Piccalilli Summer 2023 by Marlborough College

Summer 2023

Editorial ‘Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.’ – Dr Martin Luther King Jr. The Piccalilli team have used this edition as an opportunity to highlight topical matters which are rarely spoken about, inspired by the series of Everyone’s Invited talks this term. We felt it was important to highlight these ideas through an artistic point of view. In these pages, writers and artists alike encounter death, injustice, isolation and loss. Authentic, striking and thought-provoking, this edition of Piccalilli hopes to engage and inspire. This edition features some stimulating reviews and captivating fictional pieces. We challenged ourselves to find creative ways of expressing taboo topics through art. Whilst somewhat hard-hitting, the final project encompasses a striking array of perspectives. The much-anticipated Upper School Lent term play did not disappoint. The modern adaptation of Sophocles’ Electra replaced the traditional chorus characters with journalists, reflecting on the way the media invades the privacy of the rich and famous, something also touched on in the book review of Prince Harry’s notorious autobiography Spare. The clash of contemporary costume and classical staging in Electra suggested a timelessness to this piece, something that the art and writing in this edition also shares. We aspired to showcase the natural beauty of the Marlborough College campus whilst also undertaking the rewarding task of capturing the remarkable work of its students.

Lexi M and Lily B

1 Ella C

Will W

Angel Tears I hear the murmur of a couple, Simpering in their newfound love. I hear the turning of pages, Perhaps another searching for an escape From life. As soft, small angel tears Begin to fall, I look up and see a raven flying above, Black like the night sky, only Now I don’t see stars. I taste the stale air around me, Trapping me. I taste the long-forgotten wine we had, All those years ago. I feel my dress closing in on me, I feel my makeup streaming down my face, I feel people’s eyes on me. I feel his warmth around me.

Faith S

A review of ‘Spare’ by Prince Harry I had plenty of discontent and dissatisfaction to make use of to write this review. Spare is a desperate attempt by Prince Harry to stay relevant in the public eye after disgracing himself out of the royal family: he is someone so narcissistic and disillusioned with life he truly believed that writing this hit-piece on himself could redeem his own identity and rewrite the narrative. In Spare Harry states how often he would read criticism about himself from tabloids, magazines and the internet to the point of obsession, his therapist even telling him that it was almost an addiction. His father, now King Charles III, often said “Don’t read it, darling boy.” Spare unintentionally shows Harry in the most unflattering light possible, portraying him as obsessed with his status, bitter, and vain. He mistakenly thinks that portraying himself in this light will somehow elicit sympathy from readers, rather than the feeling of abhorrence for him that only grew throughout my reading of this book. Harry sums it up himself: ‘People do stupid things, (and) say stupid things, but it doesn’t need to be their intrinsic nature.’

Nina W

5 Sophia G

Hector M

The River The river knows your dirty little lies, And the way your tongue attempts to bury them. No amount of spit will plague this water. It will not alter its course, but it will alter yours. You can toss it all away, but it has stained your hands. Don’t come here to rid yourself of it, It will not wash away your sins. Do not kneel and pray, It will strike you down; Your god cannot save you. You think you can trick, It listens to your tales, But knows your story. This river will not let you forget, This river will not forgive. It plunges you into the pit of its belly, And churns you up. You quiver on the surface, It rejects you. You will face your wrongs, You will look into her eyes The eyes you tainted with sorrow, She will hurl your ‘apologies’ back in your face, Behind her, stand mothers your fathers once stole. You fastened her lips together, But she will still hum. The river will open its arms out to her, And bathe her in its soft embrace. The river will hush her to sleep, And wash away nightmares of you.

Mia K-M

Everyone’s Invited Everyone’s Invited is an organisation that addresses and highlights the issue of rape culture in today’s society. It was created in June 2020 after Soma Sara shared her personal experience of sexual assault online; she was noticed by hundreds of people who shared their own experiences with her. This led to her creating the platform where she would anonymously share their stories in order to spread awareness. So far over 50,000 people have shared their personal and emotional stories through the website. The Head of Education at Everyone’s Invited, Ellie Softley gave us a very eye-opening and engaging talk on rape culture and how it is embedded in our society. Rape culture is when attitudes, behaviours and beliefs in society normalise sexual violence. Although it was a difficult and sensitive topic, Ellie made sure we all felt comfortable through her considerate, understanding nature which made her come across as very relatable. Ellie even shared her own personal story helping us to understand the significance of this issue. She was careful to make sure the talk was very inclusive and that everyone’s thoughts and perspectives were validated. We think that everyone at this talk would agree that it was informative and made us really think twice about the society we live in. It made us realise how even some childhood films, songs and advertisement that we see every day in the media, which can be initially perceived as normal or even funny, actually contribute to rape culture. By the end of the talk, we had a new awareness on a topic that we had previously known little about. It appeared that everyone got something from the talk and hopefully we will be receiving another one from the Everyone’s Invited team soon.

Iona G and Imogen S

Honor B

Daisy R

Phone Box Graveyard (Inspired by Robert Frost’s ‘A Disused Graveyard’) The living never come to call To dial the keys on the wall. The boxes have no function but forget: They seem not to know it yet. The echoes in it say and say: ‘The ones who call won’t come today.’ Others appear and add to the pile, Now the boxes never smile. So sure of calls, the phones would chime. Yet can’t help wondering all the time, How no one calling seems to come. What is it men are hiding from? It would be easy to be cruel And tell them men now hate to call And have stopped calling now forever. I think they would believe the lie.

Jack P

Saskia M

The Veneer of Justice ‘Order!’ the judge exclaimed. Tick. Tick. The prosecution lawyer took his position. The hubbub that surrounded me quietened. You could call me a square in a plethora of circles. A stroke of red in a sea of blue. I was only here to save my brother. The accused. The suspect. Tick. Tick. Spurious statements flew from the lawyer’s tongue, with a feistiness that burned white hot. My brother emanated a coolness about him, though: I could see it was troubling the lawyer. The judge deemed the questioning over, and it was down to the jury to make a final call. Tick. Tick. I could imagine their scorn. ‘Guilty, their kind always are,’ one man would exclaim. Murmurs of agreement would follow. So much for a discussion. Today my brother would be charged with felony battery. Today my brother would be incarcerated for fifteen years, unless someone could change something. Helplessly, I looked for a solution. These people wanted to see him in jail. Every one of their eyes glowed with a hunger for an ending that would satiate them. It was him against them – and he was running out of time.

I thought back to that morning. As usual, we got out of bed and tidied the house, getting ready for work. The whining of a siren approached our house, growing more aggressive by the second. Blue and red lights flickered; with every burst of colour, they engulfed the naïve white walls. Knocks at the door, rapping with fervour. My brother opened the door and was met with yelling, police officers hungry for their prey. They snarled. Spat. Hissed. Then came their blinding silver claws, held fast to his wrists. I approached them tentatively – making sure I was ready for a challenge. All my might went into saving my brother from their clutches. Begging and pleading, affirming that he was innocent of whatever crime they had witnessed. All in vain. I could only watch as they dragged him into the police car. He cried that day. For the first time since we were children, my brother cried. The screech of the tyres exuded pain. It threw me into action. My coat and car keys appeared in my hands. The next I knew I was in my car, heading straight for the police station. I entered what looked like a lion’s den. Fierce, unwavering glares shot past my head and lathered me in unease. Exasperated, I explained, ‘My brother has been taken in for a crime he did not commit.’ The man at the desk stared blankly, lost in thoughts that seemed to be miles away. It took me precisely five minutes before I realised, I would find no assistance there. Dejected, I began to walk away. I stared down at the clock face bound by leather straps that lay helpless on my wrist. It was just like my brother at that moment: the clock face was human, and the leather straps were metal cuffs. Here I was, wearing the watch like an accessory. My brother – my flesh and blood – was not an accessory. Throwing the watch to the ground, I did not want the reminder of something so unjust, so corrupt, so cruel. Tick. Tick. Sitting in the crowd, fixated

Ella C

Tick. Tick. Sitting in the crowd, fixated on my watch and its cracked glass face, I could not bring myself to wait a second longer. Tick. I could hear myself bellowing at the other members of the jury, but it was all part of my imagination. I saw only the watch face as the time slipped away from me. The red hand seemed to be sprinting through minutes. The jury returned and I peered at the blank faces that sat before me. The air felt thicker than lard, and I was suffocating. Tick. The judge asked if the jury had reached a verdict. An older man, grey haired and pale skinned, stood up and declared they had. ‘Guilty.’ The strap around my wrist began to tighten. I felt a cold sweat lace my skin. My hand jerked and the glass covering the clock’s hands shattered completely. I turned away from the glass shards, catching my brother’s eye in the process. He looked defenceless. Worn. There I was, obsessing over the watch. The clocks. Time. And it was at that very moment that time ran out. The gavel struck the block. My brother disappeared through the doors. I heard the bang. The shot. Time had stopped.

Millie A (Remove Short Story Competition Winner)

Isdi N

Mirrors The glass is stained with fingerprints from trembling hands, reflections are bent by tears left rolling down. I stand over a crystal doorway, Out tape to cover your face trapped inside And your daughter who bore your pains Reads out a speech she knows isn’t true

stretch

When I carried you on my back Your swollen stomach heavy on my back Still drunk even in death. Babbling to me over my failures Only to beg to me through the mirror As I seal you in. I made sure to black out every mirror So I could rest knowing You’re not with us anymore I knelt by your tomb and whispered tongues Took my tape covered every surface Of the church walls and doors Lit a candle and used the wax to solder a coin to your eyelids When time enough has passed And your daughter knows her death is soon I’ll open your grave once again And shout into your rotted ears And pour one more drink to tip into Your gaping mouth so you’ll never part from it And when she passes away don’t be surprised To find none of us will ever be by your side Because I made sure to cover every mirror Boris F-F

The Swan The shining, black sheet glared back at the world. Things lurked underneath, moved silently, unheard, While insects above played daring games, danced and twirled As they skimmed, in fear of no bird. That would soon come to end their fun. On the other side Lily pads floated, exposing themselves to the hot eye. Same goes for other trees and plants that stood tall Trying desperately to be favoured by the eye above all. Yet, in the centre of the lake, there she stood. Her one leg firmly grasped onto a lily pad, And her torso, a blank canvas, in which all colours were trapped, Outshone the world, and all things considered good. Only one thing destroyed her perfection, Her instability, which sent out delicate ripples, But still she stood and without care or trepidation Did she outstretch her leg of pink pigmentation. And off she went, her hands held by invisible suitors Who lifted her up, away from the glass of hidden life. Into the air she was carried, not a care for the rumours Or her past strife, up to the eye, she flew, to become a new wife.

Hector M

Harry H

The Swan Pen to paper, I write sincerely To a girl I love dearly. Hemmed with white, Sunlight glimmers on her porcelain skin, Like a spotlight following a pair of pointe shoes. Nothing prepares me for youOnly ripples told me of your absence Disturbing the clarity And blurring my thoughts. So fragile, yet such a blow to the heart When nature doesn’t lean in your favour, Instead turns me into a swan. Devoted to my soulmate, Risking my own life For another attempt at yours. Marina M

Liv P

When time seems to stop Rosie H-W

it’s just you

each

word

the

page

Liv P

and

Make a Wish 1. All around me A harrowing, screeching n oise Invades my mind At all times of day Never Leaving me In peace – Only my mind In pieces, Fragments scattered All around me. 2. I say my p rayers To the God I never b elieved existed Stop t he pain, the agony. Start life over again. Don’t whine and complain, Don’t be such a baby, Man up I’m told time and time over. 3. All around me is s ilence. No more pain or agony. My mind still fragmented Craves noise – Harrowing screeching Noise. Without it I am numb. I wish God didn’t exist, I wish h e hadn’t a nswered my prayers. Silence is worse – It’s deafening. Dangerous. Sophia R

Clemmie C

Mouse The wet sludge from the river eats my feet. The sound of water comes after me. The rustling bushes chase me to my ears. Above me are the tall lofty trees, But below me, not much. Sharp, spindly blades of grass. I see freedom in the caves and crevasses of my home, Not in the cage of expansive land. I see no freedom in knowing. I see the burden of birds in my eyes. The kiln of fate set a layer of glazing on me. Fear is my camouflage, Soil is my prey. They swoop down on me. I want the ground to protect me. I want the grass to be my shield. I see no freedom in knowledge And the cage of expansive land. Otis R-H

25 Will W

Max M

The Devil in Disguise I sit at the bottom of the dense woods, admiring My silky skin, a sign of a power gifted from below, not above. The ground parts in my presence. I am meant to be this way. Nothing can change my nature. My teeth are like swords, my tail a spear, my venom my antidote, My breath, death. I eat what I please. Power was my creator and Now I hold it within my eyes. The grass, the marsh and the leaves, All are intended for me, yet I am no king. I can crushingly constrict my prey. I can slide across the jungle like my dance floor, yet it is not Mine to trounce upon. Everything may be above me, but I am the prince waiting to usurp the king, lurking in the shadows of Darkness. Ashes to ashes may rain down on me but I will always remain. Hugh R

Powerless Floating, drifting. Flying. Up, up and away. Away from the rest. From the nonsense. Just up, up and away As the water carries shredded paper Down its pathway, its destiny. The wind, catching the paper, Tries to pull it away from the Water. The saviour. Anna R

29 Abi E

Yann Martel Talk Tuesday 7th March saw Yann Martel beam in from Canada to speak to the Hundred about his Man Booker Prize-winning Life of Pi. With this novel acting as one of our GCSE Literature set texts, it was an incredible opportunity for us to find out more about the author, his inspirations and the meanings of certain parts of the story that we struggled to interpret. The talk began with Martel briefly explaining how Life of Pi came to be. He discussed his writing style which, like Pi, was not at all spontaneous and instead very orderly, with 100 envelopes containing his meticulously planned content for each chapter. Martel also detailed the origins of the intersection between religion and zoology - a theme which can be found throughout the book - explaining that, during his stay in India, he found the presence of animals within temples deeply fascinating due to no such link existing in Western culture. Questions were then invited from the audience, with one of the main focuses being on the ‘algae island’ and its significance. In the novel, it is described in surreal terms and thus begs the question of whether it actually ‘existed’. Martel explained that this was intentional and designed to be a captivating part of the story which would push the limits of what the reader believed to be true. It, therefore, served as a device to foreshadow the revelation of the alternative story by casting some doubt as to whether what we were reading was true or not. This naturally prompted us to ask Martel which story was ‘real’ and which he preferred, leading him to discuss one of the core themes of the book. He explained that everyone in the audience had read the same book, but that some of us might have hated it; others thought it was ok; and some would have loved it. Regardless of these different feelings towards the novel, it was always the same artwork, and Martel used this to explain that we, as readers, bring as much to the story as he does as the author. Just like the ambiguity of the algae island, it doesn’t matter what Martel intended for us to believe or experience – what matters is how we understand and interpret what we are reading. Leo F

31 Will W

2061: The Five Stages of Grief 2061! They said, with awe and disbelief I shudder at its burden. They tie down the minute hand With a red ribbon finished in a bow. 2061! They said, dreaming of flying cars and peaceMy heart quickens at the thought. They slash at bark and disassemble roots Then stuff money into the truck of a neighbouring survivor. 2061! They said, longing for days of freedom. I shave my head deep into the sand. The water rises around me; I am reassured by empty words of those watching 2061! They said, jamming the numbers into the newDread resides in the pit of my stomach. Gold coated hands cover my eyes. Reluctantly, I am lead away. 2061! They say, with fire and fear. I tried to warn you, not hard enough Mankind’s blood became oil, And now we will drown in the depth of our greed. Mia K-M

Carina H

2061 When the only colour you can see Is the flames that dance from tree to tree, When the only scent you can smell Is the charred earth; a burning hell. When the only thing you can feel Is this broken place, that cannot heal, When the wildfire will burn And the flames play catch me if you can Is it then that you will learn We needed to take action, not just to plan? When the sun bleeds into the sea, And everything is some shade of grey, When you realise you are trapped and not free Will you fall to your knees and pray? When the year is 2061 And our earth is dying, When we are almost done Is it then that you will start trying? Lily B

2061 How could you do this to us? Leave our home constantly burning Was this not something we could discuss? Instead, we sit here endlessly yearning. Leave our home constantly burning Day by day, ice slipping from its family Instead, we sit here endlessly yearning I wonder what it could have been like, faintly. Day by day, ice slipping from its family Trees morphing into broken ash. I wonder what it could have been like, faintly, Instead, they didn’t care or spend any cash. Trees morphing into broken ash I only wish they had listened more, Instead, they didn’t care or spend any cash. They probably thought, ‘Oh, what a bore.’ I only wish they had listened more, If they could only see it now. They probably thought, ‘Oh, what a bore.’ Wouldn’t they want to know how? Lexi M

Isdi N

Lost Cargo (Inspired by Siegfried Sassoon’s ‘The General’) The smell of rancid sweat hung heavy in the suffocating lorry; the cargo piled up like fish at a market. The onslaught of rain crashed onto the roof, drowning out the creak of the vehicle and masking the cries within. The lorry screeched to a halt. The dented door swung open. The bright grey glow of the sky hit the cargo in the face, piercing through the thick barrier of fog. A frail man appeared from behind the door, a burnt-out cigarette hanging from his mouth. “Good morning, good morning,” he sneered. The man proceeded to yank the dazed cargo out of the lorry into the slushy mud. The roar of the sea echoed in the distance and the harsh wind whipped sharply at their bare skin as they were herded like sheep towards the bleak beach. The talking stopped abruptly as the cargo stared at the life jackets all lined up, and the life rafts beached on the shore; but most menacing of all was the sea. The vast crashing sea: the unseen currents, the towering waves and the powerful, pushing white water.

The cargo was forced down the mud-stricken dunes, slipping and sliding to the bottom, until finally they reached the neon life jackets. They waited for their turn. Waited. And waited. Each second passing by them tantalisingly slowly, teasing them, manipulating them. The cold whipping wind and relentless rain was forgotten, only to be replaced by anxiety that paced around their bodies, quickening their hearts, blurring their thoughts. In a haze of purpose, each person put on the icy cold life jacket. Soaked to the bone, frozen to the heart, the people slowly made their way to the raft. White, foaming waves stretched out as far as their fatigued eyes could see. The cargo was left, oblivious to the oncoming nightmare. A pale face pushed the boat out through the towering white waves. Then left the cargo to their peril. They did for the migrants with their plan of attack. Guy P (Winner of the OM Writing Prize)

The Coin with a Tale I have travelled far and wide, Been in hands of those who died. Heads or tails, what is your fate? I’ll tell you a story, just you wait. I was lifted from the ground, I couldn’t believe I had been found. Two innocent eyes gazed at me, Shining bright, full of glee. Then, taken to a corner shop, I was traded for a lollipop. I have travelled far and wide, Been in hands of those who died. Heads or tails, what is your fate? I’ll tell you a story, just you wait. I was handed back to a drunken man, He slurred his words, can in his hand. Every day he went to the bar. He drank for ten months: it was bizarre. He was a downhearted, pleading soul, Traded me for a lump of coal. I have travelled far and wide, Been in hands of those who died. Heads or tails, what is your fate? I’ll tell you a story, just you wait. The face of a lady peered at me, Her faced scrunched up like I was a flea. She placed me in a purse, covered in gold, None of her clothing was stained or old. I was shined, cleaned and polished by hand, She wasn’t disgusted, now I understand. I was traded for a servant’s pay, Little did I know I would make his day. I have travelled far and wide, Been in hands of those who died. Heads or tails, what is your fate? I’ll tell you a story, just you wait. Issy B

37 Pippa G

Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Edward Albee’s play, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolf?, was first staged in 1962 yet it is a play that resonates with us all 61 years later. It is an emotionally intense and exhausting three hours as Albee powerfully portrays a marriage that appears to be falling apart as the husband and wife play sadistic games with each other. It is considered one of the great plays of post-war American drama and has received numerous awards as well as being a highly regarded film adaption. Lindsay Posner’s version at the Theatre Royal Bath certainly maintained this high standard. The performance took place in the Ustinov Studio. This was a very intimate and small space which meant that the audience were close to the stage. This intimate atmosphere was further emphasised in the set design. The set was very homely as it depicted a typical, cosy, and ‘lived-in’ sitting room. The home is usually something that we associate with security and privacy which meant that we as an audience felt uncomfortable watching the play as it seemed like we were invading that personal space. The intimate atmosphere that the setting created reflects the intimate narrative of the play as husband betrayed the deepest secrets of the wife, and vice versa, creating a claustrophobic and tense atmosphere. The play also had an impressive cast starring Elizabeth McGovern, who many will know for playing the Countess of Grantham in Downton Abbey, as Martha and Dougray Scott as George. They powerfully portrayed the range of emotions that the characters feeling and were able to seamlessly switch from love to hate and happy to sad. Martha and George are both very complex characters, and we are never truly sure what they are feeling. However, despite these difficult roles both Scott and McGovern were able effectively convey this ambiguity. Furthermore, they convinced the audience of the love and affection that both George and Martha feel for each other despite their contradictory actions. The most memorable part of the play was the final scene where the questions that we had throughout the play are finally solved in a shocking manner, unexpectedly changing how we viewed the relationship between Martha and George. This dramatic reveal of the tragic reality beneath the illusion, begged of us the question, ‘Who is afraid of Virginia Woolf?’ Iona G

39 Johan Persson

Hanging Rock (Inspired by Picnic at Hanging Rock by Joan Lindsay) Sunny summer morning awakens the new-born butterflies. Clean grass with not a speck of dirt, polished to the roots. Hydrangeas hiding in the shade from the sun. Flowers – disciples – awaiting order Clean hair, smooth clothes, gloves on. No skin shown, no secrets unpeeled, Don’t trust, keep a shield. Crumbling, the students crack a broken smile. The roots ridging from their place. New blue skies mop up the mess below, Perfect she wants, pristine. The arches bending, from the crumbling above, Decaying, from the change of perfect to panic Wild hair, crumpled clothes, gloves slipping. Tripping up, but the school keeps trying, Screams echo the corridors, Whispers wandering through the darkness. Questions unanswered so the college starts to rip. Police asking questions so the college starts to tear. Ticking, the clock keeps rotating, Starting to rub the glue off: Stained hair, crooked clothes, gloves off. Tabbie C

41 Will W

Enivrez-vous Il faut être toujours ivre. Tout est là: c’est l’unique question. Pour ne pas sentir l’horrible fardeau du Temps qui brise vos épaules et vous penche vers la terre, il faut vous enivrer sans trêve. Mais de quoi? De vin, de poésie, ou de vertu, à votre guise. Mais enivrez-vous. Et si quelquefois, sur les marches d’un palais, sur l’herbe verte d’un fossé, dans la solitude morne de votre chambre, vous vous réveillez, l’ivresse déjà diminuée ou disparue, demandez au vent, à la vague, à l’étoile, à l’oiseau, à l’horloge, à tout ce qui fuit, à tout ce qui gémit, à tout ce qui roule, à tout ce qui chante, à tout ce qui parle, demandez quelle heure il est; et le vent, la vague, l’étoile, l’oiseau, l’horloge, vous répondront: “Il est l’heure de s’enivrer! Pour n’être pas les esclaves martyrisés du Temps, enivrez-vous; enivrez-vous sans cesse! De vin, de poésie ou de vertu, à votre guise. Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867)

A translation of an extract of ‘Enivrez-vous’ by Sophia R

Get drunk Always be drunk. It’s all there: it is the only question. So as not to feel the horrible burden of Time which breaks your shoulders and crushes you towards the ground, you must get drunk without ceasing. But with what? From wine, from poetry or from virtue, the choice is yours. But get drunk. And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace, on the green grass of a moat, in the mournful solitude of your bedroom, you awaken, the drunkenness already dwindling or gone, Ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, ask everything that flees, everything that howls, everything that moves, everything that sings, everything that speaks, ask them what time it is; And the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, will all reply: “It is time to get drunk!” So as not to be martyred slaves of Time, get drunk; get drunk without ceasing! Whether from wine, from poetry or from virtue, the choice is yours.

Pete Davies

Being Electra Sophocles’ Electra is one of the most popular mythological characters in Greek tragedy. She defies gender stereotypes through her uninhibited fury and desperate yearning for vengeance. Electra is intelligent, vivacious, and unforgiving, an anomaly in comparison to many female characters of the time. When I was cast as Electra in Frank McGuinness’ modern adaptation, it was extremely intimidating, and I was apprehensive about the whole process. The main obstacle of becoming this character was overcoming the English mannerisms that had been drummed into me from birth. The play is set in Greece and a huge aspect of Mediterranean culture is, unlike the British, to not conceal any emotions. Much of Electra’s text is almost animalistic, this is seen through her intense hysteria and untamed howling. For the audience it would have been an uncomfortable watch, her continual eruptions seemed so far removed from the culture they live in. It was a challenge to maintain Electra’s extreme emotions constant throughout the play, whilst also interacting with characters who managed to keep composed! The performance was a marathon physically and emotionally, and I had to push myself to not let my performance drop in enthusiasm. This was attainable by gradually rising in tension and distress throughout the play and not starting at the level at which I would eventually end. During rehearsals, it was fascinating to discover Electra’s habits through dissecting her lines. It became increasingly clear to me that whenever Electra would mourn or grieve after receiving news she would gravitate downwards towards the earth. She found comfort in the stability of the ground in comparison to the instability of her world. To enhance this idea even more, I incorporated this attraction through her walk, by plodding heavily and clunkily, with my right shoulder leading the rest of my body. Playing Electra was such an enjoyable experience and it pushed me further out of my comfort zone than ever before. I was very lucky to get the chance to play such a fiery and emotive character and, under the guidance of Miss Darby, I was very proud of the finished product. Poppy I

Front cover image by Clemmie C | Back cover image by Pippa G

The Piccalilli team: Chief Editors:

Lexi M

Lily B

Co-Editors:

Carina H

Will W

Imogen S

Iona G

Sophia R With the guidance and support of Dr Justice