“Uncomfortable” is a fascinating word.

We use it to describe a scratchy sweater, an awkward silence, a moral compromise, and existential dread. It’s become English’s polite catchall for anything that makes us want to look away, shift our weight, or pretend we didn’t notice. But here’s what fascinates me: unlike precise languages that have separate words for physical discomfort versus social discomfort versus ethical discomfort, English smooshes them all together under one vague umbrella. Maybe that’s by design. Maybe calling something “uncomfortable” is our way of minimizing it, of treating moral crisis with the same shrug we’d give a too-warm room. The word lets us acknowledge distress without actually naming what’s causing it—which means we can witness suffering and file it under “mildly unpleasant” rather than “something I should do something about.”

This week’s essay prompt: “Describe an uncomfortable ride on public transport.“; it’s question 2 from Variant 3 of the May 2025 Paper 2 series, and we need to write a descriptive essay!

Here’s what makes this prompt quietly brilliant: it drops you into a space where discomfort is compulsory. You can’t escape public transport—you’re trapped with strangers in close quarters, forced to negotiate bodies and boundaries and the unspoken rules about where to look and what to ignore. Most students will write about surface-level discomfort: crowding, heat, delays, annoying passengers. But the strongest responses understand that physical discomfort is just the entry point. The real challenge is exploring why public transport makes us uncomfortable in ways that private transport doesn’t. It strips away the illusion of control. It forces proximity with people whose lives are colliding with ours whether we consent or not. The question becomes: can you write a description where the physical discomfort (the crush, the heat, the invasion of personal space) becomes inseparable from social or moral discomfort? Can you capture that uniquely modern anxiety of being surrounded by strangers while everyone pretends to be alone? And here’s the sophistication test: can you show a moment where the narrator stops being a passive victim of discomfort and becomes someone who must decide whether to keep looking away or to finally see—really see—the person beside them?

You’ll find the essay here!

The full essay is available for our premium members and is also marked and graded according to the IGCSE First Language English official rubrics and marking criteria. By reading it, you can get a clear picture of what works, as always. If you haven’t signed up already, then make sure to sign up over here!

Thank you all, and look forward to seeing you in the next one!

Welcome back, friends!

Last week I wrote about how we’ve inflated the word “extraordinary” until it means almost nothing.

This week, I’ve been thinking about the opposite problem: words that have become too small, too casual, to carry the weight we actually need them to hold. Take “switch.”

We use it dozens of times a day—switching tabs, switching lanes, switching topics in conversation—and the word has become so frictionless that we barely notice it. But etymologically, “switch” comes from a Low German word meaning “a thin flexible shoot or twig,” something used for striking or redirecting.

It was always about force. About deflection. About changing direction through decisive action, often violent action.

Somewhere along the way, we turned it into something you do with your thumb on a screen. What fascinates me about English is how certain words retain their original violence just beneath the surface, waiting to be reactivated. A switch isn’t passive. It’s a moment when you impose your will on a system. It’s the instant when inertia ends and something new—sometimes irreversible—begins.

This week’s essay prompt: “Write a story with the title, ‘The switch’.“; it’s question 5 from the May 2025 Paper 2 series in Variant 2 – we’ll continue next week with Variant 3!

Here’s what makes this prompt brilliantly constrained: it gives you almost nothing. Two words. No context. No genre hints. Most students will panic at this openness and default to the most literal interpretation—someone flipping a light switch, or a magical switcheroo between bodies. But the strongest narratives understand that when a prompt gives you a title this spare, that title isn’t just a label—it’s a structural anchor. Everything in your story must orbit that word. The challenge is deciding which kind of switch you’re writing about: Is it a physical object (button, lever, circuit breaker)? A moment of decision (moral switch, psychological turning point)? A metaphorical exchange (role reversal, identity swap)? The best responses do both at once—they use a concrete, literal switch to embody an abstract transformation. This tests whether you understand that good narrative titles aren’t decorative; they’re compression devices. They tell you what your story is really about. So the question becomes: can you write a story where flipping an alarm switch is simultaneously an act of rescue, an act of defiance, and a moment when someone stops being a passive observer and becomes the person who changes what happens next? Can you make one physical gesture carry the full weight of consequence, choice, and transformation? That’s not just storytelling—that’s understanding how titles create meaning through resonance between the literal and the figurative.

You’ll find the essay here!

The full essay is available for our premium members and is also marked and graded. By reading it, you can get a clear picture of what works, as always. If you haven’t signed up already, then make sure to sign up over here!

Thank you all, and look forward to seeing you in the next one!