In Sydney, you get a pen license in year four. You're nine (maybe ten) and suddenly adults are judging you on your skill in for shaping words. It has to be readable. A little slip and you're fucked. You're set back for a week, which is an eternity when you desperately want that license. You got to have that license. You got to be skilled. At least, this is what my year four class tells me seconds after looking at my handwritten comments across their homework and saying, "How did you even get your pen license?"