One Chance by Paul Potts

were my kidneys badly bruised, but also that I had a hairline fracture to my lower fourth vertebrae. This meant I had to stay in ward thirteen for another week, and that I would have restricted movement for some time after. This was the last news I needed—not only was I meant to be singing, but my A-level exams were only three weeks away.
    I didn’t yet know the exact date of my exams. I explained the situation to the ward sister, who was kindly if a bit of a battle axe. She said that if my school let them know exactly when the exams were, I could sit the exams in the hospital school, as it was an accredited site. My parents contacted the school, but heard nothing back.
    I was discharged for care at home and spent two weeks in a collar and wheelchair. Despite the discomfort, I went to Newmann Hall to watch the Bristol Catholic Players’ production of HMS Pinafore . I sat in pride of place in the middle of the hall in my wheelchair. The funniest thing was that the hall had a toilet for the disabled, but I parked my wheelchair outside it, got out, and used the ordinary males’ toilet. This got a few titters from the regulars at the club.
    After the half-term, I visited my family physician, Dr. Cussens. He told me that I should really not be taking my exams in thecondition I was in, but agreed to write a letter to the examination board so they could take my condition into account. But then at ten thirty that night, the phone at home rang. It was the head of sixth form.
    â€œDon’t bother revising now,” she told me, “but you have your first A-level examination at nine tomorrow morning.”
    I was shocked. I had asked several times for the dates of the exams, but no information was given to me. Worse still, I had asked about sitting all my exams in the main hall so I wouldn’t have to climb the stairs to the top floor where my exams were due to take place. Despite my condition, I was told they couldn’t guarantee this.
    Sure enough, I arrived at the school the following morning and was told that it wasn’t possible for me to take any of my exams in the main hall, as all the places were full. I shrugged my shoulders and struggled my way up eight flights of steps to the top floor. I handed in my doctor’s note to the examinations teacher, and sat down. Every one of my six exams would be sat on that top floor. There were no lifts, and this meant that I sat every paper in absolute agony. I didn’t tell anyone at home about the situation. Every problem I faced in life, I felt I had to solve myself.
    I did my best, but I wasn’t able to concentrate because of the pain. My doctor was right: I should never have sat the exams. The only successful one was my American studies GCSE, which I got a C in, but much of that was gained through the coursework I had done over the last two years. For the others, I had the ignominy of two unclassified A-levels. I later found out that the examinations teacher had decided not to send in my doctor’snote: he felt that I hadn’t worked for my A-levels, so I deserved no discretion.
    I almost gave up on my A-levels because of how angry I was with the school for its lack of support. Thankfully I did persevere, and successfully retook them the following January, after having interviews for university colleges in Chester, Southampton, and Plymouth. When I applied to the University College of St. Mark and St. John in Plymouth, I was accepted on the condition that I pass my A-levels. When I saw the examinations teacher, he made a point of saying, “You worked for them this time. Well done.” I didn’t tell him that I had actually handed in less work.
    I finally had the qualifications to go to university. At this point, my plans were to aim at a career in retail management. With professional singing discounted as a possibility, this seemed a safe, reliable, and very low-risk strategy. The question for me was whether, after all the trials