Editorial
As time evolves, so does society. So do we, as people. When we started this edition, we were racking our brains to find its theme. As members of the Lower Sixth who have either just begun their journey here, or have been on the train since the Shell, it made sense to focus on the most reliable and relatable aspect of life – change.
Although change can be a sign of progress or transcendence. It is also a chance at something new and unknown, with unlimited opportunities and decisions to make. We know that many of us, at some point in the far future, will look back with fondness over what we have accomplished. To all of us, change means different things, so we asked Oxford to give us its best shot. Their definition is ‘to replace (something) with something else, especially something of the same kind that is newer or better.’ We are of the completely unbiased opinion that our edition falls into both the ‘newer’ and ‘better’ categories.
This edition of Piccalilli centres around new beginnings and is shaped by the seasons. The journey starts with the cold depths of winter, a soft blanket of snow melting into the warm embrace of spring before blooming under the beating rays of the sun. The first stop is at a lake, lost in a forest encased in a vivid description of a remote winter followed by the desolate dystopian worlds envisioned by some of our writers that really puts our lives into perspective.
Once again, we put Oxford to the test for its definition of nostalgia. They ever so kindly revealed that nostalgia is defined as ‘a sentimental longing or wistful affection for a period in the past’. We believe that our lives should not be filled with regret over choices you didn’t make but joy over the ones you did. So, we thought it would be fitting to feature a think-piece on the Olympics’ opening ceremony, as we felt that a moment to reminisce on the cultural hive that was the summer of 2024 was necessary.
To bring our Piccalilli to a close (as much as we wished we didn’t have to!) we incorporated the autumnal experience – the leaves start to fall and we at Marlborough prepare to head into the next school year. Another change, another stop at a station.
We hope that the path you pave for yourself is as emotive, thrilling and enjoyable as the train journey that encapsulates this edition of Piccalilli.
Millie A and Cosima J
Winter description
I am greeted by an inky black lake, a black hole, it absorbs all the radiant beauty of the snow and setting sun, drinking it in. Water ripples in the wind, distorting the image of beauty and peace into something of broken trees and slushy grey snow. Like pleas for help, ice cracked in the freezing water, trying to break away from the malevolent being. Lonesome pieces of grass pierced through the thick snow, like fingers clawing out from its killer. The small bit of vibrant green slowly being wiped out by the merciless white winter.
I make my way to the end of the winding path.
Finn B
Dystopian
I didn’t really notice the worst of it until it was over, as I spent most of the following days in bed as I slowly deteriorated. The only times that it hit me were when Sarah, my toddler sister, would come in, only to be repulsed at the sight of me in such a state, leading to her running out of my room in a confused tantrum. I dread to think of the day that she has to face this. What will have become of me by then? A faint remain of myself? A skeleton whose bones creak and cry out for its body?
Faith S
Dystopian Nightmare
Blank ceilings that I knew quite well. I was not sure, though. It had only been two weeks. The tiny wails of my alarm that I knew – well. The bed that would belong to me for the next four months. I began to gather my amenities and made my way to the bathroom. I thrust my shoulder at the door. It would not budge. I returned to my room. I reached for my uniform. I knew it would fit me well. I thought I remembered the fitting process. Rigorous and strict. “Have to make sure it’s all done well.” That’s what she said. The long black skirt bound my waist; the short blue shirt grasped at my wrists. The velvet black jacket, however, I had sourced for myself. Quality listed as ‘very good,’ and tailoring listed as ‘well done.’ I swung the blazer over my shoulders. I felt well. Towering black statues stood in the corner of my dormitory. I knew them. Well enough for acquaintance. The shoes held my feet fast. Like a friend, who you have not seen for such a length of time that you give them a tight squeeze. I felt unclean now, for I had not washed before putting my uniform on.
I was muddy. Had I been afforded the privilege of sporting activities in the midst of this stormy term, or gardening at afternoon times, perhaps, I would agree. It did not sit well with me that I had done nothing of the sort. Yet I was muddy. Unclean. Dirty. I knew that there was nothing to be done but obey the wishes of my superiors. Therefore, I returned to my dormitory at the end of the day, and I began to claw away at the mud. Despite the agony, I obeyed. As I had always done. I started to scratch and scrape away at this stubborn stain. In all of my years, I had never been taught the philosophy of this matter. One small thing becomes the root of all of your issues, and yet when it goes, you feel the inclination to follow. It is part of you – you cannot leave it. The stain began to peel off in strips. The mud was holding fast to my flesh, but I was determined. I was making a decision to remove the root of this deciduous tree. Removing the bark first seemed unnecessary. I continued, though. I kept obedient, even to the very last moment. Uprooting the tree was no easy feat. Bearing the weight of the wood reminded me of the story of the man in Golgotha. I didn’t ever hear much over the crowds of whispers that filed into my ears during lesson times – but I felt some comfort in my shared experience. Eventually, I set the tree down, and I lay with it. It was gone. All in the world felt truly well. I was gone. I knew this would appease the superiors. I smiled.
Millie
Review of Dracula –Theatre Royal Bath
Bath Theatre’s latest production of Dracula brought Bram Stoker’s classic tale of love, horror, and the supernatural to the stage with a haunting yet uneven adaptation. Directed by James Langley, the performance transported the audience to a gothic world brimming with eerie atmospheres, emotional singing, and intriguing interpretations of its iconic characters. While visually and emotionally captivating, some creative choices – particularly the simplification of Mind’s character – may leave fans of the novel, divided.
For those unfamiliar with Stoker’s original tale, Dracula tells the story of Count Dracula’s move to England in pursuit of fresh blood and new conquests. The play follows solicitor, Johnathan Harker, his fiancée, Mina, and their companions as they attempt to thwart the vampire’s dark plans. Bath Theatre’s adaptation captures the central themes of the novel; love, loss, and the struggle between humanity and monstrosity. However, some of the plot’s complexity was sacrificed in favour of heightened drama and theatrical spectacle.
One of the most striking departures from the source material was the portrayal of Mina. In the original novel, Mina is intelligent, resourceful, and central to defeating Dracula. Her, however, she is reimagined as more passive and less astute, a choice that undermines her role as a strong female figure. While this simplification added to her vulnerability and made her victimisation more poignant, it also removed some of the narrative balance between the characters. The shift may frustrate purists who cherish Mina’s resilience as one of the novel’s highlights.
The performances were consistently strong across the cast. Jack Thomas was menacing yet magnetic as Dracula, blending charm with a chilling undercurrent of danger. His physicality – at times graceful, at times predatory –was riveting to watch. Jonathan Harker, played by Edward Grant, brought an earnest vulnerability to the role, though his chemistry with Mina felt somewhat muted. The supporting cast particularly the tormented Renfield, added layers of complexity. Renfield’s chaotic energy and desperation to appease Dracula were palpable and brought some muchneeded unpredictability to the play’s more formulaic moments.
The production design was a highlight. The set, a blend of decayed Victorian elegance and shadowy landscapes, effectively evoked the gothic atmosphere of the novel. Lighting and sound were masterfully used to create tension, particularly during Dracula’s appearances, where the flicker of candles and eerie whispers heightened the sense dread. Costumes were period appropriate, with Dracula’s flowing cape and Mina’s modest dresses contrasting powerfully to emphasise their roles as predator and prey.
Bath Theatre’s Dracula is a visually stunning and emotionally resonant production though it falls short of capturing the full complexity of Bram Stoker’s original work. The creative decision to portray Mina as less intelligent may alienate fans of the book, but the powerful singing and atmosphere staging make this adaptation a memorable experience.
Lois J and Honor L
Witch!
(inspired by the Music Dept trip to Wicked)
blithe smile, lithe limb i sit here with green skin but envy is not my colour. gold hair, gently curled i sit here with darker locks and my stomach starts to twirl when i am seen. their faces drop.
i’ve stopped wishing. i never dream roses and pearls? more like cherries and cream your green is my black my black is my pride
Millie A
6 Word Story by Mollie J Stuck in space
Earth moves on.
Annabel H
Forest Description
The forest was ongoing, as was the endless, dense canopy of trees that loomed over me. Their knotting arms stretched out, creating a cage of claustrophobia and sky could be unseen. The thick layer above made me question whether it was even there. The plants watched me with a sharp and distrusting eye from below and their dying and desperate bodies were withering in the frost. The resilient ice lay all below my feet, making me tread carefully and I felt its smoothness as a consistent reminder of its presence. I felt the wind whirling and biting at the vulnerable and open parts of my skin. It was a lion scratching at its prey. My face was raw and my hands were numb and I pulled my woollen coat over me, even tighter. I felt an ominous cold slither up my arms.
Daisy G
Mr Maren
(inspired by Bones and All)
Tucked away in a place where the flowers can’t grow
Our flesh getting cold under moth-eaten clothes
We’re disfigured beyond recognition in the sun
The doors are all closed
We peer through keyholes
Nails in my wrists and your knees on the floor
Your lips on my skin feel like fingers down my throat
You feel me drip down your chin
like the juice of dark cherries
But God as our witness will smile as
He watches me slide through your teeth
He will always forgive you since he knows a starving animal will always feed
If only I could have loved you enough
To be what you need
Loved you enough
To be the hand that feeds
Hebe F
Winter
Snow glistened from the sun’s iridescent welcome as I strolled past the trees that towered above me. The pine embraced me, like a mother to their new-born infant. The streaks of their white hairs looked innocent against those wild, untamed olive spikes. I could hear the crunch of elation under me as my boots left their unique mark, like a fingerprint.
Birdsong celebrated like Christmas bells, enjoying the heaven of loneliness. Around me, the crisp pristine air caressed me, planting a seed of excitement as I looked out onto the horizon.
I breathed in.
The perfume of fresh, pungent pine sap danced around me, eager to be noticed. It did not completely mask the fragmented and musky scent of the ancient bonfire concealed by the snow. I walked on, puffs of my breath escaping like smoke from a chimney.
Out of the leaden sky, a snowflake fell. It was rapidly followed by others – like feathery angels descending from the sky.
Opening my mouth, I hoped to catch one of the elusive flakes. Finally, one landed on my tongue. It was cold, piercing me as I melted its crystalline heart with my warmth. Reaching out, I tried to capture more, but all I could feel was the comfort of my velvet gloves.
As the snow fell, the pine retreated, shy and timid beneath the snow.
My fingerprints disappeared behind me, the snowflakes erasing my presence. Then the angels winked goodbye, returning to their own world.
Camilla G
Annabel H
Mr Coco Chanel
(inspired by Carol Ann Duffy)
In my death, the debt he had me pay, Haunts me not the sickness of family with dispart
To love Marianne, cherish mon dame liberte
Was worth to me a ton 80 dart
For to mon coer I had to obey
A designer’s dream
Left behind clothes in a pile
In their attempt to erase you
And put you on trial
Your sly innocence let you get away, And continue your success
Until that day
When your fame amidst
Gave to you the sweet comfort of death
And you died at the Ritz.
Celia F
Florence M
Mr Lux Lisbon
No one ever knew you, not truly, No one got the privilege.
The still point of my turning world, The object of all desires.
Hidden like buried treasure, Ocean eyes shrouded, always Protected from the world.
Belonging only to her parents in body, Yet a troubled a restless soul.
How was I to know?
How was I to guess?
That one day I would have to miss The kiss of your scarlet lips.
Once filled with a whisper of rebellion, Now bruised a shade of green and blue.
A pulse lost in the folds of time, A testament to the beating life gave you.
Lois J
Backstage at Brief Encounter
In the Michaelmas term, we were lucky to be a part of the exemplary production of ‘Brief Encounter’, courtesy of David Kenworthy and Michael Butterfield. This edition of Piccalilli brings the insider scoop from beyond the wings, allowing you, readers, to get a taste of what things are like backstage.
During the week of performances, our evenings only began once we checked in with stage manager Beverly Ward. Her favourite moments were, understandably, the sketching rehearsals, watching the cast bring the story to life. She reflected on getting to know likeminded individuals across the school, being able to converse with people that may never have crossed paths before. Leading up to performance week, Beverly found that watching everyone’s hard work come to life was truly magical. It was truly a pleasure to work with Beverly, an invaluable piece of the Brief Encounter puzzle.
After cheerful greetings and lots of fiddling with Bluetooth speakers, we made haste with costumes, makeup and hair, ensuring that we looked our best for the stage. The cast warm-ups continue to be a specialty, ranging from comedic
enunciation and expression exercises, to singing and dancing to “Can’t Take That Away From Me” at the top of our lungs. Speaking of singing, we tried our utmost best to work out how exactly we would make Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 2 sound a little less like a crowd of warbling teens, and more like an underscore. Beverly’s ‘beginners’ call set a rush of exhilaration through the cast, primping and pruning before it was time to give the stage our all. Act 1 began with ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy,’ one of the several earworms that the cast were left with. Character entrances involved whispers in Cockney accents and uppity English looks, where every individual cast member had their moment to express their characters’ mannerisms. Every performance of this act came with the nail-biting question: would the chairs and tables end up in the right place?
Luckily, we had Mrs Allott and Mrs Armitage to keep us quiet, as Act 2 was truly a sing-along session for cast members backstage. These moments of fun were quickly interrupted, as a few members of the cast took on the duty of blossomholding. This role was paramount to the success of the scene.
Despite some chaotic experiences during rehearsal, when it came down to it, the ladies of the blossom truly… blossomed. Being on stage to sing “Forget Your Troubles/Get Happy” with Aurelia S, a musical talent, was one of my own highlights. Unbiased as I try and be, I must say this opening scene of the act was breathtaking. Seeing the pictures of the set afterwards filled me with pride. All good things must come to an end, however, as Indra G and I sharply interrupted the scene with sirens, red lights, and our War of the Worlds’ announcements. We reflected on how our sheer panic and desperation became more and more exaggerated with every performance, and how Jamie B, our chief radio announcer, was full of ‘oar-some’ jokes. Continuing the act was truly a task of teamwork when assisting Jasmine P, our leading lady, with her numerous quick changes.
Ending our performances with notes from Mr Kenworthy did leave a few of us with an incurable case of the giggles as we went over ‘blossomgate’, a lack of chair and table, and watched the boys fiddle with their crisp, gelled hair.
Being a part of this production was truly a privilege, as we were supported by a number of talented staff members and visiting staff who
helped us to give the performance of a lifetime. The cast of Brief Encounter leave you with a parting message:
“Look at that beautiful blossom!”
Millie A
Envy is the thing with Ruby Lips
Envy is the thing with ruby lips, Voluptuous and taunting. She waits for the eclipse, So you will hear her calling. She dons a cloak of emerald green And when she hears you cry; Feeds on your dreams and silent screams, And fuels flames of desire.
But envy with her ruby lips Can be a fleeting guest, For those who see beyond her kiss, Will find their hearts at rest.
Indra G
Villanelle
We danced in that amber-lit room today
I took your hand as the music played
You held me so fast and still so gently
Your hand on my shoulder; and now my waist I tried not to look up and watch your face
We danced in that amber-lit room today
They taught you to lead and I to follow
And when you left? My heart carved out, hollow
You held me so fast and still so gently
We went out singing into that grey noon I looked for you again, I felt a loon
We danced in that amber-lit room today
Off into the clouds, you and her waltzing I, wondering if you’d clutch her that closely
When we danced in that amber-lit room today
Why did you hold me so fast, yet still so gently?
Millie A
Finn D
Villanelle
How can I still love you, when all you do is leave?
All the eyes locked on us, but you never catch mine. Feelings exposed, heart on my sleeve.
Though I may not beg and I may not plead, Nor do I ever lift a toe out of line, How can I still love you, when all you do is leave?
But all our encounters, seemingly brief, I’m holding so tightly, you’re checking the time. Feelings exposed, heart on my sleeve.
I caught you staring with such ease, For eyes like that, I’ve waited a lifetime. How can I still love you, when all you do is leave?
As you turn for the door, in two, my soul you cleave, Staring after your shadow, I resign, Feelings exposed, heart on my sleeve.
You’re now tired of my scheme, I am too, we’ve run into overtime. And yet, I still love you, when all you do is leave, Feelings exposed, heart on my sleeve.
Phoebe T
My First Friend
Soft fingers, running Through my curly soft Hair.
The sound of the sea, Putting my restless mind to sleep.
At school I wanted to stay, Until missing the Sound of your voice, Became all consuming, I held Onto your hug, One more second You are mine to Keep.
From the days of Tantrums, The days of hugs
The days where sometimes It was all too much I knew you Would be there.
On the car rides
Home, they were only short Still I complained
At the lack of snacks to spare. My wall, The flower patterns Turn to dusky pink to egg-shell, plastered with Posters,
That my brother said were ‘cool’ She says I’m changing, She misses the old me She says.
I miss the walks along The beach
Mint choc-chip in One hand Hers in the other. She was my first friend.
Phoebe T
Playing Yelena
To be Nikolayevna or not to be Nikolayevna; that was our question. Indra and I had a lovely discussion, surrounding her part as Yelena in the recent production of Children of the Sun, expertly directed by Jane Darby.
Indra described her character as a feminist, despite her traditional role of housewifery. She said, “She’s got such a huge heart… she looks after Lisa, she runs the house, she has a lot on her plate while her house is a bunch of sacks and crates that her husband has ordered. It’s not a home anymore. Her sister-in-law is going insane, her husband doesn’t know she exists, and still she manages to hold it all together until the very end.” She references the monologue that she performed in the last act of the play, “Sense? Are you an idiot?” and explains that she gave her all in that moment, as it “is the buildup of everything she has had to deal with, and the final straw is when her husband still doesn’t understand that his sister has gone out to an angry mob and is going to die, because the love of her life is gone. Yelena says ‘You sacrificed us, Pavel!’” I truly felt the impact of this monologue when watching the play myself, as it evoked a highly emotive response from me and other members of the cast. Indra herself described how when she went off after her performance, she truly felt the indignation and shock of her character, as “it felt so real. In Act 4, there’s so much running, it’s hot, and there’s this buildup of emotion, and it feels so real. You feel like the world is ending, it really puts you in that mindset. Act 4 was my favourite, but it was also the most exerting.”
I asked Indra what her favourite scene was, to which she responded, “It is the one, I’ve loved it ever since we first rehearsed it, with Vagin (played by Arthur K), and it’s when he confesses
his love to Yelena, and accuses her of using him. He calls her an ‘evil, scheming, powerful witch’, and it’s my favourite because it encapsulates a very common female experience, where the lines between friendship and romance are blurred. In my mind, Yelena genuinely loves Pavel. I don’t think she would have left him if the circumstances were different. She loves passionate people – Vagin is passionate, but Pavel (played by Jasmine P) is more passionate, about his science, which is his fatal flaw. I also loved the final scene, but this one was my favourite. It’s not as intense, but it’s still very prominent. I really enjoyed that scene.”
Indra joined the College in the Remove, and so I asked her what she would tell her Remove self. She said, “I would tell my Remove self that I get to be in some really cool, professional productions.” She referenced the Whole School Production in 2023, ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ and told me that it “was really special [to her] because it was the first actual good play I had ever been in. I’d tell her that one day you get to be on that stage in beautiful costumes, and you’re going to learn so much, and you’re going to make like-minded friends. You’re going to be so happy.” Indra has found her Lower Sixth year to be one to remember. She said, “I have learnt so much from Children of the Sun. It was very different, in the sense that it didn’t feel like someone directing a play, it felt like training – getting to refine my skills, which I really appreciated. It was very rewarding.” It was at this point in the interview that we came across Alexis A, who played Nazar, a crooked landlord, in the production. I asked her how she felt about being a part of Children of the Sun, and she said, “It was a really fun process, and very satisfying to be a part of.”
High praise is due to the cast of Children of the Sun, as they put in an exemplary amount of effort to convey a profound and highly emotive story. As a viewer, I felt as though the production was truly heart-wrenching. We brought the interview to a close, discussing how
proud we are of every individual who worked to make Children of the Sun what it was. The level of commitment that the actors and the staff brought to every rehearsal was astounding to see, and speaks volumes about the successes of Marlborough’s drama department.
Millie A
The fluttering of a butterfly
A wisp of a thread that twines through the future, My actions are a growing vine through a tree. If I could see what I cause And cause what I see,
When my life results in the change of another, The wither of a friend, The bloom of a lover, the questions of a child and the laugh of another.
Like a scream that rings forever, But its echoes alter each time. How do I know the impacts of my choices. Do I care for the aftermath of my life?
The pressing of a button Could match a dream pair. But if it hurts instead Should we care?
The fluttering of a butterfly, Could cause great storms. My words alone, Could change it all.
Sophia O
Ella Warner Write up
From under your thumb displayed a series of work from an old Marlburian, Ella Warner. Warners first ever solo exhibition consisted of 17 oil paintings transforming the Mount house gallery with vivid and striking colours. Symbols and allegories were exhibited within her work through the use of surrealistic creatures which allowed one’s imagination to run free. Warner’s use of fluid forms and her interplay with bold colours amplified the emotional depth to the viewer. It was an inspiring and encouraging event to see the works of an old Marlburian.
Her compositions reinforce the relationship between chaos and harmony due her incorporation of layering, texture and dynamic shapes which allows the viewer to be engaged with both visual and conceptual aspects of the art. This is especially seen in her work called ‘Its all a matter of’ which was painted in 2023. This domed shaped oil painting consisted of an allegorical figure and was by far the most intriguing and playful due to the canvas covered in red fur and having an interactive side to it.
The event was carefully curated with the help of the Mount house gallery which benefits the art department greatly. Ella Warner’s most recent works consist of abstract figurations in contrast to her usual figures. However, within her paintings from 2023, she uses body language and expressions within her paintings which voices an internal dialogue.
My favourite painting was ‘Hey Siri, Play the Complete Works of Hannah Montana’ due to Warner’s use of colour and composition which allowed the beauty to be revealed through an allegorical figure. Warners contemporary way of painting shows the transition and change within our modern and exciting art world. Her intriguing style allowed the audience to question their imagination and thoughts.
Honor N
Villanelle
I lost my friend today I lost him in the woods, He ran so far away.
I tried to find him during day, But darkness splayed itself around. I lost my friend today.
I lit my light upon a tray But light alone could not guide, since He ran so far away.
I really hope he’s not in pain
As my eyes close slowly: I lost my friend today.
The police come in to my dismay, And send their dogs to the garden. But He ran ‘so far away’!
They dig until they find the grave, And grab me by the arms and legs.
I ‘lost’ my friend today,
He ‘ran so far away’.
Paddy C
Duffy inspired poem
Flickering flame in hand
She wanders down the corridor
As I wondered how to make her mine
Plenty others rot away beside me
Tending to them, she seems so far away
Now I feel sickly, green eyed and red cheeked Furrowed brows, I wait until she comes to me.
Days seem shorter, my last days must be with her. My illness grows from the root of my heart
Driving my body to its deathbed
Where I am to be permanently without her.
She is next to my bed
Her presence washes over me
As I flicker my eyes open
She burns a magnesium white
Music hums, the world seems perfect Ethereal, her wings soar over me one more time. Where is she going? Back where?
I suddenly feel better.
Jasmine P
Merchant of Venice Review
The moving production of The Merchant of Venice transported Shakespeare’s classic to the East End of London in 1936, adding historical impact to the play’s elements of prejudice, justice, and revenge. The production’s most captivating decision was the switching of Shylock as a female character, a move that introduced new dimensions to the character’s struggles and deepened the play’s exploration of discrimination.
Setting the play in 1936, a time of rising fascism in Britain, was a powerful and direct choice. The backdrop of the East End, where tensions between the Jewish community and the British Community were intensifying, gave Shylock’s circumstances even greater resonance. The setting was created through a thoughtful use of props and set design. The London scenes were gritty and expressive, with narrow alleyways, posters advocating for and against Oswald Mosley’s Blackshirts, and a certain sense of unrest. In contrast, Belmont was portrayed as an ocean of wealth and privilege. This simple distinction elevated the play’s conflicts—between justice and mercy, wealth and desperation, power and powerlessness. The reimagined Shylock, played with remarkable intensity, was a widow trying to protect her daughter and her place in the hostile world. The decision to make Shylock female added the effect of layers to the character’s vulnerability and strength. Her interactions with Antonio and the Venetian felt even more charged, as gendered power dynamics complicated the religious and economic prejudices she faced. Portia was played wonderfully, with both charm and determination. The famous “quality of mercy” speech took on a new light, as Portia’s role in Shylock’s downfall was interconnecting with the wider societal oppression of Jews.
The play’s opening, showing the Jewish perspective of the Sabbath, was a deeply moving moment that established a sense of community and tradition. It allowed the audience to empathize with Shylock before she even spoke, grounding her resultant actions in a context of love and faith rather than greed. This uplifting action made her famous “Hath not a Jew eyes?” speech even more powerful. Delivered with a controlled fury that built to a heartbroken escalation, it was not just a plea for recognition but a call to resistance.
The trial scene was the production’s focal point, staged with electrifying tension. Shylock’s desperation was almost unbearable to watch as she realized that the system was not biased but designed to destroy her completely. The moment when she was drained of her wealth and forced to convert felt like a brutal assault on her identity. The most impactful
moment of the production was its conclusion. Instead of ending with the traditional comedic resolution, the play transformed into a reenactment of the Battle of Cable Street, where Jewish and working-class Londoners came together to block the fascists' march. Shylock, now transformed into a symbol of resilience, stepped forward and delivered a final, passionate address to the audience about the necessity of standing
together against prejudice and racism. This production of The Merchant of Venice was a triumph, not just as a reinterpretation of Shakespeare’s context, but as a reminder of the ongoing fight against injustice.
Leila A
A Moment of Stillness
Winner of the Remove Writing Competition
A monotonous beep rang through the air from the machine in the corner. A steel bedframe with a flattened mattress stood isolated in the middle of the room, like an island in the middle of the sea. A sharp, clinical smell of anti-septic hung in the air, coupled with the metallic taste of a hospital room. The wall was bare and untouched besides the peeling paint, a putrid yellow that seemed to be dripping from the walls. A sad armchair sat awkwardly in the corner, providing no comfort to a room filled with worry. Next to it a small, trickling beam of light was managing to climb through the small window.
The golden rays of sun outside contrasted with the bright, artificial light of the room. Out in the open the trees stood firmly, towering over the swaying grass
as the wind danced amongst them. Flowers and their brightlycoloured petals faced the sun like soldiers with their general, as the bees floated between them. The hospital looked onto an open field, a gaping expanse of carefree activity with not a car in sight. The animals were free to roam, taunting the patients bound to their beds with the chains of illness. A rabbit scurried past the window before looking up curiously, as if wondering how such an area of hope and amusement could be next to such a concrete shell of loss.
The doctors and nurses no long whispered agitatedly at one another, for the patient was in surgery and there was nothing to discuss. Untouched papers littered their desks while computers flashed documents
at them, yet they sat unmoving, the stress of the day crashing down upon them. The machines seemed to do the same, as if beeping continuously was just too much for their robotic bodies, for their noise appeared to slow. The IV bag, with nothing to support, fell limp, lifeless, yet continued to drip. Drip, drip, drip. Along with the beeping it was enough to send anyone insane, but as the room was so lifeless, the people were too.
Stillness is hard to come by in a hospital and never lasts long. An announcement at the nurses desk caused them to spring into action, a call button pressed caused another flurry of movement and a machine started furiously flashing. Beds began to be moved, aching and groaning as they were pulled along the corridor, like their worn steel
arms could no longer support weight. Shouts sent some one running across the floor and the dings of the elevator grew more continuous by the second. Looking back at the window and the rabbit had gone, and stillness was no longer.
Eloise J
An item of importance
Runner-up in the Remove Writing Competition
I stand. Back pin-straight, shoulders squared, jaw clenched. But I feel my smile crack at the edges; I feel the way my eyes dart back and forth, the unmistakable crease in my brow.
My hand clenches around the rough, worn handle of my violin case. I swallow down the urge to wince at the idea of how awful my poor instrument must look - with a sheen of dust laced around the splintered edges, strings loose and set at a rather funny pitch, the high-backed stubborn hilts of my pegs untouched in what feels like eternity.
The silence stretches, taut and unforgiving, pressing against my ears, my back, my head. I register with dawning horror that my legs have begun to tremble. The smile on my lips twists, no longer a smile at all.
I can feel eyes boring into me – eyes that flash a brilliant, piercing blue. Her hair is set in a low ponytail today, blonde strands catching the light of the midday sun and making her look somehow ethereal, an angel sent to damn my poor soul into oblivion. Her jaw is set, face all jagged edges and sharp cheekbones that serve a stark contrast against the silky linen of her pale blouse. There is not a strand of hair out of place, not a single crease in her shirt–she is the spitting image of perfection itself as she sits on her straight-backed chair as if it were a throne. I resist the urge to grovel beneath her feet, or preferably, hurl myself out the room.
Her desk is bare; no splashes of colour. It is as if life has sucked the happiness out the dull, crudely painted windows, leaving nothing but shades of grey, the occasional dark brown filling in the darkened gaps. Even the books, stacked atop one another in neat, regular piles offer no warmth - just the rusty white of the crinkled pages that are filled in completely with notes upon notes in dark blue ink. The letters are barbed, ruthless - they growl at me, teeth bared.
There are shelves, of course – piles of music, stacked in precise, flawless columns. They seem untouched, their spines stiff, their pages ghostly pale. Notes swim before my eyes, frightening string crossings, terrifying key signatures, the occasional chord with a concerning number of sharps and flats.
But there are no decorations - none at all. It is all too empty and yet... the room feels suffocating.
A scent coils in the air. Pine. Fresh, biting, circling me like a predator waiting for the kill. And beneath it - the unmistakable tang of rosin, clinging to the walls, the floor, my skin. I can feel it grabbing at the tip of my tongue. The taste lingers, and it’s sharp, sickly sweet - tiny fingers prodding and probing at the back of my throat.
My breath catches. My grip tightens.
And still her eyes do not waver.
Kate L
The room is sparse.
Chomp
Highly Commended in the Remove Writing Competition
A glaring red word-Nissin-was imprinted on the side of the cup as if seared with a sizzling hot iron. The base of the cup gleamed like heated metal licked by flames. Wisps of white steam rose above the equally red rim, curling into themselves before dissipating in the blink of an eye, like a timid maiden retreating from view. The entire cup displayed a simple yet vivid palette of just two colours: red and greya striking contrast that balanced passion and neutrality.
The fork twirled around the creamy white strands; my other hand gradually poured the brown sauce into the cup. The deep hue slowly infiltrated the white, spreading like splattered coffee stain on a T-shirt. Waves of brown and white clashed and mingled yet remained distinct and separate. Then the colours intertwined and merged like a flock of doves playfully teasing each other beneath a cloud-covered sky.
The noodles sloshed and splashed in coordination with the whisking of the fork, twisting and curling, entwining like vines climbing a fence. Within the circular container formed by a high grey wall, they performed a passionate waltz-feet tangling, breaths quickening, the footwork growing faster and faster. Each strand wrapped around and overlapped the others, reluctant to part from its kind. They stretched and clung, refusing to let go, before finally surrendering and unfolding a beautiful blend of maple brown noodle.
The aroma wafted toward my nose, tickling and teasing my growing appetite. The smoky smell lingered around me like a bewitching spell
that can coax even the most faithful of men to betray his love; my mouth began to water in response to its provocation.
I lifted my fork. Brown strands coiled around its metallic neck, slipping in and out of the slots, wrapping around its four tines like the passionate embrace of a clingy lover. Its metallic lustre was now veiled in a creamy layer of sauce, yet it still reflected an alluring glint. Amidst the sea of brown, tiny flecks of green and red speckled the surface like dazzling decorations on a Victorian ball gown, a glaring spark that set my imagination ablaze.
Without even taking a bite, I felt my tongue tingle and itch. I could already picture my teeth crushing these elastic noodles as they bounced around in my mouth like frenzied dancers at a wild party. My tongue would curl around them, licking off the layer of sauce, flooding my taste buds with a blend of sweetness, saltiness, and spice. The mere thought made me salivate; my eyes turned green with greed.
I cupped my other hand around the base of the container. Its smooth surface radiated a gentle heat, warming the pads of my fingers.
The warmth seeped into my skin, spreading through my body until it reached my grumbling stomach. My muscles, tense with anticipation, steadily loosened as if I were sinking into a steaming hot spring.
Chomp!
The Strawberry Thief
The paradise garden is a wild explosion of colours and details. Deep red ripe strawberries pop against dark green leaves. Tiny berries, their wings spread like little, fluttering pieces of the rainbow. Flowers- pinks, yellows and white – twist and curl around everything almost as if they’re trying to grab the birds or the berries.
The whole pattern feels alive, like it’s moving.
The dark brown background makes everything stand out; the colours glaring like they’re under a bright light. It’s a world trapped in time, a snapshot of nature at its most colourful and busy. Everything in this design feels magical. I’m sure it’s a dream. I’m certain it’s a dream.
Hector C
The Strawberry Thief
The pattern was a paradise of dark twisted vines, a deep olive green, climbing up the trees burnt brown body, squeezing it tighter and tighter. The soft sound of the bird’s chorus grew louder as they relentlessly snatched the scarlet strawberries of the plant. The thrushes’ brown feathers almost turned gold as they caught the light of the rising sun. Blossom seemed to erupt from the knotted limbs of trees, where the sparrows perched and chirped, gazing longingly at the plump strawberry plant. Peach coloured flowers blew softly in the wind, contrasting the deep, Prussian blue of the early morning sky. The air was heavy with the scent of the ripening fruit. Strawberries, plump and crimson appeared to glisten as the fat and dewy fruits beckoned the beaks of the birds, their eyes glistening as they saw their prize, the most special prize of all, The strawberries. A promise of a future summer’s warmth.
Serena I
A Woman’s Way
I walk down the powder-pink street, my kitten heeled mules meet with my heel every half step. Women stride past me, greeting me every time in the same way:
‘Good morning! Today is a new day! A Woman’s way.’
Hundreds or even thousands of voices affirm the jarring words. I hear them echoing. A Woman’s way.
Neat buildings stand tall, proud and terrified next to the Women sashaying through the streets.
To my left, the INCOME BOARD acts as a beacon, forcing its glare into the numb women who bow down to it, begging to one day make the omnipotent list.
‘Bambi Lovington’ shone the name at number one. Most mannslaughter.
Down marble stairs, my mules echoing my strides, the wall of venomous underground air began to seep its way into my lungs. Women in suits align themselves on the allocated section of the platform. Leather briefcases, coffee, Current Women Affairs – the obligatory scripture. My eyes were becoming desensitised to the cerise tube and the endless women.
On the far left of the platform, mann run fingers through their hair, read WOMEN WEEKLY, and shift nervously.
mann is not allowed to look at us.
One tries to but I turn away.
A blur of cerise sprints past me as a glittering tube bolts into the station. At the front, what was once a blue carriage comes a stop. Some Women remember when it was bright blue. Or when there wasn’t a blue carriage. I don’t.
mann pile into the carriage, packed like soldiers, standing. Women saunter on, select their luxurious seats, and engage in debates about recent developments in methods of mannslaughter. I’d seen it on the hologram, but I haven’t ever been present.
I stare at the propaganda poster that seduces my eyes. It shows a Woman’s patent high heel resting upon a mann. The words above read: ‘Keep mann where mann belongs.’
Unfeeling, my eyes skate past it. On either side of me, Women spread out their legs, sip their vital formula and read.
Bo G
Narcissism is the thing with feathers
Narcissism is the thing with feathers
And everyone must see: I fly higher than the rest
No one here is better than me.
The wind must obey me always. I am the centre of your world. I don’t care for your smaller wings When my own ones stand unfurled.
My applause is not yours to deserve: I’m more successful in it all.
I chirp at the sight of a mirror And, of course, when I see you crawl.
I collect, remorseless, your shiny things, Bring them to my nest and make them mine.
Look me in the eyes when I squawk, I deafen you with malice divine.
Me, myself and I bathe in your attention, Spreading our achievements with song. No matter what anyone else says, I am here to stay; I belong.
Jasmine P
The Olympics’ Opening Ceremony
Over the course of the Summer Holidays, we saw the Paris Olympics and Paralympics take place. In just over two months we watched professional athletes excelling in their sports, be that on the track or in the field. To mark the beginning of this esteemed event, there was an extravagant opening ceremony, as always. This involved the ‘Drag Dinner,’ where a group of drag queens from across the world came together to show off their art, and they displayed themselves in a fashion that depicted the Feast of Dionysus. However, this was misconstrued by the public, and both the Olympics and the drag queens involved faced heavy criticism. Many reports of
the ceremony referred to the dinner as depicting the Last Supper, a Biblical event, which perpetuated the disinformation and encouraged hateful messages towards the performers.
In addition, French popstar Aya Nakamura performed a mashup of her own music and a cover of a popular French ballad titled ‘Formidable’ by Charles Aznavour. In the cover portion of the song, she sang the words:
‘Je ferais mieux d’aller choisir mon vocabulaire
Dans la langue de Molière’
These words were specifically significant to viewers and listeners around the world, as they translate to: “I would do better to choose my vocabulary - to please you – in the language of Molière.” The phrase, ‘language of Molière’ is a frequently used synonym for the French language, and this added a subtle message to Nakamura’s performance that many commended her for. Aya Nakamura has faced backlash in her career countless times due to her race, with people describing her as ‘vulgar’. Therefore, her being given the chance to perform at the opening ceremony was looked down upon by members of the French public. Performing her medley showed the world that the success of her career should not be based on her race, and that she will still continue
to thrive despite the adversity she faces.
The ceremony, intended to be a celebration of inclusivity and diversity, spiralled into flurries of distasteful posts and messages online, which was disappointing to see. However, it served as a reminder that there is still work to be done in terms of progression and acceptance, in spite of the impressive amount of change we have seen in recent years. In combination with the rioting that took place across the UK over the summer, it feels right to draw attention to these events and to be mindful of the significance they hold. It begs many questions – how do we move forward in a productive and understanding way? What discussions should we be having to ensure that such a highly anticipated event doesn’t end in hate and division?
Millie A
Pour te plaire
Icarus
When Icarus flew too close to the sun, no one was expecting it. His ambition never perceived as a flaw but a trait to be admired. What if I flew too high? To where the sky is brightly lit. I don’t think such reckless behaviour would cause others to be inspired.
I like to live life on the edge.
People would not be surprised if I tried to fly. They would say I’ve always wobbled on the edge. My eyes always drifting to the sky.
I would fly to the sun just to say I had tried. Not caused by aspiration or a wish for freedom,
To be unbound in a way worthy of the words ‘I cried’
The world below me: my kingdom.
Stupidity in the form of boldness that allowed no doubt. Like his wings it led me into the air until the fuel ran out.
Icarus flew due to his ambition, a driving force of his life. Desire is not known to me as a tool to use.
I see ambition as a weapon deadly like a knife. Not a gift, just something to excuse.
If ambition showed our power I would be on the ground While others hovered in the air.
My hope makes little sound, Quietly screaming ‘it’s not fair!’
I have never strived for honour, only settled for mediocrity. No, I do not strive. I wander. Allowing myself frivolities.
Stop to pick flowers and look at the sky, Take detours, change my path, and wonder what it’d be like to fly.
Cosima J
A leader to lead
Behind their false forever smiles, Lie gluttonous, pampered thoughts. From the elite nest of society, They are frauds bread from frauds.
An ocean of starving, a sea of poor, But their stately ship glides through. The desperate grovel and beg in hopes of being seen, But they remain unmoved.
Now give to the famished and the indigent, But those pregnant with power want more. The country is but their hobby, And less than that are the seething hoard.
Let the exalted palace, Where the idle power dwells, Crumble stone by stone.
Rebuild it, let the powerplant restore. This time saturate it with those that feel and know.
Sophia O
Raft of the Medusa
Furious bundles of clouds rumbled towards our frail ship mercilessly, striking down bolts of white-hot lightning in their wake. Waves towered above us, crashing down on the deck and slowly tearing the skeleton of the ship apart. The mast leaned precariously to the left, then clumsily fell to the right when a particularly strong gust of wind whipped through us. Creaking. Croaking. Everything was falling apart. The sail fell, knocking chunks of wood down that flew into my friends right before my eyes. The pale, lifeless bodies of soldiers, who’s hearts had been beating mere minutes ago, were scattered and bent in unnatural positions falling off the boat.
Screams of help sounded like whispers under the racket of ceaseless waves and merciless thunder, and I started to come around to the fact that it would not be possible to survive this. I watched the pure panic, the dare to hope in my friends, as they scrambled on top of each other trying to shout and wave bright pieces of cloth. It was hopeless, of course. No one would ever hear us, let alone see us. The waves were too tall, the storm was deafening and the realisation that surviving was impossible was creeping slowly into everyone else’s minds. I looked into the far distance. There was a gap in the clouds, and a stream of light flowing from the calm above. I looked away for a moment, and suddenly it was gone. Swallowed by the swirling, grey clouds. My stomach unexpectedly churned at the thought that our sliver of hope was gone, and we were truly surrounded by impending death.
Berry P
Villanelle
Today I lost my love for poetry.
A tender spark snuffed out in me.
Obligatory obligatory restrictions and rules
Too much brain power and a bucket of tools
Today I lost my love for poetry.
I found a love for something more:
Not ink on a page read during downpour
Something real, something raw, no rules, no law.
Today I lost my love for poetry.
No ‘If music be the food of love, play on’
The words are not written but reborn
It weaves its way in and suddenly I am drawn...
Today I lost my love for poetry.
A fleeting glance, a shallow embrace
We worked for hours - and second place?
Hot tears stream down my pale face
Today I lost my love for music.
Held captive in that room. No choice. Only gloom
Faster, again, Debussy: Clair De Lune
Today I lost my love for music.
Bo G
Marina M
Smooth
Inspired by the L6 Experience
Life’s been a bit like peanut butter lately. Smooth, satisfying, enjoyable.
I like to spread a bit on toast in the morning, The orange juice (no bits!) gets to pouring, Sometimes the days get busy, but I’m feeling great!
Although, my mate – he’s got three younger siblings
Says he’s felt a bit rough, like a Digestive biscuit.
School, he finds, is overwhelming
Instead of butter on his toast, he spread some Hellman’s The mayonnaise was unexpected, After all, his life sounds rather hectic
His mate says she’s in over her head, She’d rather pop down the road to Greggs
Every morning’s a different meal
I can’t imagine how it feels – or maybe I can, Challenging, difficult, intense
It’s our first year with A-Levels
My courses have been decent
The teachers are trying to make lessons more fun
Delivering ‘eye-opening’ think pieces
The work’s getting intimidating
Prep feels like I’m gonna be bed-flipped
Suddenly, I feel more free
Now that I have a stud period three
This change is even more positive
The leeway is surprising
We’re going down to the pub at 6
To fresh faces and new horizons!
Millie A
Millie A
A New Political Landscape
Interviews conducted by Honor F and Eliza J
This September we conducted short interviews about the new Labour government with people from all levels of the school ranging from teachers to new shell students. In summary, the interviewees had mixed opinions on Keir Starmer, with some praising him for attempting change, whilst others criticized his policies and use of social media to propagate. There is concern over the impact of rising costs and social media manipulation.
Here is an amalgamation of our most common answers to our questions.
1. Who came into office this summer?
Sadly one sixth form student could not answer, but luckily the rest of the student body answered with Sir Keir Starmer.
2. What are your opinions on the new government? Do you care, is it interesting to you?
Most people agreed that it was too early to pass solid judgement on the government. The most common complaint arose due to VAT fees and pension cuts. It was determined that he handled riots in summer successfully, and the majority of people agreed that the new government was interesting due to the fact that they controlled the country they live in. One shell student said advantageously the new government was better than their predecessors such as the Tories and Corbyn.
3. Has the new government affected you positively or negatively?
A sixth form student said as the offspring of a single mother the VAT taxes were unfair, another stated that they only made elite schools more elite having the opposite effect to what they aimed to change. Most agreed that within their
day to day life there had been no serious change, one teacher said that so far it seemed they were reliant on blaming the past government.
4. What do you make of all political parties using social media to reach younger generations?
This was met with mixed opinions from everyone, on the whole it appears that when used correctly this is an important and transformative tool. It allows young people to access information about the government that they might not see otherwise, and is a creative and influential part of modern politics. However, many agreed that the recent election showed spiteful and childish behaviour from political parties social media accounts. People said that social media gives a platform for fake news and allows it to spread at an increasing pace. Another disadvantage of social media was that it meant that Politicians focused on following the correct trends and not releasing and manifesting realistic, factual agendas.
To summarize, we ask ourselves where the largest difference in opinion occurred, between male and female, student and teacher or younger and older students. After reviewing the results of the interviews we decided that the range was completely varied and didn’t seem to be affected by any of these factors. A large number of the most insightful and intelligent answers came from a shell student. However, the teachers on the whole provided more eloquent and mixed judgements of the new government. We felt that conducting this project would be an interesting study into how much politics affects the day to day lives of pupils at Marlborough. After asking these questions we can conclude that most of the student body is aware of the shifting politics within England and take an active part in considering how effectively the country is being governed.
The thing with leaves
Greed is the thing with leaves, That grows in my garden, And entraps the soil, And warps the wind
That encapsulates the sun, And exhales shadow, And envious is the grass, That is teased with trickles of light
That scrapes the sky, And collects the clouds, And taunting me through my window, It grows bigger in my garden
Orla E
Clover T
Editors:
Arts Editors: Team:
With the guidance and support of Dr Justice and Mrs Gouldbourne
Front cover image by Dora W
Cosima J Honor N E liza J
M illie A
Phoebe T Honor F
The Piccalilli Team: