It reminded me of my own past. After many long hours, much scratching of head and several periods of brain-outage, I finally completed my dissertation for my History O-level. 'Dissertation' is what it was called, although few would feel it worthy of that title. Anyway, it was the only piece of coursework that constituted part of the final result, so the whole weight of passing this exam seemed to fall into those few pieces of paper.
I gave it to my Dad to read, as a final check. Some moments later, having read it carefully through (picture him: sage old man, peering through his half-rimmed specs, studiously reading his teenage daughter's scrawl...) Eventually the verdict came.
"It's good," he said. "Only two split infinitives."
Two split infinitives? Firstly I had to ask what they were, then I had to scour my hard work for these dreadful insults to the English language. I couldn't find them. In distress (obviously, the deadline was the next day) I confessed this to my father.
"Well, they can't be that important then."
I felt utterly deflated, so miserable that my work was not perfect. It hung over me: perhaps the examiners would also be split-infinitive pedants?
But it turned out all right in the end: I got an A...