for different forms, purposes and audiences.
• Organise information and ideas, using structural and grammatical features to support coherence and cohesion of texts.

AO6

• Candidates must use a range of vocabulary and sentence structures for clarity, purpose and effect, with accurate spelling and punctuation. (This requirement must constitute 20% of the marks for each specification as a whole).

Answers

Question 1 - Mark Scheme

Read again the first part of the source, from lines 1 to 9. Answer all parts of this question. Choose one answer for each. [4 marks]

Assessment focus (AO1): Identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas. This assesses bullet point 1 (identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas).

• 1.1 What does the narrator/speaker ask about the cocks?: Which of the two was the more useful – 1 mark
• 1.2 Where did one cock stand?: On a dunghill – 1 mark
• 1.3 Where did the other cock stand?: On the roof – 1 mark
• 1.4 According to the narrator, what separates the poultry yard from another yard?: A wooden partition – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 6 to 15 of the source:

6 heap of manure sheltering a cucumber bed. In this bed grew a large cucumber, which was fully aware that it was a plant that should be reared in a hotbed. "It is the privilege of birth," said the Cucumber to itself. "All cannot be born cucumbers; there must be other kinds as well. The fowls, the ducks, and

11 the cattle in the next yard are all different creatures, and there is the yard cock--I can look up to him when he is on the wooden partition. He is certainly of much greater importance than the weathercock, who is so highly placed, and who can't even creak, much less crow--besides, he has neither hens nor chickens, and thinks only of himself, and perspires verdigris. But the yard

How does the writer use language here to present the Cucumber’s sense of status and its view of others? You could include the writer’s choice of:

• words and phrases
• language features and techniques
• sentence forms.

[8 marks]

Question 2 (AO2) – Language Analysis (8 marks)

Explain, comment on and analyse how writers use language and structure to achieve effects and influence readers, using relevant subject terminology to support their views. This question assesses language (words, phrases, features, techniques, sentence forms).

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Shows perceptive and detailed understanding of language: analyses effects of choices; selects judicious detail; sophisticated and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would perceptively analyse how anthropomorphism and ironic juxtaposition construct the Cucumber’s snobbery, contrasting its origin in a "heap of manure" with its claim to the "privilege of birth" and that it "should be reared in a hotbed," tracing a lexical field of hierarchy ("look up to," "highly placed," "greater importance") and the punning double meaning of "look up to." It would also explore comparative syntax and mocking personification—"can't even creak, much less crow," a weathercock who "thinks only of himself" and "perspires verdigris"—to show how the Cucumber belittles others, satirising superficial status.

The writer uses anthropomorphism to give the cucumber a pompous, aristocratic voice. It is “fully aware … should be reared in a hotbed”—the deontic modality “should” signals entitlement, while “It is the privilege of birth” borrows the lexis of caste. The satire bites because this hauteur sprouts from a “heap of manure”, inviting the reader to view its pretensions as absurd.

Moreover, a semantic field of classification constructs hierarchy. The triadic list “the fowls, the ducks, and the cattle” reduces others to “different creatures” and “other kinds”, a coolly distancing phrasing; the cucumber’s taxonomy makes “cucumbers” the norm and everyone else derivative.

Furthermore, comparative structures frame its judgements: it will “look up to” the yard cock “when he is on the wooden partition,” a phrase playing on literal elevation and deference. He is “of much greater importance than the weathercock, who is so highly placed”—a neat antithesis between practical authority and hollow rank, sharpened by the echoing nouns “yard cock”/“weathercock”.

Additionally, sound and colour imagery intensify its contempt. The onomatopoeic scale “can’t even creak, much less crow” uses gradated syntax to belittle the weathercock’s impotence, while the grotesque personification “perspires verdigris” suggests corroded vanity. Parenthetical dashes and the aside “besides” create a sneering, editorial tone. Thus, through precise lexis and satiric contrasts, the writer presents a cucumber inflated by status and scornfully appraising others, while the manure beneath undercuts its pretensions.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: Through personification and ironic setting, the cucumber’s snobbish self-importance is clear: despite the "heap of manure", it is "fully aware" of being reared in a "hotbed" and proclaims the "privilege of birth", using the balanced, semicolon-linked claim "All cannot be born cucumbers; there must be other kinds as well" to justify a hierarchy. Comparative and evaluative language frames others as inferior, as the list "the fowls, the ducks, and the cattle" orders creatures, while "I can look up to him" and "of much greater importance" elevate the yard cock, and dismissive phrases like "can't even creak, much less crow" and "thinks only of himself", plus the vivid "perspires verdigris", mock the weathercock to show contempt.

The writer uses personification to give the cucumber a pompous voice. The phrase “said the Cucumber to itself” and the self-conscious clause “fully aware that it was a plant that should be reared in a hotbed” show entitlement through the modal verb “should”. The metaphor “the privilege of birth” borrows the language of class, presenting a high sense of status, which is humorously undercut by the setting “heap of manure,” creating irony.

Furthermore, the inclusive yet dismissive declarative “All cannot be born cucumbers; there must be other kinds as well” positions other creatures as inferior. The triadic list “the fowls, the ducks, and the cattle” reduces them to categories, suggesting condescension. Even admiration is status-based: “I can look up to him when he is on the wooden partition,” a phrase with a double meaning that implies both literal height and social rank.

Moreover, the yard cock is of “much greater importance” than the “weathercock,” who, though “highly placed,” “can’t even creak, much less crow.” The negative verbs belittle him, and the personification “perspires verdigris” portrays empty showiness. Therefore, through personification, metaphor, listing and irony, the writer constructs a snobbish cucumber whose view of others depends on perceived breeding, usefulness and position, clearly presenting its inflated sense of status.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer personifies the cucumber with direct speech to show its pride, using phrases like "fully aware" and "privilege of birth" to suggest high status. Simple comparisons present its views of others: it says it can "look up to him" and the cock is "of much greater importance", while mocking the weathercock as "so highly placed" but "can't even creak", showing it looks down on others.

The writer uses personification and direct speech to present the Cucumber’s high status. It is "fully aware" of itself and says, "It is the privilege of birth," which makes it sound proud and superior. The phrase "All cannot be born cucumbers" shows it sees a social order with itself at the top.

Furthermore, comparative language presents its view of others. It says it can "look up to" the yard cock and calls him "of much greater importance," suggesting a hierarchy it respects.

Moreover, the list "the fowls, the ducks, and the cattle" groups others as "different," which distances them. The contrast with the "weathercock" shows its judgement: although "so highly placed," he "can't even creak, much less crow." The personification "perspires verdigris" gives a nasty image, and the phrase "thinks only of himself" shows selfishness. Therefore, language shows the Cucumber as snobbish and critical.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer personifies the cucumber and gives it direct speech, using proud phrases like "privilege of birth" and talk of "much greater importance" to show status. It puts down others by listing "the fowls, the ducks, and the cattle" and saying the weathercock "can't even creak, much less crow."

The writer uses personification so the Cucumber can speak, saying "It is the privilege of birth." This phrase shows it thinks it has high status. "Should be reared in a hotbed" also sounds entitled. Moreover, the writer uses comparison: the yard cock has "greater importance," and "I can look up to him." This shows respect for real authority. Additionally, negative phrases about the weathercock like "can't even creak" and "thinks only of himself," plus "perspires verdigris," make him seem useless and dirty, showing the Cucumber looks down on others. Therefore, the language shows status and judgement.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

AO2 content may include the effects of language features such as:

• Earthy setting instantly undercuts grandeur, creating irony between origins and self-importance (heap of manure).
• Personified direct speech gives the plant a self-conscious, haughty voice (said the Cucumber to itself).
• Aristocratic lexis asserts innate rank, framing status as inherited right (privilege of birth).
• Modality and passive construction signal entitlement to special treatment (should be reared).
• Generalisation constructs a hierarchy, accepting others only as lesser kinds (born cucumbers).
• Taxonomic listing distances others, reducing them to categories rather than equals (the fowls, the ducks).
• Double meaning blends literal height and respect, showing selective deference to practical authority (look up to him).
• Antithesis exposes empty prestige, contrasting position with genuine importance (so highly placed).
• Parallel phrasing intensifies scorn by staging ability as a failed progression (can't even creak).
• Negatives and personification belittle utility and character, measuring worth by real responsibilities (neither hens nor chickens).

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

You now need to think about the structure of the source as a whole. This text is from the start of a story.

How has the writer structured the text to create a sense of irony?

You could write about:

• how irony develops throughout the source
• how the writer uses structure to create an effect
• the writer's use of any other structural features, such as changes in mood, tone or perspective. [8 marks]

Question 3 (AO2) – Structural Analysis (8 marks)

Assesses structure (pivotal point, juxtaposition, flashback, focus shifts, mood/tone, contrast, narrative pace, etc.).

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would trace how irony is structured through a framing question and turning point: the opening challenge ("Which of the two was the more useful?") and contrast ("one of them stood on a dunghill, the other on the roof") with the Cucumber’s admiring focalisation ("a happy death!") inflate reputations that the storm’s pivot ("the weathercock stood firm") and the cock’s absurd escalation ("A cock can lay an egg", "In that egg lies a basilisk") then undercut. This culminates in an anticlimax as the scornful weathercock who had seemed steadfast simply "broke off and fell into the yard," ironically exposing the vanity of both cocks.

One way the writer structures the text to create irony is through an expository frame and juxtaposition. The opening balances “two cocks” — one on a dunghill, one on a roof — and asks “Which… more useful?” That set-up primes comparison, but the next shifts in focalisation reveal vanity: we dwell inside the Cucumber’s snobbish self-importance (“privilege of birth”) and her idolising of the yard cock, even longing for a “pleasant death.” The reader registers, ahead of her, the gulf between her reverence and the reality, creating dramatic irony.

In addition, a temporal-spatial pivot acts as the hinge of the irony. “During the night” the storm blows down “the wooden palings,” collapsing the yards so fantasy meets consequence. At the same time the weathercock “stood firm… could not even turn,” a paradox highlighted by his lofty placement and stasis. This sequenced contrast — immobile emblem versus strutting predator who now “made his appearance” — realises the Cucumber’s desire as she is eaten, completing her trajectory in an ironically “happy” consummation.

A further structural strategy is patterned escalation followed by bathos. The cock’s repeated crowing and the hens’ refrain (“clucked and chirped”) create rhythmic amplification, peaking with the impossible boast “A cock can lay an egg… a basilisk,” which the gullible flock affirms. The final movement then undercuts this crescendo: the weathercock “broke off and fell,” yet “did not kill the yard cock.” This anticlimax answers the opening frame obliquely — neither cock proves “useful” — and seals the tale’s pervasive situational irony.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 response would explain how irony is set up by the opening contrast and question—'two cocks; one of them stood on a dunghill, the other on the roof', 'Which of the two was the more useful?'—then developed through shifting viewpoints (the Cucumber idolising the 'yard cock' and dismissing the 'weathercock'). It would also note the storm as a turning point (the 'wooden palings' blown down; the weathercock 'did not even turn'), leading to a boastful climax in 'A cock can lay an egg' and an anticlimax when the weathercock 'broke off and fell', undercutting status and exposing vanity for ironic effect.

One way the writer structures irony is through a framed opening and contrast. The story introduces “two cocks” and asks, “Which… was the more useful?”, then narrows focus to the Cucumber’s admiring viewpoint. She “looks up to” the yard cock and dismisses the weathercock who “can’t even creak”. This is overturned when the storm arrives: while “tiles” fall and birds “sought shelter”, the weathercock “stood firm”, and, earlier, the Cucumber welcomes being eaten—“a happy death!”—adding another ironic beat. The shift from praise to peril creates situational irony.

In addition, shifts in perspective and pacing deepen the irony. We move into the weathercock’s interior monologue—“The whole world is worth nothing”—before the narrative accelerates through the yard cock’s crowing and claims: “A cock can lay an egg… a basilisk.” The chorus of “clucked and chirped” amplifies his bluster, so the reader recognises, in dramatic irony, that his “renown” is false.

A further structural choice is the anticlimactic ending. The sudden action, “the weathercock broke off and fell into the yard,” undercuts both poses; the aside, “He did not kill the yard cock,” punctures any grandeur. Returning to the opening question, this twist leaves “usefulness” ironically unresolved and both cocks exposed as vain.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer structures the story by starting with contrast (one on the dunghill, one on the roof) and shifting to the Cucumber’s praise ("What a trumpeter he is!"), so when the storm knocks down the partition and he is "eating her up", her calling it "a happy death" is ironic. At the end, after the boast "A cock can lay an egg", the "lofty" weathercock "broke off and fell", a clear twist that makes their pride look silly.

One way in which the writer structures the text to create irony is the opening contrast and question. At the beginning we get “two cocks” and the narrator asks “Which… was the more useful?” This sets expectations. Later, events undercut this, showing both cocks as ridiculous.

In addition, in the middle, the focus shifts between characters to build dramatic irony. We move from the Cucumber admiring the yard cock—“even if he were to eat me… a pleasant death”—to the cock boasting, “A cock can lay an egg.” The reader knows this is false and dangerous, so their praise feels ironic.

A further structural feature is the turning point and ending. Temporal markers like “During the night” and “the storm had passed” move the action on, and finally the weathercock “broke off and fell,” yet “did not kill the yard cock.” This twist changes the tone and leaves the question unresolved.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: At the start the writer contrasts the two cocks, one on a dunghill and one on the roof, then in the middle the boast 'A cock can lay an egg', and at the end the weathercock... broke off and fell after earlier stood firm. This simple beginning, middle and end contrast creates irony by showing proud claims and high positions being undercut.

One way the writer uses structure to create irony is the opening question, 'Which of the two was the more useful?'. This sets expectations, but later the yard cock’s bragging and the cucumber’s praise look foolish.

In addition, the focus shifts: first the cucumber admires the yard cock, then the storm turns to the weathercock, called 'lofty'. The contrast makes irony, because both seem grand but end up silly.

A further feature is the ending. The cock says, 'A cock can lay an egg', yet the final line shows the weathercock falling. This ending goes against the earlier boasting.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

AO2 content may include the effect of structural features such as:

• Framing opening question sets utility expectations; irony builds as both prove vain (more useful?)
• Early juxtaposition of roof vs dunghill status misleads via the Cucumber’s scorn for the roof cock (much less crow)
• Shift to the Cucumber’s adoring viewpoint seeds dramatic irony, as desire foreshadows her fate (a happy death!)
• Storm turning point collapses barriers; “steadfast” weathercock revealed as immobile (did not even turn)
• Consequence sequence grants wish in perverse form: flattered, she is consumed (eating her up)
• Boasting monologue rises to absurd climax, inviting reader’s superior knowledge (A cock can lay an egg)
• Chorus of hens/chickens magnifies the farce—fear and pride at nonsense (hens and chickens trembled)
• Cutaway to the roof cock’s contempt offers ironic counterpoint, yet shows equal vanity/inertia (stupid stuff)
• Anticlimactic ending deflates stakes: lofty one falls; nothing is proved useful (broke off and fell)
• Repetition motif (retold tales; crowing) underscores cyclical vanity and stagnation (crowed again)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 21 to the end.

In this part of the source, where the yard cock boasts he can lay an egg with a basilisk in it, he appears foolish rather than powerful. The writer suggests that this kind of extreme pride is actually just ridiculous.

To what extent do you agree and/or disagree with this statement?

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the yard cock and his extreme pride
• comment on the methods the writer uses to portray the yard cock's ridiculous pride
• support your response with references to the text. [20 marks]

Question 4 (AO4) – Critical Evaluation (20 marks)

Evaluate texts critically and support with appropriate textual references.

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed evaluation) – 16–20 marks Perceptive ideas; perceptive methods; critical detail on impact; judicious detail. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would argue that the writer satirises the yard cock’s pride as ridiculous, using hyperbolic boasts—A cock can lay an egg, In that egg lies a basilisk, Men know my power, what a renowned bird I am—and counterpointing them with the weathercock’s sardonic verdict, It's all stupid stuff, and the bathetic collapse, broke off and fell into the yard, to expose his foolishness. It might concede a limited, performative authority in how he flapped his wings, erected his comb until the hens trembled, but ultimately evaluate the writer’s viewpoint as mocking extreme pride rather than endorsing power.

I agree to a large extent that the yard cock appears foolish rather than powerful, and the writer consistently satirises his inflated self-importance. From the outset, structural contrast primes this reading: the storm has “blown down the wooden palings,” allowing the yard cock to invade, while the “weathercock” provides an ironic counterpoint. This juxtaposition frames the yard cock’s display as mere opportunity and bluster rather than true authority.

The writer’s description immediately undercuts his grandeur through bathos and simile. He struts “as if he had been a knight,” yet this chivalric pose takes place “upon the dunghill,” a comic collision of high and low that exposes pretension. His address to the Cucumber—“Garden plant”—masquerades as gallantry, but the situational irony is biting: she “forgot that he was pecking at her and eating her up—a happy death!” The exclamation mark and the paradox of “happy” while being devoured lampoon not only his vanity but the credulous adoration that sustains it. In other words, the writer suggests that extreme pride thrives on being humoured and is therefore intrinsically ridiculous.

His crowing escalates the satire. Onomatopoeia in “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” amplifies his noisy self-advertisement, and the conditional boast—“the chickens… will grow to be large fowls if I make my voice heard in the world”—is hubristic nonsense, implying that sheer noise breeds greatness. The mock-heroic crescendo culminates in hypophora: “A cock can lay an egg… what do you think is in that egg?… a basilisk.” The mythical allusion inflates his claim to the absurd, while the self-mythologising triad—“Men know my power… what I am capable of… what a renowned bird I am”—exposes his rhetoric as empty self-promotion. Although the hens “trembled” and were “proud,” their reaction indicates performative, not substantive, power; they are overawed by volume and spectacle rather than truth.

Crucially, the narrative voice punctures the boast with explicit irony. The internal commentary—“It’s all stupid stuff… the yard cock does not lay eggs any more than I do”—supplies authoritative correction. Even the weathercock’s jaded aside about a “wind egg” dismisses the world as “not worth” such a nothing, foregrounding the theme of vanity. The denouement literalises the fallibility of pride: the weathercock “broke off and fell,” a comic collapse that fails to harm the yard cock despite the hens’ rumour “he intended to do so.” Their credulity further satirises the ecology of pride.

Overall, I strongly agree: the writer’s satire, irony, and structural juxtapositions render the yard cock’s extreme pride ridiculous. While his swagger briefly cowes an audience, the text shows that such “renown” is noise on a dunghill—bluster that looks powerful only to those willing to be fooled.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 response would largely agree, explaining that the cock’s boast 'A cock can lay an egg... In that egg lies a basilisk' is absurd hyperbole that makes him look ridiculous rather than powerful, illustrated by his pretentious 'strutted about as if he had been a knight' and the ironic mix of 'trembled' yet 'proud' among the hens. It would also note the weathercock’s dismissal 'It’s all stupid stuff' as evidence that the writer mocks such extreme pride.

I agree to a great extent that the yard cock appears foolish rather than powerful, and the writer satirises this extreme pride as ridiculous. From the moment the storm blows down the “wooden palings” and lets him in, his vanity is obvious. His rhetorical swagger—“What do you think of that for crowing?”—and the simile “strutted about as if he had been a knight” inflate him absurdly, especially as this posturing happens on a “dunghill.” This juxtaposition undercuts his status. His address to the Cucumber, “Garden plant,” is flattery, and the dramatic irony that she dies a “happy death” while he is “pecking” and “eating her up” exposes how empty compliments and display can fool others.

The boast itself—“A cock can lay an egg… in that egg lies a basilisk”—is blatant hyperbole and biological impossibility. The mythic “basilisk” connotes deadly power, but attaching it to a male bird’s egg marks the claim as laughable. The writer heightens the performative nature of his pride through physicality: he “flapped his wings, erected his comb, and crowed,” a tricolon of actions that is all show. Although the hens and chickens “trembled” and were “proud,” their herd response (“where one runs the rest run also”) suggests gullibility rather than genuine power.

Crucially, the narrative voice contrasts him with the weathercock. The internal comment, “It’s all stupid stuff… The yard cock does not lay eggs,” punctures the boast. Even the weathercock’s own pride is mocked through irony: he could lay a “wind egg,” and then he literally “broke off and fell.” This anticlimactic structural ending implies that both lofty contempt and barnyard bragging are precarious. The hens’ claim that he “intended to” kill the yard cock is another exaggeration that shows how easily bluster is misread as might.

Overall, through simile, hyperbole, contrast, and a mocking tone, the writer presents the yard cock’s extreme pride as ridiculous posturing that impresses only the naive, not the reader.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 2 response would broadly agree that the cock’s extreme pride is ridiculous, citing simple examples like his exaggerated claim "A cock can lay an egg" with a "basilisk" and boastful actions "flapped his wings, erected his comb, and crowed again", and may link the writer’s viewpoint to the weathercock’s dismissal "It's all stupid stuff".

I mostly agree that the yard cock seems foolish rather than powerful. The writer uses language and structure to show his pride as exaggerated and silly.

At first, the cock tries to appear grand. He “strutted about as if he had been a knight.” This simile makes him look like he is only pretending to be heroic. The verb “strutted” suggests showy pride, while his crowing is described as “rather rough, and wanted elegance,” so his display sounds clumsy, not impressive.

His main boast is clearly ridiculous. He declares, “A cock can lay an egg… In that egg lies a basilisk.” This is hyperbole and also impossible, because a cock cannot lay eggs. The repeated exclamations, “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” and his actions—he “flapped his wings, erected his comb”—show a lot of noise and performance rather than real power. The direct speech lets us hear his bragging voice, especially when he calls himself “a renowned bird,” which shows vanity.

The reactions around him underline the joke. The hens and chickens “trembled,” yet they are simply overawed and “proud that they belonged to him,” which makes them seem gullible. In contrast, the weathercock’s inner voice cuts through the boast: “It’s all stupid stuff… The yard cock does not lay eggs.” This contrast and the structural shift after the bragging undercut the cock. Even the ending is an anticlimax: the weathercock “fell into the yard” but “did not kill the yard cock,” which deflates any sense of danger.

Overall, I agree to a large extent. Through simile, hyperbole, and contrast, the writer presents the cock’s extreme pride as empty and ridiculous, not truly powerful.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: I agree because the yard cock boasts A cock can lay an egg and In that egg lies a basilisk, which is impossible and makes him look silly. The writer also shows this when the weathercock says It's all stupid stuff, so his pride seems ridiculous rather than powerful.

I mostly agree that the yard cock seems foolish rather than powerful. His pride feels over the top and the writer makes it look silly.

At first, the yard cock shows off with noise and posing. He crows “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” and “strutted about as if he had been a knight.” This simile makes him look like he is pretending to be important. The verbs “strutted” and “erected his comb” show he is showing off. His big boast, “A cock can lay an egg… In that egg lies a basilisk,” is impossible, so the exaggeration (hyperbole) makes him sound ridiculous. The hens and chickens “trembled,” but they also “clucked and chirped” proudly, which suggests they are easily impressed, not that he is truly powerful.

Later, the writer contrasts him with the weathercock. The weathercock’s voice says it is “all stupid stuff,” which undercuts the boast. He even jokes he could lay a “wind egg,” making the yard cock’s brag sound empty. At the end the weathercock “fell into the yard” and “did not kill the yard cock,” an anticlimax that keeps the scene comic rather than grand.

Overall, I agree the writer shows the yard cock’s extreme pride as ridiculous, not real power.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward. Note: Reference to methods and explicit “I agree/I disagree” may be implicit and still credited according to quality.

AO4 content may include the evaluation of ideas and methods such as:

• Hyperbole/biological impossibility undermines credibility, so his pride reads as delusion rather than strength (A cock can lay an egg)
• Mythic menace is used to inflate status, but the outlandishness makes him comically overblown (In that egg lies a basilisk)
• Self-aggrandising declaration signals vanity and invites reader scepticism at his self-made legend (Men know my power)
• Mock-heroic simile parodies grandeur, framing his strut as laughable pretension, not real nobility (been a knight)
• Ostentatious physical display is all show and no substance, a pompous performance of dominance (erected his comb)
• Onomatopoeic blare substitutes noise for authority, suggesting bluster rather than genuine power (Cock-a-doodle-doo!)
• Credulous audience reaction shows limited, performative influence over the flock, even as readers judge him foolish (trembled)
• Rational foil/narrative verdict explicitly debunks the boast, steering us to dismiss his pride as nonsense (It's all stupid stuff)
• Factual correction punctures the myth, exposing the claim as impossible and the speaker as foolish (does not lay eggs)
• Deflating outcome satirises gossip and supposed danger, further pricking the bubble of his self-importance (He did not kill)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A national science blog is showcasing student creative writing on life with technology.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a robotics lab from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a digital mistake with real consequences.

(24 marks for content and organisation, 16 marks for technical accuracy) [40 marks]

(24 marks for content and organisation • 16 marks for technical accuracy) [40 marks]

Question 5 (AO5) – Content & Organisation (24 marks)

Communicate clearly, effectively and imaginatively; organise information and ideas to support coherence and cohesion. Levels and typical features follow AQA’s SAMs grid for descriptive/narrative writing. Use the Level 4 → Level 1 descriptors for content and organisation, distinguishing Upper/Lower bands within Levels 4–3–2.

• Level 4 (19–24 marks) Upper 22–24: Convincing and compelling; assured register; extensive and ambitious vocabulary; varied and inventive structure; compelling ideas; fluent paragraphing with seamless discourse markers.

Lower 19–21: Convincing; extensive vocabulary; varied and effective structure; highly engaging with developed complex ideas; consistently coherent paragraphs.

• Level 3 (13–18 marks) Upper 16–18: Consistently clear; register matched; increasingly sophisticated vocabulary and phrasing; effective structural features; engaging, clear connected ideas; coherent paragraphs with integrated markers.

Lower 13–15: Generally clear; vocabulary chosen for effect; usually effective structure; engaging with connected ideas; usually coherent paragraphs.

• Level 2 (7–12 marks) Upper 10–12: Some sustained success; some sustained matching of register/purpose; conscious vocabulary; some devices; some structural features; increasing variety of linked ideas; some paragraphs and markers.

Lower 7–9: Some success; attempts to match register/purpose; attempts to vary vocabulary; attempts structural features; some linked ideas; attempts at paragraphing with markers.

• Level 1 (1–6 marks) Upper 4–6: Simple communication; simple awareness of register/purpose; simple vocabulary/devices; evidence of simple structural features; one or two relevant ideas; random paragraphing.

Lower 1–3: Limited communication; occasional sense of audience/purpose; limited or no structural features; one or two unlinked ideas; no paragraphs.

Level 0: Nothing to reward. NB: If a candidate does not directly address the focus of the task, cap AO5 at 12 (top of Level 2).

Question 5 (AO6) – Technical Accuracy (16 marks)

Students must use a range of vocabulary and sentence structures for clarity, purpose and effect, with accurate spelling and punctuation.

• Level 4 (13–16): Consistently secure demarcation; wide range of punctuation with high accuracy; full range of sentence forms; secure Standard English and complex grammar; high accuracy in spelling, including ambitious vocabulary; extensive and ambitious vocabulary.

• Level 3 (9–12): Mostly secure demarcation; range of punctuation mostly successful; variety of sentence forms; mostly appropriate Standard English; generally accurate spelling including complex/irregular words; increasingly sophisticated vocabulary.

• Level 2 (5–8): Mostly secure demarcation (sometimes accurate); some control of punctuation range; attempts variety of sentence forms; some use of Standard English; some accurate spelling of more complex words; varied vocabulary.

• Level 1 (1–4): Occasional demarcation; some evidence of conscious punctuation; simple sentence forms; occasional Standard English; accurate basic spelling; simple vocabulary.

• Level 0: Spelling, punctuation, etc., are sufficiently poor to prevent understanding or meaning.

Model Answers

The following model answers demonstrate both AO5 (Content & Organisation) and AO6 (Technical Accuracy) at each level. Each response shows the expected standard for both assessment objectives.

• Level 4 Upper (22-24 marks for AO5, 13-16 marks for AO6, 35-40 marks total)

Option A:

Cold light saturates the room, a surgical wash that flattens shadow and sharpens every edge. It is a kind of noon that never moves: an unwavering ceiling of panels humming with purpose. Monitors blink like patient eyelids; status LEDs stud the benches in disciplined constellations. The air is clean yet complicated — citrus disinfectant braided with solder-flux sweetness and the crisp tang of ozone. If you breathe too deeply, you taste metal. Beneath it all, a careful music persists: the susurrus of fans, the measured cough of compressors, a relay’s soft tick.

In measured arcs, the robotic arms rehearse their etiquette. Anodised joints turn with velvet certainty; servo motors whine in discreet falsetto. Cable umbilicals drape from their shoulders; grippers poise, hesitate, descend. They move like mantises performing surgery — prayerful, precise — then reset, then try again. On, off, on, off, a choreography of obedience that is, perhaps, a little eerie.

Across the benches, circuit boards lie like emerald cities. Under the magnifier’s glass, solder blooms into domes of mercury; silk-screen legends spell out a cryptic liturgy: RST, VIN, GND. Copper traces thread labyrinthine paths between black-mouthed sockets and stubborn little chips. A soldering iron rests in its cradle, exhaling a thin ribbon of blue; the fume extractor leans in and swallows it. Tools align in ruler-straight ranks — tweezers, torque drivers, calipers — everything measured, everything exact.

Beyond, screens glow with coded weather. Lines of logic cascade; graphs tremble; a schematic swivels obediently under a mouse’s gentle push. On the oscilloscope, a sine wave drums its green heartbeat, rising, falling, rising. A technician slides past, sleeves rolled, tapping a key that turns a console line from scarlet to forgiving green. At a whiteboard, the day’s thinking is layered upon yesterday’s — a palimpsest of arrows, matrices, orphaned brackets that wait, expectant, for closure.

At the far end, prototypes congregate like shy animals at a watering hole. A quadruped lifts one carbon-fibre limb, tests the floor as if ice might crack; cameras glitter where eyes would be. A skeletal hand opens and closes, whispering; a drone fidgets in its safety cage, the air beneath it stirred to a shimmering veil. Cables coil like patient vines. Heat-shrink collars gleam. The future here seems literal — not metaphor but metal — an altar to intention that, arguably, flirts with hubris.

Outside, it is evening; inside, the light refuses to dim. Time is kept by different clocks: by the metronome of testing, by the small victories of decimals. Test, adjust, test, adjust — again and again — until the numbers settle. Precision becomes a kind of poetry; austere, perhaps, yet it sings. The lab exhales, bright as a single LED.

Option B:

Monday. The hour before the city truly woke; monitors stuttering into brightness, a low, electrical purr threading the room like a held breath. Rhea wrapped her fingers around a plastic mug of cooling coffee and watched the cursor blink—courteous, patient—above a white box titled: Emergency Communications Portal.

Second week. She still said it to herself as if it were a charm. Second week, and you do not break anything. Her job this morning was perfunctory: send a non-emergency test to the sandbox cluster while Martin hunted for croissants. The form was neat in its abundance of caution—tick boxes, triple confirmations, a drop-down (Training Sandbox) that sat, apparently immovable, beneath a warning ribbon the colour of old bruises: Do not send to PRODUCTION without authorisation.

She typed the blunt language of safety: THIS IS A TEST. NO ACTION REQUIRED. Then, for the fifth time, read it aloud in a whisper, as if the words might betray an intention she had missed. The city beyond their narrow windows yawned: buses drawing breath at stops, shop shutters uncoiling, gulls stitching the sky.

The lift chimed; footsteps, a laugh. Rhea glanced up, a small, reflexive smile forming—only for her finger to graze the trackpad, shift the page, refresh the drop-down. The careful blue halo around Training Sandbox slipped, unnoticed, up to All Regions (PRODUCTION). The ribbon’s warning pulsed again—she saw it, she did—and she told herself it was the same ribbon as before, the software’s slightly hysterical style. The confirmation dialog sprang up, righteous and bureaucratic: Are you sure?

She meant to click Preview. She pressed Enter.

Click.

On the screen, a thin progress bar flickered into being; the system spoke in its placid, ineluctable jargon—Dispatching… Propagating…—as if it were ferrying parcels, not adrenaline. Her phone shook in her pocket with an insect stridency. Across the wall of monitors, test maps blue-shifted into an angry red tessellation: All Regions.

Meanwhile, by the river, joggers halted, their belts of phone and key juddering against their ribs; in a bakery, the radio cut to an emergency tone, and a dough-smeared hand reached for the dial and missed; on a bus, every handset in every palm lit at once, a chorus of blunt capital letters. A teacher drew the blinds without meaning to, then stood, suddenly aware of thirty faces watching, waiting. Someone called someone; someone sobbed; someone laughed, too loudly, at nothing.

Rhea’s mouth filled with a metallic taste. She jabbed at the Recall button; it was respectful, greyed-out, a rule obeyed with terrible elegance. “No, no, no—” She tried to sound as if she were rehearsing possibilities rather than naming doom. The software did not apologise. The numbers in the Live Recipients counter climbed as if they had trained their whole lives for this ascent.

“Martin?” Her voice cracked. He appeared in the doorway with a paper bag and three flaky crescents of sweet, indifferent pastry. He read the screens before he read her face. For a heartbeat nothing moved but crumbs drifting.

“It was a test,” she said. “It was—”

“I know.” He put the bag down with care, as if not to startle the room. “We need to call it in.”

Outside, sirens found their wind. On a bridge, traffic ricocheted between lanes; a cyclist braked and went down, thin arms pinwheeling; an old man in a hallway dialled his daughter, hands shaking, rehearsing the words in case the call did not connect. The city, which believed firmly in undo—recycling bins, edit histories, apologies—tested the weight of a message that could not be reeled back.

Rhea watched the counter settle, a number large enough to seem abstract and, at the same time, insultingly precise. Somewhere, a child would wake to that sound. Somewhere, a woman would begin to run. And here, in the herb-bright light of a room full of screens, a mistake sat down beside her and made itself comfortable.

• Level 4 Lower (19-21 marks for AO5, 13-16 marks for AO6, 32-37 marks total)

Option A:

White light lacquered the floor, a deliberate sheen that magnified every footprint and smudge. The room seems to breathe (though nothing here has lungs): fans exhale in a low, even hush, drawing the faint scent of solder across the benches. Glass partitions slice the space into bays; yellow chevrons band the edges of worktables; a thin braid of cable runs like a fault line from socket to socket. LEDs stipple the dimmer corners with patient stars, and the ceiling, corrugated with ductwork, mutters its conditioned weather. It is clean without being cold; it is precise, and yet the air quivers.

Ranks of articulated arms rise from their anchors as if called to attention. Smooth housings—the colour of bone china—hide tendons of braided steel; joints click with the decorum of a metronome. At rest, the grippers yawn a few millimetres, waiting, acting almost modest; when summoned, a servo clears its throat, and the wrist rotates in a deliberate half-arc, pauses, recalibrates. Cable looms curl against their shoulders like docile snakes. A camera eye blinks open; a ring of blue wakes around a sensor; and the entire machine holds a poise that is careful, almost courteous, like a heron negotiating shallow water.

The benches wear their own geology: trays of carbon film resistors; sachets of capacitors; screws corralled in magnetic dishes; circuit boards bristling with soldered forests. On the antistatic mats lie tools aligned with fussy pride—torque drivers, calipers, a battered multimeter whose screen still glows a tired green. Oscilloscopes sketch sine waves that climb and fall; the printer in the corner ticks and drizzles a new casing, layer by impeccable layer. The air tastes faintly metallic and sweet with rosin; somewhere, a drop of flux smokes to nothing. Papers sprawl—schematics, risk assessments, a checklist with a coffee ring crowning “Vision Stack: v4.”

Signs of people are everywhere and nowhere. A lab coat is slung over a stool; on the whiteboard a palimpsest remains: matrices, a thumbnail of a gripper, then—underlined twice—Safety First. Beneath it, almost sheepishly, someone has added: update firmware; recalibrate torque; remember lunch. In the test bay a squat rover is lifted on a cradle, tethered by a lifeline of cables; at a key-press it performs its curt ballet, wheels whirring dutifully yet going nowhere. Who hears that tiny victory beep but the room itself? Then the fans resume their steady sermon. This place is a promise—neither quite human nor entirely machine—the bright, humming pause before a hand is taught to hold.

Option B:

Monday. The time of resets; inboxes refill; monitors wake, glass-eyed and expectant. A clean slate for so many.

In the school office, under the polite buzz of strip lights and a kettle that never quite boiled, Elliot balanced the new authority of a borrowed lanyard against the tremor in his fingers. An IT intern (temporary, unpaid, and trying not to look it), he had been asked to schedule a routine test—nothing theatrical, nothing to worry about. The building management screen glowed a clinical blue; fields blinked for attention; the cursor skated like a nervous fish.

He moved methodically. Date: tick. Zones: tick. Duration: five minutes—conservative. He reread the instructions, mouthing each imperative as if they were lines from a play. He liked order. He liked boxes he could tick and bars he could watch crawl inexorably to 100%. The progress bar waited, patient as held breath; the confirm button was a small, seductive square of green.

He hovered. Then he did what everyone does in offices and bedrooms and train carriages across the world.

He clicked.

There was, to his credit, caution. He scrolled back; he checked again: Hall, Library, Labs—Excluded (or so he thought). Time: 12:00—clear, simple, centred. AM? PM? The dropdown offered both with a shrug; the trackpad, oversensitive, twitched; a tiny triangle shifted. He frowned, blinked, and told himself not to be ridiculous. Who tests sprinklers at lunchtime?

Outside, a wind pressed the trees flat; inside, the Head’s voice rose in the hall—awards, attendance, applause. The school held its breath.

The first hiss was almost polite. A staccato patter followed, then a silvery roar as a ceiling of invisible mouths opened in unison and poured. Water struck wood like coins on a drum. Programmes curled; phones lifted, too late; the microphone fizzed into silence. In the library, neat spines swelled; a century of pages drank and sagged; ink bled into soft, sorrowing clouds. The smell—cold metal, soaked cardboard, a ghost of smoke that wasn’t there—spread.

Elliot didn’t move. His screen bloomed with an unequivocal banner—Scheduled Test: Executed Successfully (All Zones)—and his stomach dropped as if the floor had been delicately removed. By the time he ran, corridor tiles slick beneath skittering shoes, buckets were arriving like afterthoughts; Mr Brookes was shouting into a radio; a dozen voices braided into one bewildered question.

How could a fingertip undo so much paper?

Later, there would be forms and apologies and a meeting with capital letters. For now, water kept falling; a relentless, glittering mistake, as precise and as careless as a clock. And Elliot, drenched and shivering, stood beneath it, tasting the consequence he had, quite literally, turned on.

• Level 3 Upper (16-18 marks for AO5, 9-12 marks for AO6, 25-30 marks total)

Option A:

The room hums with a thin, persistent electricity; the air tastes faintly metallic, like a coin on the tongue. LED strips pour a cold blue-white glow across anti-static mats, making screws and cables look clinical. Fans whisper from open towers; a fume extractor leans over a soldering station, sipping the soft, sour smoke from a silver tip. Somewhere, a printer taps its patient rhythm: click, drag, click; click, drag, click. The effect is hypnotic and a little lonely.

On the central table, three robotic arms stand alert, their joints like knuckles beneath pale plastic. Orange and grey, they pause mid-bow. A red diode blinks at the wrists—small hearts counting. When they move, it is careful, almost hesitant, as if learning their own body; a pincer hovers over a chessboard of resistors, chooses one, then places it in line with a practised pinch. The servos tick and whine, a hushed choir. Cables trail away in looping veins that disappear into a lattice of black boxes.

Beyond them, the benches are a measured mess. Coiled wires lie in dishes; spools of solder gleam like dull mercury; labels peel from shallow drawers—M3 bolts, standoffs, hex keys. Along the far wall, a whiteboard crowds with arrows and equations and a sketch of a hand that looks more spider than glove. The room does not shout about progress; it murmurs it. Systems are tested; errors are circled; code scrolls down a monitor in pale rivers, then freezes while someone holds their breath. There is a smell of plastic warming, of coffee cooling too fast.

Here, time seems measured differently. Minutes stretch with the waiting, then collapse as a motor finally turns, as a sensor finally hears the right light. It isn’t perfect, wires knot when they shouldn’t, screws roll to floor level and vanish under benches—but the discipline is there: neat trays and checklists keep the chaos in its bracket. And always the soundtrack, low and dependable: whirr and purr, whirr and purr, whirr and purr, until the lab feels like a creature breathing. When the lights click off, that hum lingers in the ear, a faint afterimage, and the arms fold themselves politely, waiting.

Option B:

Midnight. The hour when screens shine harder than stars; the house holds its breath and tiny taps feel harmless. The school's website glowed a flat winter blue, the cursor blinking like a small heartbeat. Miss Patel had asked me to schedule one simple notice for morning — 'Chess club moved to Tuesday' — and go to bed. The kettle clicked and cooled; the radiator sighed. It looked easy: a title, a line, a time. I told myself five minutes; I believed it.

My tabs multiplied: email; the content manager; a training page I’d left open by accident. That page wore red letters: 'Emergency Closure Template'. A dummy. Earlier, as a joke, I’d typed a practice line into it — not funny now: 'School closed due to burst water main — do not attend.' In the fug of midnight, windows overlapped; boxes looked the same. I typed, I dragged, I scheduled. Then, because I’m clever, I hit Ctrl+Enter. The button flared green. 'Published'. I stared at the word until the meaning arrived.

I lunged for undo; there wasn’t one. The platform congratulated me on my efficiency. Beneath, a thin line: 'SMS alerts enabled'. The words poured through me like ice water. Parents. Staff. Everybody. I mashed refresh; the post didn’t move. Two-step verification sent a code to the office landline — a phone asleep three miles away. My hands left damp crescents on the table. By 12:03 my mobile skittered, frantic. Mum: Is this real? Should I cancel my shift? Leon, Year Ten: FREE DAYYY. Then the headteacher’s name flashed — not a text; a call. I didn’t answer.

I didn’t sleep. Every few minutes, another screenshot with my initials ringed in red; a parents’ group already arguing about childcare and refunds. At 6:15, daylight came pale as a bruise. I went to the window. Down on the corner, two orange vans idled, their hazard lights blink-blink-blinking — the water company. Someone had made the call. Cones lifted, metal mouths ready to bite the road. One careless command had slipped into the city and tugged at real threads: alarms, pay packets, buses, lives. I could delete the post later; I couldn’t backspace the morning.

• Level 3 Lower (13-15 marks for AO5, 9-12 marks for AO6, 22-27 marks total)

Option A:

Fluorescent light hums overhead, steady as a metronome; it paints everything a pale, tidy white. The room is cool but the air tastes faintly of warm metal and solder, a clean, slightly acrid smell. Yellow lines on the floor mark careful paths. Cables snake under benches – black vines that do not quite sleep. It feels like order trying to hold back a soft, clattering storm.

Two robotic arms stand in the centre, painted a serious orange. Their joints rotate with careful patience, clicking, pausing, obeying lines of code I cannot see. One lowers its claw to lift a tiny screw; it lifts, turns, then sets it down again, again, again. The motion is precise but strangely gentle, like someone moving chess pieces. A strip of red LEDs glows along the edge, a quiet warning.

Every bench carries its own world. A green circuit board rests under a magnifying lamp, its silver paths shining like small rivers. Nearby, a soldering iron breathes a thin thread of smoke. The 3D printer chatters; its nozzle lays plastic in tight lines, thin as hair. Screens scatter the walls with blue code and neat diagrams: boxes, arrows, measurements. Their light flickers on faces that lean in and then lean back. Someone tests a motor and the sound rises like a bee; someone else taps a key and a mechanical finger twitches in reply.

Despite the white gloves and labelled drawers, there is ordinary mess too. A mug sits on a coaster that says Think Faster. A screwdriver rolls until a hand stops it. Tape curls from a dispenser like a pale ribbon. It is organised chaos, and it works; everything seems tethered by purpose if not by cable. Standing there, I feel the future in pieces, a steady hum, a calm, robotic heartbeat.

Option B:

Midnight. The shop smelled of sugar and bleach. The ovens slept; the laptop didn’t. Its blue light painted my fingers as I typed the code we’d joked about: FRESHFRIDAY. Ten per cent off, enough to pull in a few more orders, enough to give Mum a breather. My cursor hovered; my eyes stung. I put the discount in the box, tiny characters like ants. 0.90 instead of 0.10—only I didn’t see it. I clicked Update. The page flashed, confident and polite: Discount applied.

I sipped lukewarm tea and watched the first ping arrive; then another; then a small rainstorm of notifications. New order. New order. New order. The total climbed like a kite. I smiled, tired. I told myself I’d double-check in the morning—I was dizzy with relief; I wanted sleep.

By nine, the street was a line of coats and white breath. The chalkboard outside looked cheerful, but everyone stared at their phones. A woman at the front raised hers like a ticket: your website says ninety per cent off—today only. The words glared in cruel white. My stomach dropped. I ducked behind the counter, fingers trembling on the trackpad, and opened the dashboard. The numbers jumped, unkind: Discount 0.90. I tried to fix it; comments were spreading faster than icing. Fair’s fair. Honour it. Mum’s mouth was a thin line. We can’t afford this, she whispered, but the bell kept ringing and the till kept chattering.

It was just a box on a screen, a stray dot, a clumsy tap. Yet it had teeth. It bit into our morning. How could something so small grow so loud? As I watched Mum count coins with careful, tired hands, I knew a digital mistake wasn’t small; it spilled, it multiplied, it lived in other people’s mouths.

• Level 2 Upper (10-12 marks for AO5, 5-8 marks for AO6, 15-20 marks total)

Option A:

The robotics lab hums like a patient beehive. Fluorescent tubes hover above, pale and clinical; they make every surface look sharp and awake. Benches run in straight lines, coated with blue mats and a scatter of tools: soldering irons, stubby screwdrivers, tiny tweezers. It smells clean, but also warm, like metal after the sun. The air is cool and dry—too dry—so even my sleeves whisper when I move.

On the benches sit unfinished machines, their ribs of circuit board showing, their nerves tied in coloured wires. Robotic arms, yellow and patient, hold still like praying mantises; then, with a soft shiver, they pivot and tap. Whirr and click, whirr and click, the rhythm keeps going, measured and almost polite. Tiny green LEDs blink in neat rows like small houses at night. A fan breathes somewhere, steady and faithful, and there is a gentle hiss when solder meets copper, a bright smell that nips the nose.

At the centre a glass cabinet holds delicate parts, gears with teeth so fine they look like silver pollen. Screens glow with diagrams and numbers that crawl across them, someone laughs quietly, someone else just frowns, their gloved fingers moving with a kind of careful courage. The machines do not speak but they seem to listen; they wait for instructions. In this place time feels stretched and narrow. Work gathers here, precise and persistant, and the room keeps its promise: build, test, repeat.

Option B:

The laptop threw an aquarium-blue glow over my duvet, and the cursor blinked like a tiny heartbeat. It was nearly midnight, and my eyes were sandy with tiredness, but the Year 11 page needed updating. Two files waited on my cluttered desktop: RevisionPoster_FINAL.png and PredictedGrades_MAY.xlsx. Similar names, similar icons. I meant to drag the poster into the school page; my thumb slid on the trackpad. A soft click, a spinning wheel, a pale bar creeping across. Too late—sent.

At first, nothing happened, the house stayed quiet except for the fridge humming and Mum’s soft snore on the other side of the wall. I refreshed once, twice. The post looked neat, polite. I shut the lid and let darkness fold back over the room like a blanket.

By morning, the sounds started: buzz, buzz, buzz, like trapped bees in my pocket. The group chat was a wildfire—screenshots, crying-face emojis, my name in capital letters. Take it down. Take it down now. My stomach flipped. I tapped the school page and saw it properly then: rows of names, numbers, predictions like grades laid on a table. Public. Exposed. My finger shook as I deleted it; the damage didn’t.

On the bus, people didn’t look at me, not directly. They looked past me, and it felt worse. The bus wheezed, I kept my head down, my ears hot. At school gates Mr Hart waited with folded arms, rain needling his jacket. “Office,” he said, quiet but heavy.

I only meant to help; I only meant to post a poster. One careless drag, and the screen bled into the corridor. You can backspace a sentence, but how do you undo a morning like this?

• Level 2 Lower (7-9 marks for AO5, 5-8 marks for AO6, 12-17 marks total)

Option A:

Inside the robotics lab, the lights are bright and fluorescent, making everything look a little pale. Fans whisper while a steady hum fills the room; as if the place is breathing. Metal arms tilt and twist with careful precision, stopping, then starting, back and forth, back and forth. Their joints blink green. The air smells sharp, like warm metal and melted solder, it hangs in my nose. Screens blink awake as if they are paying attention.

On the benches: rows of circuit boards, neat as a garden. Copper lines run in patterns like tiny roads; narrow paths that meet and cross. Coils, resistors, labels with numbers I don’t yet understand. Tools lie ready—pliers, a slim soldering iron—beside trays of screws. Cables trail like vines. When one arm lowers its claw it makes a quiet click, then another; a rhythm that is calm yet tense.

At the back a glass window looks into a smaller room. Two technicians watch graphs climb on a monitor and speak softly, their words broken by beeps. The floor shines and the room feels almost too clean. Is this what the future sounds like—humming and clicking? I feel small but curious, stepping carefully between the benches.

Option B:

Click.

The cursor blinked like a tiny heartbeat in the corner of the screen. 07:42. I was first in the library, my breath still cloudy from the cold. Mr Patel had sent me 'draft revision guide' to forward to the Year 11 list; I was the digital prefect, apparently trustworthy. My finger hovered. I attached the file, the title a boring string of numbers. Another message popped up from Mia, asking about the bus. I didn't check again. My thumb tapped send; the screen flashed, very normal, too normal.

At once, the pings started—ping, ping, ping—like rain on glass. 'Is this a joke?' 'OMG the paper?' 'You legend.' My stomach dropped. I opened the attachment. Not a guide. Not at all. Section A: Macbeth. Full mark scheme smiling at me. The cursor still blinked, louder now. I tried recall, unsend; the button span and said failed. Outside, the corridor was filling; chairs scraped; a teacher's shoes thudded by.

By break, the head's voice cracked through the tannoy: 'All Year 11 to the hall immediately.' Silence fell, then a rush. This wasn't just digital, it was real—exams, teachers, parents, me. And my phone vibrated again, unknown number: the exam board.

• Level 1 Upper (4-6 marks for AO5, 1-4 marks for AO6, 5-10 marks total)

Option A:

The lab is cold and bright. White lights buzz over me, they sound like bees that wont stop. Tables are long and metal, with wires crawling over them like thin snakes. A robot arm sits in the middle, yellow paint scuffed, it turns slow and then stop. It picks up a screw and drops it, clink, clink.

The smell is like hot plastic and dust. I can taste it a bit. Fans hum and the screens glow blue. On a bench there is curcuit boards, tiny silver teeth, green like grass but harder. A small red light blinks like a eye, on and off, on and off.

Beep, beep, beep, it goes. People talk quiet, words get lost under the beeping. My shoes stick to the floor, some oil maybe. I look at a tool box and my face is in it, wobbly, like water. Everything feels busy but still. Everything waiting, everything working, everything watching.

Option B:

Morning. The screen glowed white like a little moon in my room. I was tired but the message had to go, it felt important.

I typed fast and I pressed send. Click. The blue bar moved and my stomach fell like a stone. It was not Mia, it was Year 10 All. My teacher was in it, my mum was in it too. Delete? Undo? The buttons hid from me and I could not see where to press.

Ping ping ping, the phone buzzed and buzzed, I wanted it to stop but it didn’t, my head hurt. Laughing faces came, some angry ones too. My brother walked in and saw the photo, his face went red.

I should of checked. It was only a joke but it didn’t feel funny now.

Then the school called. Come in now, they said. Mum had to call work. Real trouble started.

• Level 1 Lower (1-3 marks for AO5, 1-4 marks for AO6, 2-7 marks total)

Option A:

The lab is bright and cold. The benches are long with tools and circut boards. Metal arms stand like thin trees. They bend and blink. They whirr and click, whirr whirr! A red light flash on a screen. It smells like hot plastic and oil. I hear fans going round and round, the air blow on my hand. A chair is upside down for some reason, maybe it fell. I think about my lunch for a second. The robot arm pick up a screw then it drop it, it rolls away. I look, I dont touch.

Option B:

Morning. The sky is grey. I sit with my phone. My thumb taps fast, to fast, I want to close it but I press the wrong thing. It says Emergency. It buzzes, it calls, I panic. "Stop, stop!" I say but it dont stop. A voice says what is your emergency, I mumble sorry its a mistake. The bus was late anyway. I think its fine but then I hear sirens, blue lights on the wall and the dog next door starts bark. Mum looks at me like I broke the house. Im shaking. A knock on the door comes hard.