Piccalilli Winter 2021-22 by Marlborough College

Winter 2021-2022

Sophie Dunlop

Editorial ‘The fact of being who or what a person is.’ Identity seemed the perfect choice of inspiration for this term’s edition of Piccalilli. It is clear to see that identity-based discrimination has not yet become a thing of the past, and the severity of these issues has become more apparent since the world has slowed down and had time to reflect as a consequence of COVID-19. With the rise in movements such as the Black Lives Matter protests, the LGBTQ+ rights lobbying and the increasing awareness of the climate crisis, never before have our own cultures and personal views been so relevant. Marlborough College, as well as the rest of the world, is beginning to change and improve in many areas of its cultural diversity. Around the school, clubs and societies are already forming. For example, the International Society and the LGBTQ+ forum are starting to address and involve further diversity in both thought and culture. We hope for this edition to be another step in that same direction with our selected writers and artists focusing on both their lives and experiences, whilst also taking inspiration from the lives of others. As you peruse the magazine, you’ll explore the thoughts and ideas of some of the College’s finest artists, photographers and writers whose work explores the theme. We hope this edition will resonate with every member of the College and that you will enjoy reading it as much as we have enjoyed making it. Hannah Keighley and Helvetica Haydn Taylor

Sonnet Zero Before you let your hand succumb to the Drowning weight of the master’s rule of words And your etchings, younger than the mere Seedling, let that thought wander through the worlds Of beauty that litter the boundaries. So Plentiful, they pave the lonesome crossing Of doubt, a dance in the wind. To and fro Here and there, as this glimmer starts shining And Brightening, fighting against your desire To put it onto paper. It just wants More time. Before the thought begins to tire And walks the path down the grey core that taunts The last ember of will before the ash Marks the whiteness. It happened in a flash. Altaire Neumunz

Xanthe Barton

Post-It Just letting you know: The eggs have gone stale. I could-n’t make my breakfast with them. they threw them out. I’ll be back by 9:30. I hope the pâté livers are still fresh they’d be great with toast Freddie Hall

Christopher Friis

This is just to say I have gone out For a walk. It shouldn’t be too Long I just Needed a breath of fresh Air. There is supper In the oven. Don’t burn it You have done Enough damage For today. Millie Clayton

Molly Jones

New Voices: Shell Poets

Marlborough College A glorious campus on two-eighty six acres, Filled with prestigious facilities, Ready to educate history makers. Equipped to unleash students’ abilities A learning environment with the best of the best; We hail Marlborough College as a place of splendour. From the magnificent Chapel, where you can be blessed, To the Memorial Hall imbued with grandeur. Wherever you are in College is sure to be a ball. There are numerous open fields, where sports take place, And a great place called Norwood Hall Where students eat with grace. There are sixteen boarding houses, where students take residence, Many named after historical figures. This could be the place that makes presidents. Marlborough College is the place, that triggers The hidden greatness, which lays in us all. Obaayaa Acquah

Poem of Graffiti Bursts of colour Filled the wall Jumping out at you as if to Punch you In the face. Long flowing lines, swirling around Each other like water. Emotions and expression Covers the artwork without A meaning.

Amelia Surtees

Bursts of colour Filled the wall Jumping out at you as if to Punch you In the face. Long flowing lines, swirling around And wrapping around the concrete Emotions covered the Artwork without A meaning to others. Annabel Hyatt

Nature Bumble bee buzzing briskly through the bush Sunlight dancing off its glass-like wings It floated across the summer breeze Whilst little birds chirped in the trees A sea of green flooded the land Swaying to a song from nature’s own gong Out of the heavens arose a flower Solitary, sublime and filled with power. Keira Dorrian and Star Horlock

Christopher Friis

9 3

Romantic Poem Oh, how sweet the scent of the roses That meandered across the castle wall Dancing, elegantly Surrounding the majestic oak tree That stood rigid and firm. A force of protection Ridden with the symbolism of humanity. The wind brushed weakly against the tips of the iridescent summer leaves. Bees swarmed the roses indulging in the fruit of nature, then departing back into the unknown. Where they would find another flower, see another castle, another tree. The natural world is endless. A world in which I can effortlessly lose my sense of being. And become a part of my surroundings. Filled with an undying ecstasy, a feeling no material existence could replace. The heavens shone down upon my face, the light of God warmed the air. But what would this world entail When I returned to my city life? No flowers, or castles, or trees. No nature. My heart now yearns for an existence that cannot be. The buildings, the bridges, the cars, the pollution all cloud my vision. Yet my mind still wanders back to that flower, the castle, the tree. And I reminisce on the life that simply could not be. Tati Roberts

Christopher Friis

The Most Dangerous Game Then, he leaped far out into the sea… The bracing clash with the cruel sea dragged Rainsford from the dream of the twentyfoot drop. The suffocating sea seemed to pull him down as if his muscles were made of lead. Fighting fatigue’s warm embrace, he clawed upwards with all his strength, one word racing through his mind, “Nerve, Nerve, Nerve!” He had to keep his nerve just a little while longer; he had one last prey to kill. And Rainsford always caught his prey. Rainsford fought the waves valiantly, but he was like a ragdoll in the wicked waves’ clutches. The jagged shoreline he swam along was the teeth of famished beasts, gnawing desperately at the meal the waves delivered. After being the General’s entertainment, he had become the sea’s sacrifice. The whirling water around him turned deep red as a wave sent him hurtling towards the sawtoothed cliffs. Fighting the urge to scream, Rainsford wrestled on. Salvation finally came in the form of a bluff jutting out into the sea, a palatial château gleaming like a beacon on top. Rainsford galvanised himself for the final push. Staring at the rocky stretch in front of him, Rainsford remembered the graceful movements of the dolphins he had seen on his travels. Focusing on their cautious manoeuvres, he journeyed on. Enervated, Rainsford arrived at the cliff. Its demonic shards now seemed like hands reaching out to liberate him from the waves’ unbreakable grasp. Rainsford caught his breath, clinging to the rocks as if they might disappear at any second. Drawing on whatever reserve of strength he could find, he began his climb… After staggering up the pointed slope, Rainsford finally stood before the General’s vast château once more. But, this time would be different. The sport would be entirely his. He moved painstakingly towards the iron fence, careful not to alert the dogs he could hear lurking around their courtyard at the back of the house. This must mean that Zaroff had returned. Yes, there was the light in the window to confirm it, but only on the lower floor. This gave Rainsford an idea. There was one part of the General’s routine on which he could rely. He would eventually go to his bedroom… Rainsford carefully thought about how to scale the foreboding fence and imposing building that lay in front of him. He had already employed the tricks of the fox, panther and dolphin. Now, he must employ the skills of the mantled howler monkeys he’d hunted so often in Puerto Rico. Suddenly, their name had a more sinister meaning. Pushing aside the once precious hunting memories racking his brain, Rainsford warily copied the balanced actions of the monkey as he started his treacherous ascent. Rainsford eventually hauled himself through the General’s window, his hands rubbed raw from clinging to cracks in the stone. Looking anxiously around the room, he quickly concealed himself in the curtains of the bed. All that was left to do was wait. As he waited, Rainsford thought about his discussion with Whitney back in the boat. How he’d dismissed the fear of the animals that he hunted. He now knew that fear all too well: how all-consuming and awful it could be. Maybe that was all an animal could understand, but maybe that’s enough. Maybe it’s enough to know the most terrible feeling in the world. Just then, Rainsford heard footsteps casually crossing the room and a voice calling out to the hounds below. Then, the light flicked on and Rainsford quickly emerged from his hiding place to finally do what he’d been waiting for. To finally confront Zaroff! “Rainsford!” screamed the General. “How in God’s name did you get here?” “I swam,” said Rainsford. “I found it quicker than walking through the jungle.” Lottie Jordan

Amelia Surtees

13 3

Romy Katkhuda

The Word’s Question “Tell me,” implored The desperate word Struggling against verbal Constraints: a symbol Of what it could never Understand. “How many forevers I have squandered How many hearts have wondered ‘What if?’ because of Declarations of love That never hit Their target: The heart.” “I can’t,” said The open ear. “I can hear Everything Every sound Every noise But I have no Catalyst To help me unscramble The list Of gibberish That has been Thrust into My unwilling Self. I am lost Too.” I hear the anguished Scream of a broken heart. When the one thing giving life is vanquished I feel the strength it takes to restart To make yourself feel alive Again. To feel and hurt and thrive In the aftermath of that pain Caused by the main Source of your life, of your very Being, when they must go. I hear the faint drum Of a heart that never recovered. An echo of its former glory, A shell of what it once was. A regular beat signaling The bare minimum of What a heart can do. I feel that. I feel what Misunderstanding does. I feel the unfiltered emotions, The tearing of skin, The collapse against a wall And I, I am the messenger.

“I Feel It All.” The pause, the long, long Pause. It’s eerie, the song Of silence. The Word Mulls over what it heard. But, it tries to find A piece of hope, a one of a kind Glimmer. Something. “Is there no morsel Of beauty? An immortal Presence of hope. A sound Tossed to the wind found By someone else? Tell me A sweet thing. I know I asked for Pain but tell me what I Have done right.” “There is the ‘I love you’. There is the compliment The appreciation The thank you The start of best friends The question asked The hopeful reply The song The poem The joy of being surprised The squeal of delight The voice of the one you missed The most heard again The word is so beautiful I may not understand everything but I understand enough.” The word, happy Finally to have done Something right, Is pleased with this New answer, an Extension of the old. I can’t really find An end to this. The word’s Question. Xanthe Barton

Inua Ellams: A Review He strode on to the stage, with a grinning face; the bubble of chatter around him popped and instantly all eyes were on him. This did nothing to faze the quiet confidence of Ellams. Instead, it simply broadened his grin. The night had commenced. Bright, engaging and altogether entertaining: Inua Ellams kicked off Marlborough LitFest in rather the same way Albert Einstein would kick off the Junior Physics Olympiad. The opening portion of the evening mainly involved him introducing himself to the audience as a poet, an entertainer and a teacher. Then, the main event began. Using words sourced from the minds of the allowing audience, Ellams painted a myriad of worlds, exploding bright against the strobed purple backdrop of the Memorial Hall. For just over half an hour, a third of the college sat in overawed silence, conquered by animated tales of motherhood’s short sting, of superheroes brought back to Earth, of the severity of grief wholly captured in a striking ode to Oscar Wilde. On and on the poet painted, implanting in the audience as he went: indignant anger, elation, joy, a sadness so raw it could have been our own and a constant astonishment at the overwhelming talent of this seemingly unimpressive young man. On and on, the words flowing freely from him as the thunder flows from the great god Zeus. On and on, until that heated rapture was tired eyes and a content feeling in your chest and the thunder ceased to roar. “Now we enter the Q&A section of our evening together.” An abashed silence stilled the lips of the entire hall. No question seemed original enough, intelligent enough, good enough. “Do you like being a poet?” called out a brave 100 boy. After that the questions came forth, marching single file like ants to a summer’s kitchen. More than anything else, the one thing that struck me most as he answered was his honesty. If he didn’t know the answer, that was his answer. If he didn’t want to say, that also sufficed. It was this integrity that shone through all his answers – this and the sense that he enjoyed giving them. He wanted to be there, selflessly sharing his life with an auditorium of strangers. As he explained to us, because he had the ability to put forth his experiences in a way that others cannot only understand, but feel, it was both his gift and his responsibility to open up his life unto the world. Later, when the eight-minute mark had been not only passed but violated by one particularly persistent member of the general public, the poetry poured forth again. It was different this time: quieter, less dramatic. Ellams seemed to be teasingly preparing to release us into the world again. He read out the infantile excerpts of poem inspired by Reading Festival, and that was it. We were left, abandoned by our lifeline of the last hour, to be bombarded again by books to buy and shoving hands pushing out of the door. This poet was a professional. Perhaps for him it was another night, to be replicated in twenty-four hours for another crowd. To us, that night was irreplaceable. Saffron Rowell

Review

Christopher Friis

Night lights The streets were asleep I walk home, bottle in hand, the cracks on the pavements are blurry but its late, cold, late I see you in a coffee shop, red lipstick But your laugh disappears into the sweet-smelling pastries You’re not here anymore I hate you, I hate you, I miss you all the lights are carrying your shadow I feel your cold arm around my shoulder You’re there again Out of the corner of my eye Golden hair sloshing around in my beer I scream and drop the bottle It’s dark and the wind is whipping at me I hear glass on pavement, I feel pain It’s exhilarating, I’ve never felt more alive I know you’re here It’s not dark, it’s just you, Your silhouette hangs over my world I laugh, shrill, pitiful, manic If you’re haunting me, I must be haunting you The streets are flooded with light tonight The lights are reflections It’s always been you and your golden hair Its glowing in the rising sun I laugh because I’m going mad If you’re hating me, I must be haunting you Chicha Nimitpornsuko

Isabella Thomson

21 3

Help Me The salty water shoves me Ocean dyed black with ink My lungs fight hard against thee Fatigued, I start to sink Ocean dyed black with ink My legs beat hard beneath me Fatigued, I start to sink It looked inviting from the quay My legs beat hard beneath me, The moon chides me with a wink It looked inviting from the quay I wish I’d time to think The moon chides me with a wink My bloated hands wave in plea I wish I’d time to think Please, oh please someone help me. Millie Clayton

rhythm swift, slick. rhythm of strokes. power pulsates with every action, a superhuman. still graceful, still stylish, gliding naturally. he looks so small against that dangerously enticing water. it looks so calm so evil. swift, slick. floating through life, nothing stopping him. until he drowns. Hannah Keighley

Elizabeth Butler

Dani Davidovich

25 3

Hunger Hunger, she will not tire, she flares us her heat. With no water for her fire She bites at our feet. She flares us her heat. Her gas burns down my throat. She bites at our feet. Her thick smoke my new coat. Her gas burns down my throat, flames eating through time. Her thick smoke my new coat, her forced attention all mine. Flames eating through time my head dizzies from her light. Her forced attention all mine, a pain that’s so bright. My head dizzies from her light, will the smoke ever die. A pain that’s so bright. A great stifling black sky. Will the smoke ever die? No, she will not tire. A great stifling black sky and no water for her fire. Scarlett Buchanan

Molly Jones

Helvetica Haydn Taylor

Little ball of black It rests, sleeping in the bottom of my bags A fluffy ball of dark So heavy, across the floor it drags Slowly, so slowly, it makes its mark

Bigger and bigger, day by day Neither dead or alive It always gets its way It will always thrive

A fluffy ball of dark Ever growing, ever changing Slowly, so slowly it makes its mark Quietly, quietly, always complaining

Neither dead or alive It rests, sleeping in the bottom of my bags It will always thrive So heavy, across the floor it drags

Ever growing, ever changing Bigger and bigger, day by day Quietly, quietly, always complaining It always gets its way

Nina Watson

Check the Mirror Most days I see you drowning You’re so composed, collected, calm You try to blend into crowds of laughing bronze smiling girls Long lunch queues, white napkins, black blazers Apparently that’s the new norm You talk to them so easily It’s like you’ve never been gone at all Conversations spew from your lips like honey, sweet and pure And you laugh, innocent and unimpeachable But, in between all of that happiness, I see the gaps in the gossips, empty voids of silence from you Where you pretend to be fine But you’re cracking at the corners, ripping at the seams You sulk back to your room, head hung low It feels like a lie, doesn’t it? You can’t pretend that you just belong And you can’t help but wonder if time had really changed As you pull off your socks, you can’t help but feel you’re sinking Drowning in a world where you’ll always be looked over You remember when there was a boy You wish it was the same. It’s not You’re listening to blue sad songs to dampen your mood It’s late and you know you should go to sleep But, the feeling wormed its way into your heart And now you feel insomnia creeping into your mind You sleep with one eye always open, watching, waiting for danger Waiting for the day when they realise you don’t belong No matter how much make-up you put on, no matter how perfect you are No matter how many boys you talk to, no matter how high your grades are It’s tomorrow A new day It’s a new beginning for millions of people around the world But, not for you You put on your best smile, check the mirror and pretend all over again Chicha Nimitpornsuko

Issie Raper

Ottilie Richardson

Folding Landscape It is the stranger who gets lost. Among the folding stairways of the cement towers and glass sky-daggers in the centres of cities. Along the climbing elevators which creep upwards as spiders up an enclosed heating pipe. The stranger gets lost in the rising and twisting alleyways of cities. The older brick buildings, that were navigable, now crushed together and crumbling tightly together, provide inescapable mazes that consume all strangers. The folded roads and bordered pavements, all standing rigidly in place, and being squeezed together by the constructed world around them, are the only things resembling real ground. None of the urban, folding landscape is real. The ground is cement, black and grey, the buildings are cement and glass, blotting the sky, the roads are led out, ordered and confined. Beneath the surface, there are caves. Crossing and crumbling, made of moist cement and lined metal. With occasionally whistling and screaming worms of metal worming through them. Everything is rigid and on time. No room for error. No room for much, other than cement, glass, and correct timing. The air is hard and heavy. The ground is hard and heavy. The water is black and dead. The sky is gone, for constructions stretch over the stranger, folding over them, writhing and squirming around them, consuming them, perpetuating them. The constructions encircle the stranger as they enter. Big maggots of cement and glass. The residents of the folding landscape know not of the real world. They see the world as glass and cement; that outside should be grey and cold and inside good; that the world is all they know and only that. The strangers get lost. The folding landscape surrounding them. It cracks and crumbles and is squeezed around them, as new glass spikes are raised, moving old cement around them. Strange that some men can call this folding landscape their residence. Freddie Hall

Happiness A jovial sensation, A uniting feeling of elation And a provider of all-important salvation. It provides unyielding purpose Surplus troubles you endure are to be thrown away Because the happiness you feel is here to stay. It is divine. Venturing down a dark path The light at the end of the tunnel now seems mythical All light has dwindled. Then a beacon of hope leads the way and purpose is rekindled. Happiness is meaning, For your purpose to be achieved. The world must be teeming As all pressure will be relieved. Oli Burke

Lies Lies hang like daggers on her tongue Lies and excuses for everything she’s done Lies upon lies she builds her throne Lies to try to prove her heart isn’t made of stone Lies when found out, another excuse Lies building up. She will never tell the truth Lies. Not the good kind, but of arrogance and pride Lies made to hurt and injure. An attack from the inside Lies is a girl, no longer human Lies are a weapon made for confusion Lies is devious and wants only to hurt Lies is a horror, darkness hidden under a skirt Lies whispered in ears of friends and foe Lies of how she’s hurt, a false tale of woe Lies made to alienate me from family friends Lies to try make me fall off the deep end Nina Watson

Mati Phillips

Christopher Friis

Hope The thing about hope is it can provide you an aspiration but it doesn’t tell you how to get it it can excite you but not as well as it can mislead you hope is what I hold on to along with my brother with my brother my brother brother. moments ago, totally stranded now completely and utterly surrounded moments ago, everything numb now I can start to feel my thumb I desperately drink my hope is no longer about to sink. I shiver violently body u d l t n nuaig like the waves that terrorised us P D U-AND-O W N people are terrified of me because they should be they know we’re vulnerable and I’m a prime example families. women. men. children. terrified of my wetness terrified. anything to see Europe anything to see my son anything to build a good life for my children anything to work in a school absolutely anything Anything just to have a chance.

hope thunders above the boat the excitement and desperation amongst us is tangible but the dread we might get left left behind Is lingering we frantically shout for help and a wind of possibility ripples against our face as the helicopter dives low hope contemplates us for a moment contemplates our desperation, vulnerability and size too many people too much weight here to help but not to help. Hope is merciless. Hope isn’t fair. people scramble amongst themselves I feel myself sliding along the deck where is Kwame? but, hope is out of reach we are abandoned we are abandoned are abandoned abandoned. suddenly, I feel a sharp shift in weight then a sharp and ominous crack then the desperate cries of people what is happening? I gather my bearings. the boat has broken. I frantically search for Kwame nowhere to be seen. people are scrambling to hold on to the ship but that ship is sinking. I hold on to until there’s nothing left and I go sinking too. under the water.

complete chaos. people’s screams ring louder than the voice in the head that tells me I’m about to die because mine are muffled under water. I continue flailing my hands under water and I catch a piece of wood and I just about hold on just about afloat just about. a woman approached me eyes alight with terror she thrusts her infant child towards me but I can’t help her even though I want to that is the brutal reality of my life. disadvantaged. now I’m choking on the water that I thought would carry me to a prosperous future with Kwame how wrong I was. Oli Burke

Christopher Friis

Relief? Teeth tugging hard on nails, raw flesh stinging. “What do you think?” Up to you That’s really helpful I don’t know. It’s you who has to choose Teeth gnawed Why? Because I am the girl Well, I guess so Oh, get a grip. It’s not just my responsibility. He stood I know that. I’m not trying to be an *** I just don’t know And you think I do. It’s not just some instinctive thing Skin pulled; blood welled I never said it was. You implied it Silence. Well? I’m sorry I’m taking some time to think about it You say that like I haven’t been thinking about it Fine. I’ll do whatever you want me to Finger sucked to quell the blood Angry tears brew Hair raked back You can’t put this all on me I’m not You are. So, what if I am? I’m 19 And so am I. That doesn’t make the problem go away Next finger, teeth working away My parents are catholic So, we keep it? I don’t know. I guess? More blood wept Breathe in Fine. Okay decided Good Throats bobbed. 9 months cut short Blood poured Relief? Millie Clayton

Helvetica Haydn Taylor

Illegal vs Punching the Air It’s so cold. All fourteen Of us, Tightly packed Together, On a Small Rubber Boat.

The engine choking for fuel, Comes to a Stop. Hell breaks loose. Booms of shouting bursts out across Me, piercing me ears.

The cold creeps up on me like death. Laughing at me suffering, Slowly falling To my Death

I shout. I shout with anger in my voice.

It’s so cold. All fourteen Of us, Tightly packed Together, On a Small Rubber Boat. I think of home. I think of the sun that blesses my cheeks. I think of the rich soil on which I used to run on. I think of singing to my people. I miss home. But, I also think of Sisi. I think of seeing her face beaming at me again. I think of her warm welcoming smile greeting me in rays of sun. I think of her caressing me with love. I miss Sisi. The lapping Waves hit the side Of the old rubber boat. A smooth rhythmic rocking of The boat drifts me off Slowly to sleep, as The frosty breeze Brushes my forehead. A warm shaft of light warms my back. It’s warmer now. Too warm though. The blistering sun beats Down. On. Us.

“I can’t. I can’t take this anymore!”

Silence. Everyone is quiet. Silence overpowers the lapping of waves. Silence takes over us, Like the soldiers back home, Whom had power over us And didn’t allow us to speak. Silence. Menacing memories flood into my head. So, I sing. The lyrics that flow like water around me. I sing about my country and its beauty. I sing long graceful lines that leap like the dolphins swimming Beside us. They come close to listen. To listen about my song and country. To listen to me. I sing of pride and joy, That warm the hearts of those around me. I see them smiling with hope. I have given them hope. The next minute, I am slammed in The face with Cold harsh water. I panic and try to get at least a breath of air. But, water Fills my lungs. I open my eyes. Immersed by the blue, that follows Down Deep Into The depths Of The Ocean

Am I dead? My body goes Limp. Darkness encircles me. A black snake wraps around me and squeezes tight. Not letting go. Suffocating me. Everything goes black. Am I dead? Something Grabs Me. A firm Pulls me up to the surface. Up to heaven? Up to the clouds? Light blinds me. Right in the eyes. Where am I? Am I dead? Muffled voices speak above me. Am I dead? I hear someone crying. Sobbing almost. As if heart broken. I’m broken inside and out.

Slowly, My eyes open to see eyes looking Down at me. Familiar faces swarm towards me. Smiling and laughing with jubilation and relief. I see Kwame. Is it really him? He leaps over to me. Embraces me in a big hug. My heart warms. Warm like the sun And earth. Thick fat tears Roll Down His Dark Face. I have Kwame. I’m safe now. Almost For a second, There is hope once again. Me and Kwame will get there, To wherever we are going. Annabel Hyatt

Molly Jones

Netflix How do I thrill at my great panoply! Thine endless content doth my heart content Ne’er do I grudge my small subscription fee Much less the countless hours on thee spent For when my thirsting laptop awakes Assemblest thou the songs of Squid Game One eve I shall of Outer Banks partake The next of Narcos, bored on trains Alas, at times thy shows are so drowsing I cannot choose, and, vainly scrolling on, I waste my day a thousand programmes browsing And lose the chance to watch a single one My heart, though lacking naught, still wanting more And thus a wealth of choice doth make us poor. Beth Butter Romy Katkhuda

Stella Hervey-Bathurst

Key Holding the key, I step forward Trying the key, box after box, trying to find something Cold metal boxes, shiny ones, colourful ones, the key belongs to none Day after day, night after night, trying to help the key find its home Some boxes have no keyholes, so I place them on my right Boxes in which the key doesn’t fit go to my left, ready to be stored later Finally, the key finds its home, a box forgotten, covered in dust Battered and broken, thrown away. I remember this box, I remember throwing away the key I remember trying to open the box, trying to get rid of it, trying to find the key for years to no avail I slide the key into the keyhole It clicks into place The smell hits me first, a horrible acidic smell, the smell of my enemies taunting me with this box The key turns with a clack, and I push back the lid Darkness erupts from the box, flowing over the sides, thick like oil The void like substance swallows the box, my hand and the key I slam the box, shaking away the darkness and lock the lid I wrench the key away I throw it against the wall And hope to never find it again I stack my boxes against the wall, to cover where they key landed, and that dammed box at the bottom I hang the keys in their home, all perfect, all happy Jingling like chimes in the wind And I try to forget that last box And hope to never find it again Nina Watson

Leaves Lime green, mint green, emerald green, Endless tumbles of treasured jewels cascading softly down, Almost imperceptibly, they daintily wave, whispering secrets of a long-forgotten past, Vibrant amalgamations of colour, soon to disappear, Each one stands out; each one blends in, Serenity fills the hearts of those that sit beneath the leaves of this old oak tree. Hannah Keighley Christopher Friis

Political Language Moving like a single– Minded hurricane destructive To the point, a bullet. Are you scared? The Pen whistles and sings As it flies, an art, through The black and white words That paint our lives. It’s a ruse, That moment of pause Signaling the symphony Of chaos that will surely Begin soon. This means that that means This. Order not chaos. Quiet Not all-consuming, drowning Noise. Right not wrong It’s alright not it’s terrifying. This order, that quiet, do you Not feel how right it is? It’s Alright. Feel that quiet. But, these mirages That resemble words Are falling off the page Dancing, twirling, swirling They are gone. Xanthe Barton

The Importance of Being Earnest The Importance of Being Earnest was the last of Oscar Wilde’s plays to be written before his incarceration. It aims to humorously toy with the concept of being ‘Earnest’ (or in fact Ernest) whilst satirising the society of the time. In his personal life, Wilde was eccentric. He would push the social boundaries of acceptability. Eventually, it was his love affair with Lord Alfred Douglas that resulted in his imprisonment, leaving him both broken and humiliated. Nonetheless, The Importance of Being Earnest is a testament to the originally indulgent and witty spirit that Wilde himself once possessed whilst also drawing subtle attention to the hidden homosexual world of the period. The setting of the play is extremely lavish and luxurious, and the plot seems to assume a slightly humorous feel from the offset. This is particularly highlighted in Marlborough College’s production (directed by Mr David Kenworthy) in which Henry Dukes’ interpretation of Algernon Moncrief was vibrantly animated and flamboyant whilst Nigella Broackes’ Lady Bracknell was packed with violent snobbery. The audience takes pleasure in laughing at both the characters’ classist arrogance as well as any outright jokes they may make. Although this is primarily a comedy with its purpose to entertain, Wilde seems to have been making social critiques about England at the time within his script. First debuted on 14th February 1895 (Valentine’s Day), this could be a hint towards the frivolity and excessive nature of the celebrations of love between members of the upper class. Furthermore, Oscar Wilde commonly appoints one of his characters to reflect himself in his works; Algernon Moncrief would be the most probable candidate here. Algernon’s character definitely seems rather bold and, without any background context, one could quite possibly assume that he was homosexual. However, through his relationship with Cecily Cardew (played by Lily Vere Nicoll), he consequently appears to be heterosexual. Could this be a façade put on showing the need to conform to societal norms or is this an unjust stereotyping? Finally, the vital case of ‘Earnest’ as a homophone for the name Ernest. With the farcical nature of both Jack Worthing (played by Harrison Locke) and Algernon assuming the same infamous alias of ‘Ernest’: adored and requited by all, (especially

by the naïve Gwendolen Fairfax (Harriet JordanWillis) and Cecily Cardew) throughout the play, a fine line between the truthful and the fabricated begins to appear. The eventual discovery that Jack was in fact named Ernest at birth forces us to question the true importance of being Ernest in word and deed – bringing up more of a moral debate about honesty and its significance. The nine Marlburians who performed The Importance of Being Earnest managed to a portray a naturally hilarious comedy whilst simultaneously conveying a much deeper meaning through their flamboyant performances. Below is the interview that we conducted with two of the actors: Henry Dukes (Algernon Moncrieff) and Lily Vere Nicoll (Cecily Cardew). Have you enjoyed learning more about the play through performance? Henry (Algernon): It is very different when you read the play and then when you actually perform it. You learn the details with each scene and the more you explore your character, the more you feel a part of the story. It is a lot better the longer you rehearse over time, as you really adapt your character. Lily (Cecily): With this play, there are many hidden messages in the text. The humour of Oscar Wilde’s writing really comes out after reading and understanding the play. Henry, you play Algernon. Would you say that your character is similar to the author Oscar Wilde? Henry: Definitely, in all his plays he has someone that he is similar to and who he bases himself on. Algernon is an extremely eccentric person who’s always buying clothes and Oscar Wilde was also very over the top, fancy and dandy. Why was it so important for Cecily and Gwendolyn that the name of their fiancé was Ernest? Lily: She had the idea in her head of Ernest as a wicked bad-boy. Deep down, under her innocence, it was all she really wanted, and the name Ernest illustrated this different and rather mysterious man. At the end, you can see that she really fell in love with him personally and the name no longer affected her love for him.

Review Do you think society has changed from the Victorian era to today?

being instructed to bring the maturity down and speak in a higher-pitched voice.

Both: Yes, of course. The language is the biggest difference through the way people talk and interact with each other. Another difference was what people did and especially the separation of men and women. Since, men would go to the gentleman’s club, women would go for tea. The interaction and standards were much higher than they are today.

In terms of having a small cast, has that helped or hindered?

Did you find it easy to relate and get into your character? Henry: I found it easy to relate because he is a show-off and, as an actor, you are constantly having to impress people, so it was easy to adapt his outgoing and over-the-top nature.

Henry: It definitely has helped by having oneon-one scenes and having extra practices without the complications of organising a huge number of people. As we are in the Sixth Form, everyone knows each other, so we are much more comfortable and there are a lot of laughs in rehearsals and practices. Lily: It has helped hugely through forming closer friendships. As it is a cast of only 9 people, the acting has improved, as people feel much safer in rehearsals. Marnie Longfield & Helvetica Haydn Taylor

Lily: With Cecily, I struggled more in terms of her constant innocence and lack of knowledge. With her being the youngest character in the play, it was harder as during Victorian times, as at the age of 18, you were still very young and juvenile. I was constantly

Photo: Pete Davies

Who am I? An interview with Amanda Hutchings (PR Dame and RHT) on her recent exhibition in the Mount House Gallery

Fandi: If you think that the question, who am I, is unanswerable, why did you name your exhibition ‘Who am I?’ Amanda: I think exploring who we are is actually the only question we ever need to explore because most people think they’re fixed. Obviously, we’re physically fixed, but the rest of the story about who we are is not really fixed. And different people will see you in different ways. When you start to see that actually who you are is not a fixed thing, there’s freedom in that. So, in a way, it is answerable, but there is no actual answer. That sounds mad!

Fandi: What was the deeper meaning of the circle piece in your exhibition? Amanda: The circles came from me tidying up and from seeing a book. I have a friend (who teaches me textiles) who’s got lots of books and I saw those little, tiny circles that in the book. I am really led and curious by how things are made. Can I do it and how can I do it? So, I immediately wanted to work out how they were made and, having done that, it was very meditative making those circles. I made circle after circle after circle using the whole drawer of strings that I wasn’t going to do anything with. And then one Hannah Keighley

Review idea led to another from the sort of books that I read about how life works to the subtractive psychology books, which talk about all sorts of different things. But, I suddenly saw that we can represent life in a circle. And the circle is so far away from our physicality. That is not an easy concept to grasp and use. When we start talking about people we already have a conceived idea about personality and character and who we are, so it is a metaphor. So, I see me as a circle I see you as a circle. It just worked for me. Fandi: How do labels affect your personality, do they change the way that you perceive yourself? Amanda: I think if you ask someone to tell you about someone who they love dearly, they will put a lot of labels on that person. And when sometimes those people put labels on us, we start to believe them. I don’t know if you’ve ever had a teacher tell you that you’re not good at something? Something like you’re not great at English, for argument’s sake. And then you start to look at life with that label. You’re already wearing that label and you will be alerted to the fact that you’re not good at something. When you pick it up then it can become a part of you without realizing and I think it can affect you. They definitely change the way that you perceive yourself. I think if you can see that they’re just thought-created and not true, and are not permanent, then there’s a lot of freedom in that. What I’ve discovered is that who am I is not fixed. It’s not that I’m not good at anything, it’s just that I’m not good at it yet, or I haven’t tried, or that I’m not fixed: I can be whatever I want. Fandi: How has art supported you through the ups and downs in life? Amanda: I can get lost in my art. It’s helped to explain, it’s helped me to understand, just totally. It gave me something to do when I was having a really tough time. How it’s done it, I don’t know. It is just something that I gravitate towards. Other people go to sport or different things, it’s just what I go to. Fandi: Are you any closer to finding out who you are through art? Amanda: Who do you think I am?

children in this house (Preshute) and there will be 64 different views of who I am, and I will have a different view of who I am. And my view of who I am tomorrow might be different from my view of who I am today, which will be different from my view of who I was yesterday. This is affected by so many things constantly changing, constantly changing, which is good news. Fandi: Do you think your life coaching has changed your art or the direction of the line and where you heading? Amanda: It is definitely changing the direction of my life, and where I’m heading. Definitely, yeah. I feel the exhibition was a really massive growth period for me, putting it out there. I had never done that before. Because it’s so closely linked to my coaching and sharing joy: all I want to do is go and share more joy. And people asked me at my exhibition what I was selling, and I would reply, “Joy. Joy of life.” This is priceless and free and I just can’t think of anything better than sharing joy with people who are finding it hard to see it. Fandi: Do you believe in fate? Amanda: I don’t think we choose; we say we are living, but I think we’re being lived. We choose and we don’t choose, but I think life just happens. Does everything happen for a reason? I think everything happens and we sometimes want to ascribe a reason to it, but I think things happen and you never know what’s going to come from it. My daughter’s death, it happened for a reason, she was ill. You can say that’s a bad thing, but actually you don’t know that until way down the line. Things just happen, and when they happen, we are different because of it. And that’s a good thing, we learn. I think we don’t know in advance whether things are good or bad. I think you just have to live. Fandi: What is next? Amanda: I want to coach full-time; I want to be sharing joy of life. I had so many conversations, or little, nudgy conversations with teenagers and adults and I love talking and to see people grow through talking and questions, that’s what I want to do. All day, every day.

Fandi: I think you’re a source of joy for all of us. Fandi Ramday

Amanda: So that’s your view. There are 64

The Piccalilli team: Helvetica Haydn Taylor

Christopher Friis

Marnie Longfield

Hannah Keighley

Asfandyar Ramday

Millie Clayton

Amelia Surtees

Saffron Rowell

Henry Cormack

Supported by Dr Justice and Miss Marks

Piccalilli cover by Sophie Dunlop