Nearly a week ago now, I survived my viva. The 'doctor' is still pinching herself and may need to check her heart using the toy stethoscope that appeared on her desk the next day.
However, I have to say the auspices weren't great. My supervisors had given me a very stringent mock viva which had exposed some potential problem areas and resulted in another ten days of reading and notemaking before the day itself arrived. I thought I knew where the weak points that might be challenged were - and there were plenty of them given that I had attempted a form of (somewhat) participatory action research.
But I had also frightened myself by reading horror stories online of failed vivas. Note: not a good idea.
The day didn't start well. I decided that I would leave plenty of time (an hour an a half) before the appointed meeting with my supervisor prior to the main event. That would give me the opportunity to park easily on campus, settle myself with a coffee and take a final look over my notes. On arrival at the university I discovered that three hours was the maximum parking time for a visitor on site. Never mind that I was a student and that it was my BIG DAY, the conversation with the floppy-haired undergraduate on reception left me in no doubt that there was no way to circumnavigate this parking practicality without a permit from my supervisor.
'No problem,' I smiled, determined not to get upset and knowing that I was still in the afore-mentioned plenty of time.
My supervisor thought she did have a suitable permit, but was still busy driving through the Sussex countryside. We arranged a meeting place for the handover and I parked up to wait. It was a good few minutes later that I realised I no longer had my phone. After turning the inside of the car upside-down I decided that I must have left it on the reception desk. I drove out of my dream parking spot, back to the main reception carpark and sheepishly back in to Floppy Hair, just as my supervisor was phoning me back to ask why I wasn't where I said I would be.
At this point I thought, I can't even park the bloody car. Why on earth would they give me a PhD, and dutifully conforming to the stereotype of hopelessly impractical academic.
It transpired that it wasn't the right permit. Another exchange was made. I parked the car for the fifth time and discovered that I didn't have time for the coffee and read-through that I planned. Perhaps my supervisor could help me with some more practice questions. I needed to quell the rising panic somehow. But no, she wanted to talk about all sorts of mundane things: beach-walks and gardening and family and hip operations: anything, it seemed but critical pedagogy.
And she was absolutely right. Answering her 'hairdressing-salon' type-questions calmed me right down. I had always suspected that the biggest viva problem would not be the material but the fact that I get very nervous; thus the previous few days had been spent tumbling down rabbit holes about confidence in interviews and presentations. I particularly liked this TED talk by Amy Cuddy:
