Synthetic Violet Michaelmas 2024 - actual final

‘Spooky’ theme of issue

Interview with Dr Jayatilaka – p24

Our first piece of travel writing – p54

A Christmas Carol in Recipes – p61

Michaelmas 2024 Issue Synthetic Violet

Cover art by Yu

Editor’s Notes

“I am writing because they told me never to start a sentence with because. But I wasn’t trying to make a sentence I was trying to break free. Because freedom, I am told, is nothing but the distance between the hunter and its prey” – On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous, Ocean Vuong

Of anything, it is beginning, that I find most difficult. Of anything, it is beginning, that I find most exciting. Of anything, it is beginning, that I find, gets you somewhere.

For me, this term has been characterized by one word, chaos. A new academic year is bound to be like that, I suspected, but I did not expect the feeling to follow me right up to now. One of the unfortunate side effects of this chaos then, was that I have not read since September. On the occasional spare moment, I’ve managed to dip a little into the world of Murakami’s 1Q84, my recent endeavour, but as I’ve found reading any book exceeding 500 pages, progress has been slow. As much as it saddened me, I did not think much of my lack of literary consumption. “It’ll be more useful to spend the bus ride home learning my 1000-word Greek vocab list, right? I’ll get back to reading soon. I’m a reader”. It was only when I was sitting in my English Language mock exam, attempting to write my first story in months; the first story that I would have then read in months, that I realised I had come to understand the true meaning of chaos.

In Ancient Greek, χᾰ́ος: an abyss, that which gapes wide open, that which is vast and empty; infinite darkness.

Luckily for me, – I was not completely lost, the exam went well, but I could feel it inside me: the gaping hole of story, language, and ultimately beauty. What I had not realised was that by not reading, I had lost a part of myself, a part of myself which desired connection and lyrical storytelling; a part of myself that enabled me to break free. The part that suffused my brain with different colours and voices and planes. To fill that well then, was only possible through media consumption and practised creativity. In other words, I knew I had to read again.

Yet now, knowing that I must read and consume, I am scared. The ever-growing pile of books that I have begun but not finished haunts me by my bedside, and trawling through my bookshelves, I cannot find what I’m looking for. Though, I’ve not taken a single book out of the school library this year, and they have (almost) everything; I can definitely find what I’m looking for. It is just that I am too afraid to begin. I believe that I must finish everything I start, that things must be completed in an orderly manner. But since when was the human race orderly? Since when is that what I should be? The only answer really, is to just try, and see what happens

So, of anything, I dare you to begin. Whether that’s to read, to write, to draw or to create, or whether it’s something else; to ask something scary, to do something that exists only in your dreams. I dare you.

Here, we have begun. This issue of Synthetic Violet looks a little different from past editions; genre types are no longer grouped together for a hopefully rounder reading experience, there’s an INBOX with anonymous quick ideas (page 14), there’s an in-depth interview with Dr J (page 24); things have changed because we dared to begin. We can never predict what may land in our inbox, but that’s part of the fun; the chaos of all the poems and paintings And perhaps I should take that forward into my reading, into my personal creating; things only happen if you start.

But this is not all down to this editing team, no.

I am indebted to all those who came before me, to Nick, to Qu, to Hyaline, to Carole. What I present to you now as the Michaelmas 2024 edition would not be here without their hard work and dedication, their ingenuity before us. It is an honour to continue this legacy and to continue publishing the work of Perse students, and to make my own mark on this.

No matter how the look of Synthetic Violet changes, no matter what fonts we choose to use, what order we decide to publish works in, I want to hold close Synthetic Violet’s roots. It began as a compilation of poetry, fuelled by the belief that “anyone who has experience of anything can write meaningful verse”. When violet was expensive, rare and unattainable to most, synthetic violet industrially manufactured gave many access to its joys, and “indeed this should reflect people’s access to poetry”, and thus to art, to stories, real and of the imagination. All we strive to do is to make art accessible to all, and to give a platform for all to express themselves. We hope to never lose sight of that.

Chaos: the unordered state of matter in classical accounts of cosmogony; the primordial state of existence.

We are all born from chaos, it is inevitable that we may descend into it a little at times – won't you begin with me?

Alice Shaw, ed.

Kherlen Ho

Note on the Theme of Issue

“The impossible cannot have happened, therefore the impossible must be possible in spite of appearances.”

-Hercule Poirot, Murder on the Orient Express

In 1934, Agatha Christie published Murder on the Orient Express, one of the greatest mystery novels of all time. While returning to London on the famous Orient Express, Hercule Poirot is stopped by a murder and a snowdrift. Starring one of Christie’s best casts of characters, the story has been adapted countless times for the stage, radio and film.

In honour of its 90-year anniversary, the theme of this term’s issue is ‘Spooky’, and there are some terrifying works - from poetry to puzzles - and lots more!

Congratulations to Jacqueline Danesh for winning the writing category this term for her poem, ‘Silent Assassin’, featured on the next page, and to Sophie Ulrich for winning the art category with her drawing, as seen on the back cover.

Silent assassin

Escape from my steel case

Stretching, slicing, sailing, slithering.

Beckoning with my fingers, a grin upon my face.

A dusky cloak, a tawny shroud

Twist and turn down throats, slinking into lungs, Shimmering through the war cloud.

Torch and blister everything in my grasp

Sulphur scent, garlic tang, Make them choke, make them gasp.

Call me evil sprite, Yperite, Chemical dynamite.

Jacqueline Danesh

The Death of Count Bonchester

Prologue

With the eerie silence of midnight now present, Count Bonchester wandered solo through his mansion grounds. The full moon shone as brightly as a lamplight. From a distance, the unmistakable lone howl of a wolf echoed through the clear, cloudless night sky: a howl of morning and sadness, as if someone, or a loved member of its pack had tragically passed away.

He paused, and as Count Bonchester inhaled a sharp intake of fresh air, at the very same moment, his heart too skipped a beat. Count Bonchester peered nervously towards the foreboding shadows of the forest, which was located opposite Bonchester Mansion.

Count Bonchester was a fat, portly man, who had dark brown, perfectly combed hair and electric blue eyes that pierced through your heart like ice if he stared coldly at you. Unlike any other ordinary count, his eyes did not present any signs of warmth and kindness, nor were they filled with emotion.

Count Bonchester’s electric blue eyes only showed coldness and a hard expression with barely any emotion, to summarize the point. He preferred to dress very smartly, as if there was a special occasion every day, even though there was hardly a single event that ocurred often: a blue blazer with black buttons as dark as coal; a collared white shirt with buttons running down the belly, despite them bulging constantly under the immerse weight of his body; navy trousers that appeared to be on the verge of being split – due to the size of his legs – and massive laced black shoes; and a baby blue tie to finish his fashion.

Count Bonchester additionally bore a long brown beard and a pencil-shaped moustache that suggested to a toddler that he was a towering, colossal giant with an ambition to become the world’s most infamous cannibal.

But not so tonight...

He was clothed in his dressing gown, that (as you guessed) was blue. Count Bonchester whimpered with fear as he shivered on the spot. There seemed to be some strange pellicular movement going on in the forest...

WHOOSH!

Count Bonchester jumped on the spot in fright and cold as a gust of wind blew loudly close to him. The wind, in his opinion, was an unwelcoming, nasty surprise, luring him persuasively to flee like a rat back to his warm, cosy four poster bed, in his warm bedroom. He longed to see his attractive wife, his two lively sons, his beautiful newborn daughter, only a month old...

But just as Count Bonchester slowly turned around to trudge back to Bonchester Mansion, a voice, barely more of an audible whisper, spoke:

“Do you think that you can ever return home, Count Bonchester?” it sneered menacingly. Count Bonchester whipped around to see a hooded figure, completely dressed in black, billowing robes. He gripped a wand in his hand. A black, crooked wand as dark as an empty bottomless pit.

“Who... Who... Who are you?” Count Bonchester half-whimpered and half-stammered. “I am Death,” replied the hooded figure, “And you, my dear friend, shall die!” Death brandished out his wand and yelled:

“Exitum!”

Count Bonchester uttered a silent scream, just as the spell hit squarely at his vast chest, stared in horror for a moment at Death; and hit the ground like a ragdoll with a loud deafening thump.

Death laughed maniacally, then pocketed his wand and vanished immediately out of nowhere.

Three hundred miles away, at that very moment, a 12-year-old boy called Nigel woke up with a start.

To be continued...

Ibsan Ibsan

Eugénie Tucker, ‘Hemera’

Angels haven’t fallen from the sky yet

You turned over the timer

The egg went under the water

Simmering

We were in a rowboat

Whispering sweet nothings into each other

Glistening

I was by the pool

The children swimming their lengths

Reminiscing

We were at the supermarket

Holding each other and just about

Breathing

And we looked around and in the corner of my eye there were three grains of blue blue sand left You, me, us

And I realised the angels haven't fallen from the sky yet, that in the grand scheme of things thisis nothing, thisis inconsequential, thiswill blow over by tomorrow

But tomorrow the sand will all have reached the bottom

Someone else will have to turn it over

I never got to wear my new, 60 denier tights

Alice Shaw

Greek Tragedy: What Classical Athens can teach us about failure

In modern society, ‘failure’ has often been seen as a dirty word; we often associate it with underperformance, negligence, accountability, apathy, or plain incompetence. Yet Classical Athens was fascinated by failures; the failure of Oedipus to realise he had killed his own father and married his own mother; the failure of Pentheus to realise that he was being mercilessly being tricked by a god so that his own family would tear him apart; the failure of Jason (he of Golden Fleece fame) and the Corinthian royalty to realise the power that the rejected Medea felt and the extent she would go to in avenging her broken heart.

Such enduring plays as Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannos, and Euripides’ Bacchae and Medea have shaped tragedy as a genre far beyond the realms of classical antiquity. Surely, they are beacons of success in the backdrop of failure? Perhaps, as their enduring legacy bears witness, but in their own time, Medea was part of a trilogy that saw Euripides come third (out of three) at the City Dionysia Festival, Oedipus Tyrannos was in trilogy that left Sophocles second whilst the Bacchae at least won, but only after Euripides had already died. Both playwrights had winners along the way as well, but to fathom these plays not topping the rankings would be equivalent to looking through the discography of the Beatles and finding in a counterfactual world that Sergeant Pepper had been kept off the top of the charts (rather than having 23 consecutive weeks a Number 1 upon release), or finding that Taylor Swift’s eras tour concerts had been booed off stage at Wembley... It simply makes little sense today that these great works of literature

were not appreciated fully by their contemporary audience.

So, why then the seeming failure of the Athenians to recognise greatness in its time? How can we excuse them?

On the one hand there are cultural explanations; some of the voting was highly subjective… the sort one might associate with some of the dubious decisions we see at something like Eurovision; a mix of political voting, nepotism and voting for your mates or their accomplices and ultimately each playwright represented one of the demes of Athens, some of which were held in higher regard than others! So the failure of the Athenians can perhaps be excused against this context.

Returning to content though, these tragedies are complex, challenging and at times difficult to digest; the reason? Failure – the failure of humans to recognise their errors until it is too late; the failure of mortals to realise their acts of hubris against immortals; the failure of individuals to suffer rejection or stay within the (at times draconian) laws that are placed on them.

So, what can we truly learn from these failures? Most importantly that the morality of a society was being examined and re-evaluated in every single one of these plays. Nothing was off-limits; a working knowledge of the history of the period helps contextualise many of the plays; there are anti-war messages; prodemocracy declarations; reflections on recent developments in philosophy and challenges to a status quo that was familiar with a patriarchal xenophobic oligarchy

wrapped up under a veneer of democracy. And that is why it works – a society that is self-aware enough to let playwrights pick open the wounds and ask publicly the burning questions, albeit through some tangential stories, enabled artistic creativity on a scale that endured. The tragedians were duly mocked in their own right by the comedians of the day, but that in its own right is an indirect form of glorification that has served them well.

Today, Athenian democracy will often be touted as a glorious prototype; in reality, it was a total failure. Athenian philosophy and sophistry was the envy of many; but it failed in letting its free-speech protagonist Sophocles be put on trial and condemned The glorious monuments to Athenian glory were constructed with the proceeds of a doomed protection-racket called the Delian League and the expansionist imperial thoughts that allowed Athens to dream of a fledgling empire were the failure that saw it defeated in the

Peloponnesian War, never again to have military status on a level of which it would be proud; earlier victory against Persia would remain its eternal unmatched glory.

What stands Athens out from its peers then? I would suggest we must look at how it embraced failure, responded to failure, and encouraged the world to be more introspective about every individual’s capacity to fail, but to grow from that failure.

My argument is one perspective, and I hope it has prompted you to spend a few minutes taking a little more interest in the world of antiquity; unless we too embrace failure just as they did, we will continue to see failure in an unhealthy light. The permanence and enduring legacy of failure should empower us, not scare us; perhaps now you are ready to let some Greek tragedy inspire you too.

Mr. Richard Morgan

The INBOX

Recommendations and ideas from across the school

His Dark Materials – Phillip Pullman + BBC TV series

Imogen Walker: One of my favourite books is called Better Than The Movies by Lynn Painter. There’s also a sequel and she’s written a couple of other books; I have also read The Do Over and the other one, Betting On You, is on my Christmas list. Lynn Painter never disappoints with an original romcom trope!

The Highway

The world flies by him in the darkness.

The man is about twenty miles above the speed limit, and he knows it. But the highway is empty, silent, utterly dark; and he is in his car, enclosed in a tiny bubble of warmth and light and life. No one else would be out this late at night, on some obscure road in the middle of nowhere. He will be fine.

A shape bursts out of the darkness: a slender figure, so pale she is almost see-through. The man snaps out of his reverie a second too late, jamming his foot on the brakes but knowing he wasn’t fast enough, and he’s going to go to jail, and the poor girl is going to die, and he doesn’t want to see it happen so he shuts his eyes tight and braces himself for that sickening slam –

And it never comes.

The car screeches to a halt, disturbing the peace of the night, and the man tentatively opens an eye. The girl has disappeared. Perhaps she stepped to the side of the road, or ran into the woods on his left. He wonders what anyone would be doing on a little road in the countryside, especially nearing two o’clock in the morning; maybe he will step outside, apologise, point her to the nearest town, try to make amends in what little ways he can.

He opens the door, and is instantly blasted with a wave of cold that is almost painful in strength – strange considering it is late August. The cold gnaws at his shivering bones as he looks around; he is met with complete silence, save an unearthly wailing… it must be the wind, he thinks, trying to ignore the knot of dread twisting in his belly. He scans his surroundings with an irrational, childish fear. It’s absurd - there’s no reason to be frightened: he’s just tired, and cold, and a little crazy from being alone for so long.

Is he alone?

The man notices a small scrap of something white, delicate as gossamer, apparently stuck on a twig or blade of grass. He reaches down to pick it up – and immediately drops it again. A thin sheen of frost has snaked up his arm in the few seconds that he was touching it.

The feeling of dread in his stomach suddenly writhes up into full-blown panic, and he rushes to his car as quicky as his frozen legs will allow him. The door is stuck, and he pulls at it frantically, all sense of reasoning leaving his head. He’ll be safe, if he can just get back into his car, back into his little haven of cosy solitude. Is the handle jammed? No, it can’t be, he got the car fixed last week… Are those footsteps behind him? They’re getting closer and closer and he’s going to die, those stories were right all along-

With a final desperate wrench, the door swings open and the man scrambles in, shaking as he slams it shut. He’s made it, he’s safe from whatever’s outside – but there’s nothing, there was never anything there; the girl, the bit of cloth was a trick of the mind. He almost cries with relief, and then he sees the face in the rearview mirror.

The next day, an old lady almost runs into an empty car in the middle of the road. She peers at it cautiously through her window, wary of the blood splattered on its side.

Later, the police investigate.

They find nothing, save for a small piece of white cloth on one of the seats.

Jane Zahl

To Kill a Mockingbird – Harper Lee

I decided to come back to this classic novel, 30 years since I first read it at senior school, when my daughter told me she was studying it. Fortunately the school library downloaded the audiobook version for me, and I have spent many hours walking the dog and cycling to and from work, enthralled by the adventures of Scout and her family in Alabama in the 1930s. Revisiting this novel now, with a much wider understanding of the issues it raises, has been fascinating, and led to some really interesting discussions with my daughter, especially concerning one of the main themes of racial injustice. Viewing the deep south through a modern lens, almost 100 years on, is repeatedly shocking. The free use of the 'N-word' is hard to hear, as are the numerous accounts of the deeply racist society and shocking injustice that existed during the period the novel was set.

However, sadly, it also made me realise that despite young Scout being appalled at the treatment received by the characters of colour in the story, not enough has changed in the past century, and some of the injustices are still sadly witnessed in more divided societies today. Alongside the main theme of race, the novel also covers so many issues that are still so relevant today. The sibling relationships are complex and recognisable, Scout's difficulty identifying as a girl as she grows up are relatable, the reclusive Boo Radley, unable to access society, is a reminder of the difficulties faced by those with additional needs. Seeing all of this through the lens of a child adds a real innocence to the observations and reminds us that the single human race can be divided so easily, but at the end of the day is just thatONE race

Mrs Alison Stewart

Sanmao

It was just a piece of paper, just a scrap of paper

Flapping in the wind, but it was more than that to me

It said 'Sahara' and that word caught my eye

Because that desert and that sand was something I had to see.

'I want to adventure, I want to travel

To that Sahara desert!'

But my friends just laugh and my friends just joke 'I'll show you that I can!' I yell to the dirt.

My grades are suffering, for my love of reading

Oh, the teachers humiliate me!

They draw black circles around my eyes

Why can't they just let me be?

Dusk is falling, wind is wailing

The sun turning the sand a blood-coloured red El Aaiún is beautiful, this windswept bliss Thoughts of happiness fill my head.

"I'm here!" I cry, my childhood dream Coming true before my eyes

This is unreal, this is incredible "This is me!" I call to the skies.

Now for my story, my very own book Chen Mao-ping won't do as a name I am Sanmao, this is my new identity Poetry, stories, essays are my aim.

I write of my adventures, my passions, my life All contained in this one book 'Stories of the Sahara.' That will be its title One day it will reach the shops, go and take a look.

My books are inspiring to women all around My story is inspiring too I'm breaking the norms, and travelling free Unlike the world I once knew.

Sorrow, something I'd barely experienced before It was grief, it was sadness, it was everything bad My poor Jose, too deep in the water My soulmate, my companion and comrade.

And 12 years on, stuck in a hospital Depression, fear, these thoughts fill my head I tie my silk stockings slowly round my neck I swing gently to and fro, hanging, then I'm dead.

Dusk is falling, wind is wailing The sun turning the sand a blood-coloured red I am Sanmao, I'm free and I belong I walk across this expanse of gold, slowly, as I tread. Anon.

The Bell Witch - Part 1

Tennessee, 1817.

Betsy Bell is 12 years old. She, her parents and her siblings have moved from North Carolina to Tennessee.

Pa charged into the kitchen, panting, as if he’d run a thousand miles. Ma and I were sitting at the table when he came, boots muddied and whole body trembling like a leaf.

“What on earth has happened John? You look awfully shaken,” said Ma.

And so Pa sat down at the table, recanting the tale of how he was just inspecting his corn rows when he saw it.

“Saw what, Pa?” I asked, fully enthralled with his tale now.

“I don’t know.” he stammered. Ma shook her head incredulously, chuckling at how silly Pa was being, she said. But Pa was shaken, I could tell. There was an anxiety in him I could see, one that wasn’t there before. I could see it. I knew.

Later that night, Pa tucked me into bed. I hadn’t forgotten how mortified Pa looked when he ran into the kitchen earlier that evening.

“Pa, what was it you saw? Describe it,” I pleaded, genuinely curious about this unknown creature.

Pa sighed. “I don’t know, Betsy dear. It was this huge dog, but it wasn’t a dog,” he said.

“What do you mean, Pa?”

“It had the head of a rabbit, or something. It was big though,” he added. “Now don’t fret, Betsy. I shot at it, and I’m certain I hit it. No need to worry now. Sleep tight,” he said as he was leaving the room,

“Night, Pa.”

The next morning, I had forgotten the rabbit dog. I went about my day, and morning passed without anything remotely out of the ordinary occurring. Afternoon rolled around, and my brother Drewry and I went out to play in the fields outside our cabin. We played hide and seek, it was excellent in the fields; we could hide in endless corn rows and neither of us would ever find the other till we gave up.

It was tremendous fun - we had played all afternoon, it was dusk now - until I was hunting for Drewry and I heard him scream. It was an ear-piercing, terrified cry for help.

“Drew? Drew!” I called, attempting to navigate him through the rows of crops. I was dizzy with worry, hands blindly sweeping through the plants, face blinded with bits of wheat flying in the air, into my mouth, into my eyes and then, then-

“Drew!”

He collapsed into me, and before I could get a word in, he grabbed my hand with such desperation and told me to run back to the cabin, so I did. Hand in hand, we frantically scrambled like our lives depended on it, running till we were back in the safety of the cabin, out of breath, covered in wheat and corn bits.

Still trying to catch my breath after such a tremendous sprint, slightly wheezing, I managed in between breaths, “What- was- it?”

Drewry just shook his head, pale and haunted despite our great sprint.

“Drew?” I asked, now slightly concerned.

We had both gotten our breath back, looking at each other. I was terrified for him. What had my brother seen?

Drew finally stammered, “It was this huge turkey bird creature, nothing like I’d ever seen before, Betsy. Huge. It was squawking down on me like I was a piece of meat or something, I never-”

But I didn’t hear what he was going to say, because all I could think of was the rabbit dog Pa had seen. Rabbit dog, giant squawking turkey, what next?

A few days came and left, and I had begun to stop worrying about the exotic creatures that had scared me so a few days prior. But then I had every reason to worry again.

We were eating our dinner of sausages and pumpkins when- BANG.

“What was that?” whispered Ma.

BANG, BANG, BANG. It sounded like someone was trying to beat the walls down from the outside.

We had all stopped eating, plates now untouched under the fear that had us all in a chokehold, because what was it? And like a dot-to-dot, it all clicked in my head. I don't know how, or why, but I felt they all must be connected. It felt connected, and I just didn’t know why. The rabbit dog. The giant turkey. Now the racket that was beating our walls. I felt it: they were connected. I just didn’t know how.

Snapping back to the present, I looked around. Ma was still as a statue, Pa was frozen in his seat, trying to locate the noise. My siblings were mortified, pale as ghosts, clutching onto the hand of those nearest to them.

Then all of a sudden, it stopped. It stopped and didn’t happen for the rest of the night, like it never happened in the first place. Shaken but relieved it had stopped, we all went to bedbut despite the fact nothing else happened, I was still apprehensive to sleep, but eventually I dozed off after my desperate attempts to stay awake.

Christ, it was freezing, I thought, as I shuddered when my covers were pulled from me. What? My covers had been pulled from me, by an invisible force. Could it have been one of my brothers pulling a prank on me? I stopped and listened for a quiet giggle, or an unheld snicker, but there was nothing.

That’s when I heard these whispers - strange, breathy whispers that sent shivers down my spine. Fear spiked through me, and I didn’t sleep a wink for the rest of the night, huddled in a blanket and terrified.

The next morning I went down to breakfast, haunted by last night’s happenings. As Ma set down my cornbread on the table, she took one look at me and said I had the darkest circles under my eyes - courtesy of the covers being pulled from me, I suppose. She suggested I go out on the swing in the yard, so seeing as I had nothing else to do, I did.

The swing was quite far from the house, more than 200 yards I’d say, so on a foggy day it was quite difficult to tell where it was, but by memory, I knew exactly where to go. So I went along to the swing, but just when I was about halfway there, through the fog, I made out the distant shape of someone swinging on it already.

Slightly worried, I edged closer and closer only to see a girl who looked my age in a green dress, sitting on the swing. There was something mechanical about the way she swung on it, something slightly eerie, unsettling even. There was something off, for certain. As I got closer to her, close enough to notice me certainly, she gave no response, no acknowledgement of my presence, nothing at all.

I looked back towards the cabin, and boy was I further from safety than I had anticipated! Maybe I should just go back, I thought, because the swing didn’t seem fun anymore. Considering my options, I looked at the cabin, then at the swing- the swing. The swing.

There was no girl anymore on the swing.

Chloe Ji

Dr Jayatilaka - in conversation with Alice Shaw and Ardhra Radhakrishnan

On Monday 21st October, Ardhra and I sat down to interview Dr. Jayatilaka, maths teacher and general knowledge coordinator. What followed was a wide-ranging discussion on various topics; cultural favourites, opinions on school, and his fears for young people, and all of us, in the age of information overload. Going back through this, there were many points where I read something he’d said, stopped, and thought, “Why didn’t I ask him about that? That would have been so interesting”, and perhaps that is only testament to his openness and willingness to speak to us - it was a thoroughly enjoyable conversation, and I hope dear reader, that you will enjoy it too.

Alice Shaw

Right, what are we talking about?

Alice: You have cool A Levels I think, why did you do German? Well, when I was at school, in Year 11, I guess the advice I got was to choose A levels you enjoy, so at that point I didn't enjoy maths at school, I guess partly because of my teacher. Basically, he just told us something and then we did it. I remember when we did Circle theorems he just said 'here's the theorem', and we did it. I could do it but it was boring. So, I liked History, I liked German, I liked languages. So I did Physics, Chemistry, German, History, and then at my school you had to do General Studies as well. We didn't take it very seriously. I did it because I found it interesting. I think it's useful to learn languages.

Alice: Are you learning anything else at the moment?

I'm learning Italian at the moment. I've been learning it for 5 years now. I haven't really made very rapid progress. It's sort of difficult without a teacher… and I don't have good motivation.

Ardhra: You don't have good motivation? What I mean is no one makes me do any work. When I get home, at 6pm, I'm watching Lost for instance.

Ardhra: You watch Lost?!

Don't tell me what happens; I’m still on series 1. To be honest, during term time I'm not very good. But I am going to Italy on Saturday.

Ardhra: That's quite nice. How long are you there for? 6 days. So yes - I'm learning Italian because my partner is Italian and her parents don't really speak English, so it's quite useful for me to learn some Italian.

Ardhra: How different is Sicilian?

Well, Sicilian is a dialect of Italian. So other Italians wouldn't understand Sicilian. For instance, there's different words for pronouns. It's very different. But, in Sicily most people speak Italian, maybe with an accent or with a few words of Sicilian. Many rural people speak

Everyone likes Beethoven. They either like it, or they don’t know it, I think.

proper Sicilian, which I wouldn't understand at all, but most people just speak Italian with a bit of an accent and occasionally throw in a word that's a bit weird. A bit like someone from Newcastle, you might struggle to understand but basically they are speaking the same language.

So that's my German story.

My mum also lived in Germany for a year and speaks German, so maybe that was an influence. I find history interesting and we did a lot of German history so that's sort of tied in. I like Beethoven.

Alice: Why do you like Beethoven?

Because it's brilliant. Everyone likes Beethoven. They either like it or they don't know it, I think. I like German classical music, yeah.

Alice: Do you think being named Frederic, after Chopin, has influenced your music taste?

I don't know, maybe, probably not. It's correlated to other things; I mean the reason why my first name is Frederic is because my Mum plays the piano and likes classical music so therefore we had a piano in our house, which meant I started learning the piano, which was when I started listening to classical music when I was 17, I guess, when I left school. Before that I didn't really listen to classical music.

Alice: What sort of music did you listen to?

Sort of embarrassing music that teenagers like such as Green Day, punk rock… I liked Rage Against The Machine quite a lot, which kids shouldn't be listening to. Stuff like that.

Alice: What about now?

That stuff is now on my running playlist and my gym playlist. Except I normally also listen to a podcast when I'm in the gym. I listen to more classical music - Bach, I like a lot, Beethoven, some random stuff, some rap, probably stuff that's 20 years old.

Like Late Registration I think is very good; I bought that CD in my first term at Uni, 2005. I listened to that a lot. Kings of Leon I used to like a lot, Smashing Pumpkins…The Smiths I think are brilliant, Bob Dylan. I don't have a particular genre, because I don't particularly listen to pop music very much. I'm too old.

Ardhra: Have you seen Ludwig?

Yes, I've just finished watching Ludwig, it was quite good. Lots of Beethoven to listen to. My mum actually recommended Ludwig to us.

Alice: Any other TV show favourites?

Probably things kids shouldn't be watching. I think The Wire is very very brilliant and it's quite stressful to watch and very violent. The Sopranos is absolutely brilliant, but also it's quite unpleasant to watch at times. Because you sort of wanna like Tony Soprano, and you gradually think 'maybe he's alright' and then he does something really horrible to someone and then you think 'Oh God Tony you've let me down.' I like Breaking Bad - those are all the standard ones that everyone says - I like The Simpsons, Futurama.

I was talking to Mr Bevan about the Armando Iannucci show, which is absolutely brilliant. It's a pretty weird comedy show, but it’s genius. Everything Armando Iannucci does, like The Thick of It, The Day Today - it's a very old comedy program you probably wouldn't have heard of, came out in 1994, it's a spoof news program.

I'm watching Lost at the moment, like I said. Which is quite good, but I'm still on series 1, and I think it's going to get worse, right?

Ardhra: No, I don't think so

Everyone tells me you never find out what's going on.

Ardhra: Don't listen to what they tell you, it's a brilliant TV show. Ludwig was the last thing I watched, and I'm watching Rings of Power, which is quite good. We watched House of the Dragon, the new Game of Thrones, which is alright. Those are the things I watched lately.

Alice: Are you into films?

Hmm, have I seen any films lately? I don't go to the cinema very often. I went to watch Civil War, which is a film about civil war in the USA, which was alright. I watched Air Force One again, for about the 48th time recently (that's a classic in my family) and Clear and Present Danger, which is quite a niche 90's Tom Clancy book, with Harrison Ford. I actually watched Top Gun Maverick in the summer, with Tom Cruise, which was alright, a bit sort of cheesy, but quite fun.

I don't really watch many films, I guess. I watch films when I'm on planes, actually. This Christmas I'm going to Sri Lanka, which means I'll probably watch 3 films on the way there and 3 films on the way back.

I did see on Amazon Prime, there was a film, Don't Worry Darling, which I quite want to watch, it's all about creepy abuse and stuff. It's about men being sexist basically, which I should probably watch to help with Flourish.

Alice: Shall we get back to Maths? You didn't like maths, so how did we end up here? Because what I was doing wasn't really maths, was it? What a mathematician would call maths is not what school kids do really. What you do is calculation, computation. Someone gives you the equation and you the numbers in and get an answer. It's not what mathematicians do; it's not very interesting.

I think a lot of GCSE Maths is not necessarily very interesting until you get to something where you're actually solving problems and thinking and deciding what to do. In cases where you know what to do it's not interesting - the doing bit is not interesting and it's not really maths.

So I think when I finished school, I had a year out, and I had a place at Oxford to do Chemistry, and I was a bit worried because I hadn't done any maths, that I was going to be behind. So in my gap year I basically learnt A-level Pure Maths and a bit of Further Maths, and that was actually fun, because I just taught myself, and I did it, it was good - I just bought the text books. Then I went to uni and it was real and it was actually good.

If I had gone to a school like The Perse I'm fairly certain I would have done Further Maths A-level, and Physics and Chemistry, and then I would have done Physics or Maths at uni rather than Chemistry. Maybe I'd be a physicist now, but who knows.

I didn't get very good careers advice to be honest. The advice was do just what you like, when what I liked was heavily influenced by the fact I didn't like my teacher. That's not great advice, there you go.

Alice: Do you have anygoodadvice?

Well, good advice is the fact that if you don't like your teacher in Year 11 that doesn't make any difference. You're not going to get that same teacher, probably.

Also, if you ask kids what subjects they like they always just tell you the ones they're good at, and it's not the same thing. I think there's a lot of people who'd say they like maths, but what they really like is winning; they like getting a high score in a test. Maths is going to get harder - so if you don't actually like it, that's a different thing.

So I think my advice would be: Think about what you actually like, don't take into account the teacher and bear in mind what you take at A-level to some extent determines what you're going to do with your life, although on the other hand I didn't do Maths and now I'm a Maths teacher. So it's not completely restrictive - you can change the direction if you want to.

In a way I'm quite glad I did History and German, because I've learnt maths now later anyway, and now I can sort of speak German a bit and I know about history and my writing is a lot better because I did some essays. When you do real science you have to write things - papers. If you've never written anything longer than a 4 mark Physics question, it's gonna be difficult to write a 20 page paper or a 200 page thesis.

Alice: Do you think you still learn from teaching?

Yeah, occasionally I learn something about maths: you learn different ways of explaining things; you learn a higher level of understanding of things.

Like, fractions - I don't know if you've ever thought about why, when you divide fractions you flip the second one and multiply - why does that work? How would you explain that to someone who doesn't know that it works or believe that it works? That's actually quite a complicated question. I spent basically a whole walk on the Isle of Skye with my friend, who's a physicist, talking about this for about 2 hours, to come

I think there’s a lot of people who’d say they like maths, but what they really like is winning. Maths is going to get harder.

Even if the maths you do every year is the same, kids are surprising and strange, and make the job interesting

up with a good answer to that question. I won't tell you the answer. I already know how to divide fractions, but why it works and how to explain it is sort of complicated. But luckily no year 7 has ever asked me why that works, so I've never actually had to explain it, because they just know it and they just do it and that's it.

I think the other thing you learn is just about people more than anything else, about child psychology. It's always interesting. Even if the maths you do every year is the same, kids are surprising and strange, and make the job interesting, because you never know what they're going to do, basically! They're all different. I think I've done it for 10 years and I'm still interested.

Alice: That's good, well, you went on the Swanage trip with us (year 11), how was that, was it good?

It was nice, yeah, the fact that the weather was good was nice.

I think it's quite tiring for the teachers, doing trips, because you have to get up before the kids get up, and don’t go to bed until after they’ve gone to bed.

And you're working all day constantly trying to keep track of where kids are and counting them and trying to make sure no one's doing anything naughty or anything. So it's tiring.

I dropped Geography when I was in Year 9, so the trip was sort of interesting; it was interesting to see what they do in Geography. There were bits of maths - I'm sure people talked about interquartile ranges and histograms and stuff. We teach histograms later in year 11, and I guess people have already done it in Geography, so in theory half of my class should know about it and I'd never realised that, so that's something interesting. So, the trip was alright, just a bit tiring - I'm not very good if I don't get much sleep, to be honest.

Alice: Most people are like that, no?

With a bit of variation, I think. If I don't get 9 hours' sleep every night, I'm suboptimal, I'm not joking. Last night I didn't get to bed until about midnight, and I got up about 7:15 and I'm out of it today.

I like to think my brain is very high functioning, it needs a lot of rest, like an engine that's overheating, but everyone in my family sleeps a lot, so that's just how it is.

So yeah, Swanage was good. If it was raining the whole time it would have been miserable. -

Alice: Who would you say are the 3 most influential people in the field of maths, in your opinion?

Well, I'm not really an expert. I'm not a mathematician. Now, Terence Tao, people say is a big deal, but I don't understand the maths these people do nowadays. I basically know A Level Further Maths and a few extra bits and that is sort of maths going up to about the year 1800, and it's got really complicated since then. Andrew Wiles is still alive, I don't know what he's doing. He did something good, he did something that was a big deal. I'm not sure I can name any other living mathematicians. There's a Perse parent who won the Fields Medal, which is a big deal.

Ardhra: That's quite cool

The Fields Medal I think is only once every 4 years But, honestly, I don't understand it. So, I can't really answer the question. In history, people often say Gauss was the most important mathematician - Euler, probably people would say is second. Gauss did a lot of different things. I think Newton as well, for calculus and stuff.

Ardhra: What got you interested in General Knowledge?

I'll tell you the story, this is embarrassing. When I was a kid my dad used to spend about an hour every evening with me and my sister just teaching us stuff, even before I started school. I must have been a real pain when I went to school, like "the area of a circle is Pi r-squared!"

I remember him telling me Pi is 22 over 7, which it's not, but close to that.

I remember, I learnt all the capital cities in the world when I was about 5, because I was a nerd, and I had a little atlas and carried that around with me for a bit.

I like to take an interest in things. I never really watch quiz programs. When I was at Uni I never tried out for University Challenge until, on my PGCE, the year before I started at The Perse, I did go to the try-outs for UC at Homerton and I got into the team, and I was the captain of the team. We didn't even get on TV, but we did enter the inter-college quiz competition in Cambridge. We got to the quarter finals, and I thought, "Oh, actually I'm quite good at this".

I guess in Oxford, we went to some pub quizzes and I won some with my friends and stuff. And then, when I applied to my job at the Perse, you have to put on your CV some extracurricular things, and obviously you big-up what you've done, so I said I had got on University Challenge, and then when I got here they said “that’s good because the guy who's in charge of General Knowledge is leaving at the end of the year so you can do that.”

Ardhra: I thought Miss Freeman was before you?

No, she started at The Perse the same year as me. So the guy was leaving, so they wanted me to take over that. And actually, I didn't really want to, to be honest, because apart from the fact that there's work. I'm worried about GK, that it's a bit pointless - the word 'trivia' does mean 'pointless', doesn't it?

Just memorising facts is just pointless - I think it's useful if you link these things together. So, if you want to understand the world. Someone might be talking about the Middle East and they might say 'Damascus', and if you don't know what that is you're not going to understand what's going on. So I think it is sort of useful. I just worry that it's people learning lists. It's like learning Pi to 50 decimal places, what is the point of that?! So I'm sort of a bit wary of it.

Anyway, I didn't take that job, Miss Freeman took the job, and then when she left I took it over. So that's how I took over GK, about 5 or 6 years ago. It's quite fun, but it is a lot of

I like things about mountains, because I like mountains, or classical music.

work. There's a lot of admin behind the scenes. The actual reading out questions is quite fun, but emailing each others' schools - it's alright, it's not hard work, but for each of those online quizzes I have to email them and sort stuff out. It's a bit of a pain, that's the unfun side. But on the whole it's pretty good. The kids involved are normally quite nice and fun, and you definitely learn things doing GK, random facts and stuff.

Alice: What’s your favourite random fact?

Someone told me, the word 'chestnut' in quizzing means a random fact that everybody knows. An example is that Malta was awarded the George Cross in the Second World War. It's just a question that is asked a lot. So if you're going to be a quizzer you should know that fact.

The second one is that, apart from Washington DC, the only capital city named after a US President is Monrovia in Liberia, named after Monroe. I don't know what the point of knowing that is - but things like that, if that's interesting. I like things about mountains, because I like mountains, or classical music. That's what I think about GK.

It's nice winning as well. We actually win stuff, which is sort of nice.

But another thing I have to do is I have to pick all these teams, which is potentially stressful because people don't like it when they're left out, when they're not captain and stuff like that. That's life.

Alice: That's the way it goes. So, I recommended The Housekeeper and The Professor to you - thoughts?

Yeah, I liked it, it's very Japanese I guess. Japanese books often seem to have the same sort of vibe, everything's very spare and clean, a bit magical, dreamy - I don't know how to describe it.

You know what I mean? If you read these books - a bit weird, I guess, a bit surreal. It was nice, I wouldn't say it was one of my top 10 books of all time, but I enjoyed it.

Alice: What might those be?

The Remains of the Day by Ishiguro is the most impactful book I’ve ever read. I read it in one go on a flight to Orlando, in full, in 7 hours, and it did slightly make me think about the way I live my life, which I think not many books do.

I think War And Peace is absolutely brilliant; it's probably the greatest book ever written - for everyone there's something in there. That's my dad's favourite book as well. When I was a kid I really liked 1984, Birdsong, Of Mice and Men, Brave New World. Most of those I probably still think are good - but probably not as good, I think your opinions change.

I read Lincoln in the Bardo, it won the Booker Prize a few years ago. I thought that was really good.

Piranesi, I read recently, thought that was really good, it's very Borges. Jorge Luis Borges - it’s like surreal weird stuff, very mathsy. That's Mr Cerny’s favourite writer, by the way, I'll just throw that in.

Hemingway, For Whom the Bell Tolls, I liked a lot when I read it, and I still think it's good. It's got a bad rep, because Hemingway's a bit macho, in this day and age; it's all men and honour and stuff. I still think it's good. I like a lot of books, I guess.

Alice: A lot of people don't read - persuade Ardhra to read for me!

To be honest, there's an entry barrier. If I don't read for a while it's hard to get back into it, because it requires you to focus on something for a while.

Watching TV requires a lot less attention. I guess I've always read: when I was a little kid - and I've never stopped reallyI read a lot when I was a teenager - I read a lot at Uni. Nobody understood - at uni everybody said 'I've got no time to read books', but why? I read every day.

Even now, this week, I just started a new book yesterday, I finished a book on Saturday. I read; I think it's really good. It's different from watching TV because it's more engrossing. Well, you have to use your imagination. A TV programme lasts 30 minutes or whatever, but a book is like a world you're sort of entering. I think a good book is probably better than a TV programme

Ardhra: Whaaaaaaaaaat????!!!!!

Although there are some TV programmes that are really good, don't get me wrong. I think there's a bit of an entry barrier, I mean, you lot with TikTok or whatever, or Snapchat, or whatever it is you do.

People can't focus for more than 2 minutes on something.

Ardhra: For the record neither of us actually have TikTok…

I do worry about young people, just in general, the attention span is really low. My attention span has gone down, now that I have my phone. Some kids were sat outside school waiting for their parents the other day, like they always are. When I was a kid in the same situation, you just sat there, and you stared into space.

Ardhra: Yeah, but did you have a phone?

I had a phone that could text people on, for 12p a text or something.

What I’m saying is that what it meant was that you spent a lot of time in your own mind and you guys don't. And in some ways it's great, because you guys can learn stuff all the time, because you have the internet available all the time.

I think a good book is probably better than a TV programme

Learning stuff is so much easier for you lot that it’s ever been

And back then, when I was a kid, if you didn't understand something in school, when the teacher explained something at school and you didn't get it, that was it; that was the end of it, you just never got it. There are things I still don't understand about some things that teachers told me in year 9, because there was nowhere to go. Well, I could have gone home and looked it up on our family PC or something, whereas now you can just google it, you can probably do it in the lesson, or type it into YouTube and there'll be someone explaining it to you. Learning stuff is so much easier for you lot than it's ever been.

On the other hand you've got too much coming at you all the time, and I don't know if the human mind is really equipped to deal with this.

It was bad enough even for my generation, we had 4 TV channels - Channel 5 started when I was a teenager or something, and even that is a lot more than is natural for a human. I don’t really know what effect that’s gonna have. Sam Harris, the podcaster and philosopher, said something like, "this is the world's biggest social experiment and everyone's been signed up to it without their consent", and I don't think anyone knows what the result of the experiment is, maybe increased anxiety and stuff, maybe lots more scientific progress, but no one really knows - we'll find out. Anyway, that's my thoughts on the internet.

Q&A

- how to be fast on the buzzer?

You just need a fast processor. Also, you need to be thinking, you need to be really focused. Every word they say, you're pruning a tree of potential options. So when they say country, picture them on a map.

- what value do books have, why read?

Well, one of my friends who's a historian/academic, we were talking about politics and he said people don't seem to empathise with the other side. In America say, they hate each other, Democrats and Republicans. In the UK, Tories and Labour seem to be more and more polarised. And somebody said, “why are they not empathetic anymore?” and he said, “Well, no one reads anymore”. You have to put yourself in someone else's shoes when you read. So that's one good reason, but mostly it's fun, I would say.

- do you play any instruments?

I play the piano, badly, but I haven't really played much this term.

- your favourite aspect of teaching?

Just chatting to kids is just fun. Occasionally, it's intellectually interesting, but rarely, because all the maths I’ve done thousands of times before. Occasionally someone asks you a question and you go “Ah, that's an interesting question”, but that’s sort of rare to be honest. More, it's interesting to chat to people.

- if you could live near to any world-famous monument, what would it be?

Well, I'd like to live nearer to mountains, so can I live near to Everest, is that a monument?

Both: sure!

I'll take that.

- if you had to give a PowerPoint on a really niche topic, what's your niche topic?

Probably the Wainwrights of Cumbria, the hills of Cumbria. I've climbed them all 3 times

Alice: Quite niche!

They're not niche in Cumbria! There's 214 hills.

That's the most important book I've ever read, if we're allowed non-fiction: Alfred Wainwright's pictorial guide to the lake and fells. They've got them in the library, 7 books. It took the guy 13 years to write the books, having walked in the hills for about 20 years before that. It's just a guidebook to the hills in the Lake District. And my parents had one or two of them. And when I was on my gap year, I picked them up and basically decided to try and climb this hill which you could see from my school (which is why I thought it would be a good idea to climb it) and I did climb it and I thought “This is unbelievable, why didn't I do this before?” It's actually unbelievable, you can see Scotland. - if you were on a bus and you had to break the emergency exit glass with, what everyday object would you use?

Ardhra: What about the hammer?

Alice: What if it was gone? I was thinking about it on the bus!

Just my elbows. Mr Bevan’s forehead or something. - do you have a favourite font?

I'm supposed to hate Comic Sans. I think it's a little pretentious to hate Comic Sans, to be honest. I don’t really care, no, I use the default font. I'm more interested in the meaning of the words? I think the one on the mac is nicer than the one on Word, is it a different one? I don’t really know - it’s a good random question though.

Any more questions?

Alice: That's everything I wrote down There's no way you can put all of that into an article, because that would be 30 pages. So, you've probably got enough material.

Ardhra wants to know some personal stuff, but you can stop the recording so it's off the record...

I think it’s a little pretentious to hate Comic Sans, to be honest. I’m more interested in the meaning of the words.

Ghost train

The news was spreading, the tourists were racing, the year was 1810.

The smoke of this rapid monster engulfed me - my face lost in the haze. There were shouts from every direction, merchants selling goods, reporters ready for the latest scoop. Then suddenly out of the middle of nowhere a hand clamped around my shoulder, a thin, scrawny face appeared from above me. Lips that looked as if they were permanently sucking a lemon, hair that had been scraped so far back it looked as if you were to go any further you would take all of it out, face so bony you could do nothing but stare in awe at it, wondering if the person before you were human of a figment of your imagination- before you were snapped back to life when she started to speak, Aunt Emilia had arrived...

“Carry my luggage child” the voice cut through like a knife in the air. I was serenaded by a cascade of cases all of which had the name Amelia Elizabeth Brown upon them in pristine handwriting. As my great-aunt glided up the stairs to the first steam train ever in the UK, the British Pullman, I felt a longing for a wealth I could never have, I took a moment there and then to fanaticize what it could be like to go on the train, to lie on those beds, to dine with the rich and famous, to travel to new destinations, to be for once in my life something more than a servant to rich Aunt Emilia. “Well do hurry up, I haven’t got all day you know!” The curt voice shook me out of my petty fantasies. As I handed the luggage over my heart panged for a life that was never mine, I bid my farewells and watched the great steam train build up speed on its journey to Scotland.

I never saw my Aunt Emelia again; you see that night there was a terrible storm and the train plummeted to the ground as they were journeying over a steep viaduct. I did not grieve immensely. I never liked Aunt Emilia much, but all the same it was an immense shock when I picked up the daily paper the next morning to find that the headline “BRITISH PULLMAN PLUMMETS” on the front page. As I read in the article, I found out that the whole train and everything in it was ruined and no one survived...

Present day:

As I ran down the hill a rush of happiness hit me. Max ran ahead; for a mere five-year-old he was fast, “Race you to the railway” he called, excitement sliding off his tongue. I was excited too- me and Max had heard about “The magnificent railway line that goes all the way to Scotland”, so naturally we had to explore. Max got there before me, and as he started jumping on the tracks, I heard a high-pitched whistle, I saw a cascade of smoke billowing out of a grand chimney and an enormous Victorian steam train come clattering down the railway clattering towards Max. Max was frozen a picture of sheer terror embedded on his face the monster bore down on him, and that was the last I ever saw of him. From then on anyone who dared cross the railway would disappear in a cloud of smoke and would join the ever-growing band of ghosts on the ghost train...

Maggie Rowan-Robinson

How did ancient customs shape the modern Halloween festival?

The Ancient Roots of Halloween

On October 31st, as children parade through the streets dressed as ghouls and witches, and homes glow with pumpkins, few pause to think about the ancient customs that shaped this eerie celebration. Halloween, with its blend of spooky fun and festive revelry, is the product of centuries of cultural evolution. From the ancient Celtic festival of Samhain to today’s candy-filled extravaganza, the story of Halloween is as fascinating as the myths it celebrates.

Samhain

Imagine standing by a roaring bonfire on a chilly October night in ancient Ireland. Around you, people wear animal skins, their faces hidden by masks, while the air buzzes with whispers of spirits wandering the earth. This was Samhain, a festival marking the end of the harvest season and the start of winter.

Over 2,000 years ago, the Celts believed that during this liminal time the boundary between the human and spirit worlds the veil was at its thinnest. Druids, the Celtic priestly class, led rituals that included sacrifices to deities, lighting fires to ward off evil, and leaving offerings of food for deceased ancestors. These customs laid the groundwork for many modern Halloween traditions, such as dressing up and sharing treats.

Roman and Christian Influences

When the Romans conquered Celtic lands, they brought their own traditions to the mix. Festivals like Feralia, honouring the dead, and the celebration of Pomona, the goddess of fruit and trees, were added to

Samhain. Pomona’s symbol the apple might explain the origins of applebobbing, a game still enjoyed at Halloween parties today.

By the 7th century, Christianity began to reshape these pagan practices. Pope Boniface IV established AllSaints’Day on November 1st, followed by All Souls’ Day on November 2nd. Together, these became a time to honour Christian martyrs and the departed. Instead of outlawing the older rituals, the church assimilated them into the new celebrations, blending sacred traditions with lingering superstitions. The result? All Hallows’ Eve, the precursor to modern Halloween.

Halloween Crosses the Atlantic Fast forward to colonial America, where Halloween arrived with European immigrants. In Puritan New England, strict religious views meant celebrations were sparse. However, in the southern colonies, customs from Irish, Scottish, and Native American traditions merged. Early Halloween featured harvest festivals with ghost stories, fortune-telling, and community gatherings.

The 19th-century Potato Famine brought a wave of Irish immigrants to the United States, and with them came traditions like dressing in costumes and playing pranks. By the late 1800s, there was a growing movement to transform Halloween into a family-friendly holiday. Newspapers encouraged communities to replace frightening elements with festive activities like games, parties, and cheerful decorations.

Modern Halloween

Today, Halloween is a global phenomenon, celebrated in countries far from its Celtic roots. Its association with the supernatural has made it a favourite among fans of horror and goth culture, while its commercial appeal has turned it into a multibillion-dollar industry. From candy and costumes to haunted attractions, the marketing of Halloween shows no signs of slowing down.

Yet not everyone embraces Halloween’s modern form. Some conservative groups critique its perceived pagan influences, while others lament how commercialisation has overshadowed its spiritual significance. For Wiccans and

other neo-pagans, Halloween (or Samhain) remains a deeply meaningful celebration, rooted in ancient beliefs about honouring ancestors and connecting with nature.

Conclusion

Halloween’s journey from ancient bonfires to pumpkin-filled porches is a testament to the enduring power of tradition. It has grown from a Celtic festival marking the changing seasons to a dynamic celebration that reflects the cultures, beliefs, and creativity of the people who celebrate it. Next time you carve a pumpkin or don a costume, remember: you’re part of a story that began thousands of years ago, under the light of a flickering fire.

Anon.

Medusa

If I could describe that moment of horror, the moment when her face flashed in my bronze shield and her eyes, they glowed, glowed a bright, unforgiving red. The snakes in her hair slithered and coiled around each other, black tongues whistling shrilly. But their hissing was barely audible over the rushed thumping of my heart. I could not only hear it, but feel it, see it, as if at any moment it would burst out with a violent lurch.

I held my breath.

Did she know I was there? Had she sensed me?

Her head turned side to side, seeking out the intruder who wasn’t there. Out of red lips curled the tongue of a snake, black and thin with a forked end. Skin tinted green framed a face of a young woman. By the time you’d seen the snakes you would have had second thoughts. Yet, it would have been much too late by then.

Another statue to add to the ever-growing army of stone soldiers.

Many had attempted this, all had failed. All had failed.

I let this echo in my head. All had failed. I inched closer, closer, as near as I could. Her serpentine features slowly grew clearer.

Snap.

I trembled, didn’t dare move.

Her head spun round, furious, but it was too late.

The tip of my sword plunged into her neck.

Anon.

Sarah Dong

The girl next door

It's July / and I know she's back again / back for the summer

I know because through the window I can hear her music when she wakes up, when she goes to sleep, when she's working / the soundtrack to her life

I know because at 7am I get woken up by the reflections of early sunlight off her little silver watch / white face to match her boyfriend's / a charm for every other birthday so far

I know because I can see her dancing in her bedroom / ribbons adorning her cascading hair

I know because I can hear the muffles of her home language down the phone / she sounds so much happier not bound by her mother tongue

I know because these days when the old lady next door leaves the house she does so with a spring in her step / calling goodbye as she slams the door

I know because the window gets a little smaller when she comes / light blocked by her piles of books / sun damaged now yes / but too pretty for her to care

I know because I hear her crying at night / her tears shine under the stars

I know because then she trembles oh so gently / she's lonely and homesick / her friends haven’t woken yet / and the ribbons start losing their shape

Noone expects that from the girl next door / nobody ever asked

Alice Shaw

Martha and Death

I paced up and down the length of the corridor. There was something about the once-mauve wallpapers that made me feel warm inside. It was a lovely, old-fashioned house; the walls were lavishly decorated with pictures in musty browns and oranges vaguely depicting fruits, or dames, or something else on a similar scale of romantic, and the furniture was mostly antique. I laid my hand on the dark shoe-rack by the front door and pretended my skin was peach-coloured and slightly plump, with a faint blush. But my imagination was not one of immense power, and my mind could only focus on the shape of a bony, unnaturally translucent hand. I had been living in Crawdley Manor for a matter of weeks now, with my brother, Henry; in a further week’s time we would be moved on to the Underworld.

Perhaps it is best I explain what I mean by all of this.

My name was Martha Brown, and I lived in a happy household of four that’s my aforesaid brother and I and my parents; and I was halfway through a course on Ancient Greek History before the scarlet fever took first me and then Henry. I was going on sixteen when I died; it was, quite simply, like falling asleep, and when I awoke, no one realised I was there. I stayed in the house for a little while; but I kept getting swept away with the dirt and grime in the kitchen, and I could only go outside when my family did, which, bearing in mind my parents were only just getting over my death and could spend hours at a time staring at space, was not often. When I finally decided to venture further and explore how it was to be a ghost, Henry died. We bade a final farewell to Mother and Father and left our beloved house.

It was scary the number of other ghosts we saw, out in the streets. They explained to us how to go about living – well, I mustn’t say it that way – as a half-dead. We were told that we would soon be presented with a choice; to stay in this packed world or continue to the Underworld, where feelings and senses alike were banned and forgotten; or, if we were ambitious, to finish off Death and never have to choose. We laughed about that one. We were told that abandoned houses were rare gems, and that it was probably better to move out into the countryside if we wanted to find one. And that is how we ended up here, in an empty holiday-house, sleeping in other people’s beds and waiting for a handsome man in a black cloak to bring us to a world in which we would never feel the same again.

The nights, luckily, were short and warm; we had died mid-spring, and the breaths of summer were already fluttering through the air. The stinging green valleys, the perfumed roses climbing up the bricks of the house, the sun that streamed pleasantly through the windows; we should have guessed; after all, who goes to a holiday-house at all if not in summer?

The carriage arrived four days before Death was due to collect us; driven by two wide, black beasts of horses, it pulled into the driveway at a muggy midday, and we were horrified to see a spindly family of mortals start lugging their squat trunks into our bedrooms! There was a nasty-looking thin man with a twisted nose and wire glasses and an equally charmless lady who wore a scarlet striped summer dress (they took the master room with the painting of Persephone). Aside from them, there was a girl not much younger than me who took my

room, the girl much pleasanter in contrast to her parents with a laugh like shells clinking and a pair of large eyes a little darker than ferns. From conversation it was clear that her name was Hannah, and I took quite a liking to her.

It was a couple of days later that it happened. After a wakeful night of sleeping on the kitchen floor, I dragged myself up the stairs (lined with paintings of moth specimens) and stumbled into Hannah’s bedroom to check on her, expecting to see a sweet face lost in dreams. Instead, the girl was sitting upright in bed, with a horrified expression. When she saw me, she cupped her hands over her mouth, stifling a scream. I am sure she saw me. The way her irises swivelled straight up to my head; it was obvious.

‘…Hi,’ I grappled for words. What was she seeing? A ghost in spotty lime-green pyjamas? That’s all there was to see, really. Scrambling towards the window, Hannah let out a shrill shriek, holding her duvet around her as some sort of a home-made shield. I could see her knuckles; they were as white as pearls, or orbs of toothpaste. ‘My name is …was… Martha.’ I deemed it wise not to step forward; she might faint, or worse, fling herself out of the window. Who knows what kind of a bloodthirsty monster mortals perceived me as but then something very strange occurred to me. Hannah could see me. Hannah, a mortal, no different to my parents, friends, passers-by in the street, no different to everyone who had dismissed me before.

I could see that her curiosity was overwhelming her fear, though, as she dropped her blanket and took a quick step towards me, confusion burning in her pupils.

‘You’re a… gh…’ she seemed unable to finish the sentence, but instead tentatively touched my arm. It was a decisive moment, but I felt a vibration of warmth that would stay locked in me forever as her hot, sweaty fingertips touched my cold skin. ‘Ghost,’ she concluded, her voice just under a whisper. ‘There …there is a ghost in my bedroom.’

‘I honestly don’t know how you saw me,’ I stated, utterly bewildered. ‘I’m sorry… I… people don’t see ghosts. We’ve been living here for quite a while…’

‘We?’ she asked, and her face clouded with worry. I imagined her imagining the mahogany stair-rails teeming with shouting and whooping ghosts, with elderly transparent men walking up and down the corridors and making the odd remark on so-and-so painting and how it could use some darker shading here and there.

‘Oh – just me and my brother, Henry,’ I explained. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.’

‘It’s quite hard not to scare a fourteen-year-old girl if a ghost in fluorescent nightwear comes into her room,’ she remarked, with a good-natured laugh. ‘So you mean that you…’ She blushed, unsure whether to carry on. ‘You… can you be my secret friend?’

‘It gets quite lonely,’ Hannah told me wistfully. ‘My parents are usually out and about, and I don’t have any pets… I’m so glad to have met you.’

‘If I’m honest, so am I,’ I mutter, surprised at myself. ‘I liked you the moment you invaded my room.’

‘My room,’ the girl corrected, with a cheeky smile.

‘We were here first!’ I argued, picking up a pillow and preparing for war.

‘Hmm… I didn’t see you last summer,’ Hannah countered, and attacked. Cushions flew in all directions as we began a vicious pillow fight. In the end, she won, and as a prize she claimed

once and for all that the room was hers. We talked a little more about her life, and my notlife, until we silenced, both hearing loud footsteps approaching the door…

Two pairs of footsteps approaching the door. I dived under the bed and Hannah hastily picked up the pillows that were strewn across the floor. Our first visitor was the tall, twisted man, who was wearing a nightgown with black vertical stripes that made him look even taller. He frowned at Hannah and alerted her that breakfast was to be in fifteen minutes, then strode swiftly away. Next, Henry walked in.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked me, as I crawled out from under the bed. Hannah was frozen with shock. ‘And why do you keep looking at the girl?’

‘This is Henry?’ “the girl” asked, looking first at me, then Henry.

‘Yes…’ I replied. The whole situation was quite perplexing. ‘Hannah can see us,’ I said shortly, ignoring Henry’s reaction, ‘and right now she needs to get dressed, so let’s leave her in peace.’

As Hannah put on a lovely red dress, Henry asked me everything about her.

‘It’s fine, Henry,’ I replied, smiling. ‘It’s part of being a ghost, isn’t it? Settling in with humans.’

‘But I…’ he looked shaken. ‘Martha, it’s… you won’t stay as a ghost just for her, will you?

We agreed we would both move on…’

‘Stay as a ghost?’ I asked, feeling a shudder of unease. Henry looked dead serious.

‘Death,’ he muttered. ‘Death is coming tomorrow.’

‘Death,’ I echoed. ‘Oh no. Oh no. Oh no. I had forgotten…’

The day was beautiful, ringed with dew and the little violet flowers that sprang up around the manor, and it almost washed away the guilty dread of Death coming. Henry had left Hannah and I to play all day, letting me have one more day with the girl, before I left. It was a rush of colour, excitement and laughter. But in the evening, as her parents put her to bed, I hid in the corner. My stomach was sick with nerves. This was my chance.

‘Good night, Hannah,’ I said hoarsely. I was choking.

‘Ditto,’ she replied, smiling softly. ‘Let’s play again tomorrow!’ I felt a hot mess of emotions descend over me.

‘Hannah, there’s something I need to tell you,’ I whispered. She nodded uncertainly. ‘I can’t… stay a ghost forever.’

‘Oh! That’s all? It’s alright. I will have grown up by that time anyway… I’ll have lots of friends in a big city…’ She sighed contentedly, drawing images of her luxurious future in her mind.

‘I just…’ I swallowed, and my voice broke. ‘I have to leave tomorrow.’

Hannah sniffed into her handkerchief. I glanced at the clock, which had marked exactly half an hour of crying.

‘Tomorrow you’ll have to go to the Underworld?’

‘…I… don’t have to.’

‘You what?’ she looked up at me, hope glinting in her eyes. ‘You won’t have to? But…’

‘But I promised Henry,’ I muttered, blushing. ‘I… I promised.’ I retreated into the kitchen, mind racing.

I couldn’t break a promise to Henry.

Could I?

I woke in the dark of the night; a cold breeze ripped through my open window, pulling open my eyelids. I crept through the corridor, hoping to see one last snatch of my new, sleeping best friend, and the wind followed me through the house, lingering on corners and fluttering along carpets. I felt a faint sensation of urgency as I hurried past busts of Pythagoras, Shakespeare, Winston Churchill and up the familiar moth-laden staircase, skidding to a halt by the mahogany door marked ‘Nursery’ which was, in fact, Hannah’s bedroom. The wind was still obediently tagging behind, jumping and whispering a little, as if telling me to open the door.

‘I can’t leave Henry,’ I said, to nobody in particular, resting my palm against the handle.

‘She doesn’t have to see me go…’ I pressed my lips together decisively and marched back down the corridor. But the little wind was getting agitated now, swirling up in little clouds, still hovering by the door. Open it, it was screaming in my head. You can’t leave without saying goodbye – this is your last chance –

I sprinted back and wrenched the door open. Hannah gasped and sat up in bed.

‘Martha?’ she cried, as the wind steadily grew louder behind me. Terrified, we both stared at the small black hurricane that was beginning to roar - Henry ran into the room, wide-eyed and confused-

‘Good evening; I am Death.’

My eyelids flickered as the wind morphed into a tall, slim man. He was dressed in an elegant black suit and his face was dark under a perfectly drawn black hairline. Hannah pulled the duvet over her head.

‘I understand this is your…’ the man flicked his hand with barely noticeable disgust.

‘Human friend?’ He looked intently at me, his lips pressed tightly. I felt a sharp prick of panic.

‘Yes… sir…’ I felt my words dissolving. ‘I, um, I don’t know… how she can…’ Death threw his head back and laughed a horrible, dark laugh.

‘Oh, little girl, your desire for human company and her desire for a friend melted my heart. I needed a little drama. So who will you choose, then?’ He turned to Henry, who glanced at me with dread, and then at the lump under the blanket that was Hannah, and finally looked back at me. ‘Hmm? We don’t have all day!’

My mind brimmed with possibilities. Make a run for it and escape either fate? Attempt to kill Death (ha!) and in doing so not have to choose at all? Pick Henry, and live blankly ever after, having forgotten everything that makes me, me? Pick Hannah and make our friendship even closer, cutting myself off from my family? My heart was thumping, grappling for a solution. Death was checking his pocket-watch. Hannah had crawled out from under the covers and was looking at me with longing and despair. Henry’s eyes were filled with hurt and doubt. I had never felt something rattling me so fiercely. Hannah or Henry? Henry or Hannah? My thoughts whizzed round and round in my head until all I could hear or think was something along the lines of HAENNRAH and a steady booming.

‘Come on, little girl,’ muttered Death, sounding bored and a little annoyed. ‘I’ve never seen someone choose so long.’ My head was pounding with confusion as I turned on Death, stumbling a little, mustering the only emotion I could.

‘You can’t do this!’ I yelled. ‘You can’t make me choose and then complain! You forced me into this decision! You gave me a new friend, only to pull her away from me! Is this really who you are? A scoundrel who tears people’s lives apart and thrusts them into the dark?’ My head was screaming, but I couldn’t stop. ‘Have you done this to other people? Do they deserve it? Are you really as powerful as you look?’

Death put his ice-cold fingers on my chin, laughing, and stared at me intently, looking straight into my soul. I felt his touch freezing my face.

‘Come on, little girl,’ he whispered. ‘Shall we put my power to the test? I might be mortal, but…’

‘N-no-’ I cried, barely registering the fact that Death had admitted he was mortal.

‘Oh, let’s,’ he grinned, with the air of a small child eating chocolate. ‘Let’s see how quickly I can make you choose.’ He clicked his fingers and Hannah yelled in pain. I looked to her with horror, seeing tight black ropes bind her to the bed. He clicked his fingers again and Henry was chained to the wall. It was terrifying.

‘And now for the final touch,’ he smiled, and unsheathed two black knives. The picture blurred before my eyes.

‘QUICKLY, MARTHA!’ screamed Hannah, as Death placed one of the knives across her neck.

‘Please,’ sobbed Henry, as the second knife was put against his neck. ‘Martha, you have to choose.’

I looked back at Death, who was grinning. Some malevolent necklace was jangling about his neck. I peered closer and saw a charm of three dogs’ heads. Three dogs’ heads? Cerberus. My ancient history course came flooding back to me. Cerberus? Hades… Death was… of course Death was Hades! Hades… weaknesses… I urged my brain faster as my loved ones writhed under the blades. Suddenly, from the ashes of a chaotic wildfire a plan formed. Hades’ only weakness was Persephone. And Persephone was in the master bedroom, in this house

I was a weak girl, but a nimble one. I prayed that a ghost’s body had the same abilities as the human form as I rushed to Hannah and ripped the knife from her neck. Death grabbed the other weapon, as if in defence, but fighting was not my intention. Hades could not be let off so easily. As I rushed across the landing, Death followed me, still clutching his second knife. I slid into the master bedroom and crept past the sleeping couple towards the huge, framed painting. The goddess was quite beautifully depicted; a young woman with curly wheatcoloured hair and blue-green eyes. However, I gave her no mercy. Hades saw her and realised the game was up. I tore Persephone off the wall and readied myself.

With a sickening rip, the shiny blade slashed through Persephone’s pretty face. I shred the painting into tatters, watching Death’s face contort with deadly pain. He gasped faintly as I dropped the picture to the carpet, stamping on it for good measure. Hades’ eyes darkened,, then glowed bright as he stood over his ruined wife. I might be mortal, but… the mighty “god” fell to his knees.

‘If she goes down, I go down,’ he breathed, and I realised I would not have to finish him off at all. The man stroked the cold blade of his knife and, with a face of stone, plunged it deep into his heart as he dissolved into a brilliant mass of gold.

Death was dead, and I would never have to choose between friend or family.

Sophie Oldfield

Eugénie Tucker, ‘Hemera’

How should we approach art by morally bad artists?

How do we weigh an artist’s prowess against their personal evil? Do we believe genius should get special dispensation? On the other hand, do we believe personal evil should get special dispensation? How should we approach art by morally bad artists?

Art is at the core of our existence, whether you think so or not. From the texts and paintings we study, to the roads we walk down and the adverts that get thrust in our faces, we’re surrounded by artistic expression. But what if this artistic expression comes from an anti-semitist, a misogynist, or someone convicted of sexual assault? Can we keep consuming their art? Or do we need to avoid it? Do we need to boycott it? Yet at the same time, should we really be cancelling great art just because of a problematic creator?

“The way you consume art doesn’t make you a bad person, or a good one” writes Clare Dederer, author of Monsters, a book concerning the topic of how we should approach art created by monstrous men. But surely the way we consume art is important - choosing whether to actively give a creator financial support, choosing whether to give its franchise publicity, choosing whether to support them and their legacy.

One artist remembered for his misogynistic streak is Pablo Picasso; a genius artist quoted for saying to his partner Françoise Gilot that "women are machines for suffering." and that, "For me there are only two kinds of women: goddesses and doormats."

In Marina Picasso’s memoir, Picasso, My Grandfather, she writes that "He submitted [women] to his animal sexuality, tamed them, bewitched them, ingested them, and crushed them onto his canvas. After he had spent many nights extracting their essence,

once they were bled dry, he would dispose of them." Here we can see how his misogyny directly led to his art, and therefore where our moral questions should come in. Should I be enjoying this art if I know several women suffered to create this? Should I promote this art? In doing so am I promoting this treatment of women? It seems that Picasso’s art only exists in this complexity - we can only enjoy his art due to the women who cared for him and organised his life, and due to the women who were abused by him. Perhaps that is a part of history too important to be forgotten.

So instead of not promoting, not enjoying, and not viewing Picasso’s art, maybe it should be approached critically, with art galleries giving context for the creation of art pieces and therefore giving the general public the opportunity to see both the light and the shade. Case in point: in 2023 the Brooklyn Museum mounted an exhibition called It’s Pablo-matic - celebrating the complexity of his work.

One artist, who has been banned in some places however, is Richard Wagner. He was a sworn anti-semitist, writing in his

essay Judaism in Music about the Jews’ lack of musicality, trying to prove that they had no talent. Though having died six years before Hitler’s birth, he was also Hitler’s favourite composer and used in the background of many Nazi events. Due to this, Israel has had Wagner’s music informally banned from its concert halls and radio broadcasts since the 1930s, and though his music is frequently performed across the rest of the word, this ban is still in place to this day. The Symphony Nova Scotia performs his music on occasion but believes that “performances should be accompanied with acknowledgement and condemnation of Wagner’s extremely problematic personal views.” Perhaps this is guidance for how we should approach all art, accompanying it with context to allow us to better understand the artist, as well as the art itself.

Someone else who has very recently come to the foreground in offence towards minority groups is J.K. Rowling, whose perspective on trans-people as a TERF (trans-exclusionary radical feminist) has tainted Harry Potter fans’ and the general public’s view of the Hogwarts world. We are now faced with a choice - do we

continue to support her work, read her books and watch her movies, knowing full well that the lives of many trans people have been made difficult by her influential views? Or do we stop giving her publicity and financial support, and take away her platform in solidarity with the trans community? Many fans have decided not to support J.K. Rowling directly, but instead buy say, Harry Potter related items, from small businesses that have no affiliation with her and that may even donate to trans supporting charities, therefore helping to combat the issue. People may continue to read her books and even post on social media about it, but also raise awareness about Rowling’s problematic opinions. They are still enjoying the worlds she created, but

through a critical lens, and without directly supporting her.

Another way to think about how we should approach complex art is by looking at how we approach Haruki Murakami’s books. He’s well known for his masterful storytelling abilities, yet amongst that lies either at one end, vulgar depictions of women, or at the other, a lack of vivid, fleshed out portrayals of women. Not much

lies in between. Yet though we’re aware that he writes the way he does and portrays women the way he does, we just understand that it’s part of the art, part of its voice, and therefore view the books through a critical lens, still allowing them a deserved place on our shelves and prize winner lists. The literary community’s approach to his work is, yet again, not to cancel it. Instead, readers are actively

aware of his problematic depictions, and actually, so is Murakami himself. When asked if he was consciously changing the way he was writing about women, he said “I can’t really say. I’ve never thought about it [...] I just make an effort not to write anything into my stories that would hurt or show contempt for someone because they’re male or female. Or could that be an ism in itself? You could call it Murakamiism if you like.” He realises that his art may be misogynistic in some ways but lets his audience work out how they want to view it and approach it. For after all, isn’t it true that once out in the world, a piece of art can no longer be controlled by the artist and becomes the viewer’s to shape?

And finally, a slightly different take on this question, but an important one. In early 2023, Roald Dahl’s children's books began to be rewritten to remove language deemed offensive by Puffin, the publisher. I want to question whether that’s necessary. While it may be vital in our society of changing family structures to swap “mothers and fathers” for “parents”,

do we need to cull the word “fat” from our children’s vocabulary? In earlier editions of James and the Giant Peach, the Centipede says “Aunt Sponge was terrifically fat / And tremendously flabby at that,” and, “Aunt Spiker was thin as a wire / And dry as a bone, only drier.” where in the new version editors have replaced it with “Aunt Sponge was a nasty old brute / And deserved to be squashed by the fruit,” and, “Aunt Spiker was much of the same / And deserves half of the blame.” The replacements, in my opinion, are not only written less well, but also detract from the story that the author was trying to tell. It may have been an unkind and harsh story, but that was the nature of it, and Dahl chose to write it for that reason. Cancelling all hints of cruelty or malice in our children’s books closes up conversations that parents, teachers and siblings can have with young children about how we should act as people in the world.

The way I see it, Roald Dahl tried to approach topics in his children’s books that may be deemed too much for children, but are in fact perfectly alright. He tried to broaden children’s horizons and get them thinking about the vulgar, the unexpected, and the scary; and in turn the joy that can be found within all that. Cutting out selected words here and there ultimately ruins Dahl’s original vision and takes away some of his authenticity. Not only that, though trying to make the books seemingly more fit for all generations, it ignores the issues we face in the real world that Dahl was trying to get children to grasp with. After all, if all children’s books had the word ‘ugly’ cut out of them, how would our children learn that that’s not an okay thing to call someone?

Steven Spielberg, speaking about these cuts, said that "For me, it is sacrosanct. It's our history, it's our cultural heritage. I do

not believe in censorship in that way." And while speaking about his film ET: The Extra-Terrestrial, he made some wise points that I think we should all take on board regarding censorship and editing of art: “All our movies are a kind of a signpost of where we were when we made them, what the world was like and what the world was receiving when we got those stories out there.” He makes a very good point about how art is a reflection of the world we are living in, of our circumstances and therefore teaches us lessons about the past that we shouldn’t be forgetting. But most importantly he said that “No film should be revised based on the lenses we now are, either voluntarily, or being forced to peer through.” We wouldn’t like it if in 100 years our records of existence were erased and changed to fit the people of the 22nd century, because we’re recording the reality now, the stories we need telling now, whether they’re deemed problematic in the future or not.

Ultimately, we have to keep these pieces of art, problematic or not, lest we forget

about the issues that surround them, and therefore our history.

So, can one love art but hate the artist? I have by no means unpacked the nuance of this question, merely scratched the surface and hopefully given you some food for thought, but here’s my takeaway:

Perhaps the key is to think analytically; to try and view the entire picture; to understand the artist and their background. To understand that enjoying their art does not mean supporting their beliefs, and that art can be viewed critically. To notice when something they say or have said, do or have done, is problematic. To be aware of that. To not say that morality is more important than art and silence the voices of those who have important messages to say. Everyone has a story to tell; perhaps the key is to promote artists for their art, for what they were good at, and what they should be remembered well for, without forgetting the context. As the saying goes, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it”.

That’s not to say that artworks cannot be enjoyed singularly, for once they’re released into the world, they’re in the receiver’s hands, no? The interpretation of the art does lie with the reader/viewer/listener/observer. But the art is undoubtedly connected to its creator, and so we, as consumers, as citizens of the world, have a responsibility to decide what messages we want to spread and promote. We have a responsibility to learn from our past mistakes and improve our world for future generations. So, let’s not separate the art from the artist, let’s not make morality triumph over art, but let them live harmoniously. For if we do not do this, as Oscar Wilde warned us, “Art will become sterile, and Beauty will pass away from the land.”

Alice Shaw

My Brilliant Friend - Elena Ferrante

A beautiful book, which grabs and captures you, from the first to the last page. Excellently written, with a fluent and captivating style.

Set in a neighbourhood in Naples, it tells the story of the, sometimes conflictual, friendship of Elena and Lila. A friendship that despite everything stays strong over time, two souls that complete and destroy each other. A story of violence but also of redemption. The story of those who made it, in their own small way. A history of Naples, of dissatisfaction but also of desire, and a push for change. I was moved and really liked this book. Elena Ferrante's way of writing grabs you and involves you. My Brilliant Friend is the first book in the Neapolitan Quartet, a series which I thoroughly enjoyed reading, both in Italian and more recently in English.

Ms. Laura Alboni

Around Baden-Baden

Descending through the windy streets of the German resort town of Baden-Baden, I take a side path away from the bustle of the high street towards the forest - hard, pointy, sable cobbles underfoot. Beaming light through the chilly air, the sparkling sun offers a benefaction of brightness in the icy early December morning. Like the low hum of an airplane engine at cruising altitude, the swirling wind’s song echoes in my ears. In summer she is drowned by the tourists’ hubbub, but now, when serenity is almost palpable, she enchants these narrow lanes free of rental cars. The evergreen landscape remains true to its name: an unwavering block of viridian. The subtle scent of pine suddenly changes into aromas of fresh bread and piping hot coffee. Where’s it coming from? I look to my left, and in a red cursive font on a chestnut brown awning, I see the words “Baeckerei Schmalzried” - Schmalzried’s bakery. Germany is the bread capital of the world, and this region, BadenWuerttemberg, is the nation’s bread epicentre. For those who dare to look beyond tourist-oriented pretzels, there are numerous specialities to be found in such family establishments. For example, dinkelbrot is a hearty, traditional bread made with spelt, rye, and sourdough; currybrot is flavoured with curry powder resulting in a saffron-yellow bread with unmatchable umami flavours. But I must resist such enticements for now and seek even greater delights: the forest. Only a short meander away, and now no one is in sight. Gone are the pragmatic redbrick guesthouses. Instead, I notice tall cavernous homes with red-tiled roofs resembling the compact, overlapping armour plates of an armadillo. These roof tiles are typical of the Black Forest:

historically, the thriving timber industry and a scarcity of work in the winter made hand carving tiles for the wealthy a viable livelihood for workers, creating immaculate Brothers Grimm sugarhouses.

Standing on the side of a grey, lethargic stream, I peer into a deer enclosure through the gaps of a wired (but not electric) fence. These expansive green sanctuaries are bordered by colossal spruce trees. (Deer are a beloved part of the region’s haute-cuisine, which boasts the most Michelin-starred eateries in Germany.) The incline of the enclosure is so steep I have to crane my neck to spot any deer.

Ah, I see one! A small, chocolate-coloured fawn, dappled black, which is bounding zealously down the hill. He is clumsy, probably taking his first steps, judging by his willowy legs and knobbly knees that wobble under his weight. He leaps towards the sprawling roots of an evergreen near me. Will he crash? Luckily, his perilous journey ends with a plunge into a watering hole.

I walk along the perimeter of the enclosure for a few minutes, trying to locate any more damwildgehege

Oh, what a sight! It is his majesty himself, stationed in the forest clearing. Like an Ottoman sultan, his mere shadow commands the rest of the herd, his Blue Mosque a corpse of fir trees made of scintillating emerald-green needles. The stag’s sleek coat is a dark tawny, muscles rippling underneath. With unquestioned sovereignty, he flaunts his sprawling, chiselled, powerful antlers. He steadies them in the pure air with stoical poise as he lounges, relishing the midday sun.

Benjamin Danesh

Edward Small Plays Detective

In retrospect, it may not have been the greatest idea to stay in a bothy on the night of the winter solstice. There was the unbearable cold (and no logs in my bag), the lack of light, and then there was the excess of dead bodies.

It had only been a few months since the vampire disaster on Dartmoor, so I am not quite sure what I was thinking when I told my cousin, Janet, that my dog Algy and I would be spending the night in a bothy, and that she was invited. Of course she refused to come. She hastened to add that it was a stupid idea, and asked how I was going to keep warm (for I certainly don’t have the strength to chop firewood), or manage to do anything in the darkand did I even own a decent sleeping bag? Annoyed, I replied that I would practise with an axe (I once went to an axe throwing birthday party in Shoreditch), I would buy a very strong head lamp, and I did in fact own a sleeping bag because I was an ex-scout. To prove my worth to Janet, at quarter to eight on the morning of the winter solstice, Algy and I began our march through an enormous northern forest, map in hand, towards our destination.

We had only been walking fifteen minutes when I felt something cold on my cheek- and then again a couple of seconds later. It had begun to snow! I live in the south of England, so my first and only reaction was excitement. I did not worry about how cold it would be in the bothy, or just how much snow there might be. Our hike certainly would be more exciting for the snow, but not necessarily in the way I wanted or expected. During the last section of the walk, I realised that there was no longer a path. We were forced to make our way through the dense and now frozen undergrowth of the pine forest. It was icy, and snow was beginning to weigh down the trees so that one slight movement would shake down heavy white clumps. Algy was pulling me along when he suddenly stopped. I tried to walk on but he would not move. I crouched down and patted his head. Reassured, he set forward, but only for a few seconds before he jerked backwards and halted. He put himself onto my right foot and would not budge. Algy would never allow me to carry him under normal circumstances (other than when he is having a bath, which is rare). I picked him up, and he made no fuss. It was then that I saw masses of snow falling from the trees onto the ground only five or so metres away. I could feel little Algy’s heart racing when I glimpsed the shape of a man hurtling through the forest ahead. I blinked and that was the last I saw of him. I was shocked, but I knew that we were only a few minutes from the bothy, so I resolved to continue and hoped that other people would be there to explain what Algy and I had both clearly seen.

In general, I had had enough of the supernatural. I had almost been killed by the ghost of Martha Ailward, and been trapped in an abandoned hotel with vampires hell-bent on bringing my cousin, my dog and I into the fold of the undead. I really hoped that whatever was going on now, it had nothing to do with vampires, goblins, nor anything ghostly. When I entered the bothy, no one was inside. It was three o’clock and I was cold. I decided that I should wait until it got even colder to make a fire, since there wasn’t much wood. I inflated my roll mat inside one of the side rooms and took out my and Algy’s sleeping bags. Dog sleeping bags are surprisingly pricey, and Algy tends to use mine instead of his, but I figured I should invest in one for him, considering that Janet refuses to camp or trek with

me. Algy began work destroying the only chew toy I had brought for him, and I played some solitaire. I can count on my fingers the number of times that I have won at solitaire, but I suppose one day I’ll have a winning streak, and by then I’ll have put enough effort in to become world champion!

It got colder and I put both Algy’s and my fleeces on.

At around quarter to four, the sky began to darken. The snow had settled around and it was freezing, but peaceful. I pulled out Hercule Poirot’s Christmas and my thermos flask of tea. I started to read with a headlamp on. Algy slept soundly, seeming to have forgotten about the person in the forest. Tomorrow, there would only be two days left until Christmas: mince pies, movies and all- and there was already snow! Finally, a white Christmas! I promised myself I would wait until six o’clock for dinner: pasta with tomato sauce, and some Tesco mince pies. For now I kept to bourbons and gingernuts.

At long last, my watch beeped six o’clock. Algy ate his kibble and tuna, then it was time to pull the stove out. Every camping stove I have used has taken roughly forever to boil water, the water in the stream has turned icy, so change of plan - I put the sauce into my macaroni cold and wolfed it down. It was really time to start a fire. I decided to have just one mince pie before I ventured to the outhouse for wood.

I was nibbling the last crumbs out of the wrapper when I heard a scream. I ran to the door with Algy. Algy dragged me by the lead towards the outhouse. On the chopping block lay the man in the from the forest, a massive axe protruding from his neck. His blood was dripping onto the ground. I put my hand to his throat. There was no pulse.

All I knew that the first thing to do was call the police. The call would not go through. I tried over and over again, but to no avail. We were trapped with a dead body. I brought logs into the bothy and started the fire. Time passed, another mince pie was gone, another few logs wasted. All I had was three more pieces of timber.

It was then that I heard the whirring sound of a propeller coming towards the bothy, getting clearer and louder by the second. I waved madly at the helicopter. It was strange that it should have come, since not a single one of my calls had actually got through to the police.

When the helicopter landed, a tall man walked out and Algy started to bark at him. He walked up to me. ‘We received an anonymous call four hours ago, saying that a dead body had been found at this bothy this evening. Is that correct?’

‘It is correct, but I have only been attempting to place calls for the last forty five minutes. In any case, none of my calls actually connected. Somebody had either already killed this man, or knew that he was going to die. Can you trace the call?’

‘Assuming you are Edward Small, it was traced to your phone. The call was placed at the bothy, four hours and eight minutes ago.’

‘I am Edward Small, but I really didn’t make any calls until three quarters of an hour ago. Look, I can show you.’ I handed him my phone, but he waved it away.

‘It doesn't matter now. I will examine the body. Have you touched the crime scene?’

‘No, other than to check the victim’s pulse. I can show you where it happened.’

Without replying, the man marched to the outhouse. There was nothing there. No blood, no body. All that was on the cutting table was the axe that I had never even touched. Algy sniffed the ground, expecting a scent, but found nothing either.

The policeman turned around. ‘On a night like this, where so many others need our help, you decided to make a hoax call from the middle of nowhere? People are trapped in the snowstorm, but you have wasted the time of both mountain rescue and the police force for a prank call. Mr Small, you have committed a serious crime and I am afraid I will have to arrest you.’

‘I did nothing. I never even made that call - I swear to you, there was a body here. I even saw the man who was killed, I saw him in the woods earlier. When I found the body it was horrible, an axe in his head and blood all over the snow. I don’t know what’s happened, but I know that a murder did happen tonight, even if someone is trying to conceal it.’

‘What time did you arrive at the bothy, Mr Small?’

‘Three thirty.’

‘So you could have placed the call?’

‘Yes, but I didn’t. Someone came and used my phone. I wouldn’t have been afraid to use my real name.’

‘Mr Small, I will be taking you into custody for the time being.’

‘How many times must I tell you? I did not place that call! A murder happened here, and I am going to prove it! In any case, what are you going to do with my dog?’, I said, ‘Surely he can’t be taken into custody too?’

The policeman sighed. ‘He will be taken to a friend or family member, if you’ll specify one.’

‘Janet Lightwood-Small. She lives at Holly House near Housesteads in Cumbria. You can find the address on google maps.’

Three days later…

It had never crossed my mind before that I might spend Christmas day in a prison cell, but every hour that passed, I was coming closer to it. I just sat in my cell, waiting, feeling sorry for myself and praying to be given a mince pie.

I could still see the dead body in my mind, and I could still remember putting my phone into my hiking bag. Someone or something must have been with Algy and I at the bothy. They had taken my phone and they had killed the man. I was going to find out who had done this, whatever it took.

It was late on Christmas Eve when I heard a familiar bark from the front of Hexham police station. The superintendent was tall and Algy hated tall men, particularly the postman. Janet’s voice got louder and louder. She was a lawyer and if there was one thing I trusted , it

was her ability to win an argument. I stuck my ear through the bars and I listened to her droning on about rules and procedures until heavy steps began to get closer to the cell.

‘You’ve been bailed, Mr Small. Get out of the cell. Don’t think you’re going to get out of this so easily though. Your first court hearing is on the third of January. We’ll see what happens then.’

By then, it was midnight, and the superintendent practically thrust us out of the station.

‘It probably wasn’t the greatest idea of yours to go stay in that bothy after all, was it?’

‘I know you think it’s funny, Janet, but I don’t know how we’re going to get out of this one!’

‘Yes, but if you didn’t make that call, who did? And what happened to that man?’

‘That’s what we need to find out, but after spending three nights in a bothy and a prison cell, I think I’d like to go to bed now.’

I collapsed into Janet’s guest room, and despite the disgusting lavender scent that fills that place, I slept like a baby.

Over Christmas lunch, I told Janet the whole story. I was describing the helicopter landing when we heard a car pull up the driveway.

‘Who could that be?’, I asked her. Janet’s nearest neighbours lived five or so miles away, and she barely knew them - certainly not well enough to come on Christmas day. We sat, waiting for a knock on the door. None came. Five minutes passed. Still, no knock, no bark from Algy, no more noise.

However, when we opened the front door there was a car there. We put on our coats, shuffled towards it. Sitting at the driver’s seat was the same lifeless body of the man from the bothy.

To be continued… Sydney

Food, Glorious Food! A Christmas Carol in Recipes

Though the pun comes from the wrong Dickens novel, the point stands: one of the great parts of A Christmas Carol is the food it describes! These are my favourite Christmas Carol inspired recipes with one for each stave of the book!

STAVE ONE: MARLEY’S GHOST

(Bah) Humbug Hot Chocolate (adapted fromCatherineZhang’spepperminthot chocolaterecipe)

I think that Scrooge would have been too grumpy to take a joke or a hot chocolate, but I couldn’t help making them!

“ “Humbug!” said Scrooge; and walked across the room.

After several turns, he sat down again. As he threw his head back in the chair, his happened to rest upon a bell, a disused bell, that hung in the room, and communicated for some purpose now forgotten with a chamber in the highest story of the building. It was with great astonishment, and with a strange, inexplicable dread, that as he looked, he saw this bell begin to swing. It swung so softly in the outset that it scarcely made a sound; but soon it rang out loudly, and so did every bell in the house. This might have lasted half a minute, or a minute, but it seemed an hour. The bells ceased as they had begun, together. They were succeeded by a clanking noise, deep down below; as if some person were dragging a heavy chain over the casks in the wine-merchant’s cellar. Scrooge then remembered to have heard that ghosts in haunted houses were described as dragging chains.

The cellar-door flew open with a booming sound, and then he heard the noise much louder, on the floors below; then coming up the stairs; then coming straight towards his door.

“It’s humbug still!” said Scrooge. “I won’t believe it.”

His colour changed though, when, without a pause, it came on through the heavy door, and passed into the room before his eyes. Upon its coming in, the dying flame leaped up, as though it cried, “I know him; Marley’s Ghost!” and fell again.”

Harry Furniss’s 1910 illustration of Marley’s Ghost

(Forfourmugsofhotchocolate)

- 480ml milk

-230g milk chocolate

-2tbsp brown sugar

-1tsp peppermint extract

-mint humbugs

-whipped cream and marshmallows, if you like!

1. Chop or grate chocolate.

2. Slowly heat milk until warm (on a hob).

3. Add chocolate (on medium to low heat) and stir until melted.

4. Add peppermint extract (and optionally brown sugar, but this may only be necessary if dark chocolate is used) to taste.

5. Divide the chocolate mixture between the mugs, and place humbugs into the mixture.

6. Put whipped cream, marshmallows (and more humbugs!) on top.

STAVE TWO: THE FIRST OFTHETHREESPIRITS

The Fezziwigs’ Mince Pies (fromMary Berry’smincepierecipe)

One of the best scenes in The Muppet Christmas carol is Fozziwig’s ball…Animal on the drum kit included! Though Fezziwig probably would have had beef mince in his pies, I think Fozziwig probably would have preferred the sweet version..

In came a fiddler with a music-book, and went up to the lofty desk, and made an orchestra of it, and tuned like fifty stomach-aches. In came Mrs. Fezziwig, one vast substantial smile. In came the three Miss Fezziwigs, beaming and lovable. In came the six young followers whose hearts they broke. In came all the young men and women employed in the business. In came the housemaid, with her cousin, the baker. In came the cook, with her brother’s particular friend, the milkman. In came the boy from over the way, who was suspected of not having board enough from his master; trying to hide himself behind the girl from next door but one, who was proved to have had her ears pulled by her mistress. In they all came, one after another; some shyly, some boldly, some gracefully, some awkwardly, some pushing, some pulling; in they all came, anyhow and everyhow. Away they all went, twenty couple at once; hands half round

and back again the other way; down the middle and up again; round and round in various stages of affectionate grouping; old top couple always turning up in the wrong place; new top couple starting off again, as soon as they got there; all top couples at last, and not a bottom one to help them! When this result was brought about, old Fezziwig, clapping his hands to stop the dance, cried out, “Well done!” and the fiddler plunged his hot face into a pot of porter, especially provided for that purpose. But scorning rest, upon his reappearance, he instantly began again, though there were no dancers yet, as if the other fiddler had been carried home, exhausted, on a shutter, and he were a bran-new man resolved to beat him out of sight, or perish.

There were more dances, and there were forfeits, and more dances, and there was cake, and there was negus, and there was a great piece of Cold Roast, and there was a great piece of Cold Boiled, and there were mince-pies, and plenty of beer.

(Fortwelvemincepies) (PASTRY)

-175g plain flour

-75g cold butter

-25g icing sugar

-1 orange

-1 egg (FILLING)

-250g mincemeat (homemade or premade)

-100g chopped dried apricots

The Fozzwigs’ Ball from the Muppet Christmas Carol, 1992

1. Heat oven to 200°C/ 180°C fan/ Gas mark 6

2. Zest the orange.

3. Rub the butter and flour together slowly, using your fingertips.

4. Mix in the icing sugar and orange zest.

5. Beat the egg, and mix it in. A dough should form.

6. Leave to rest in the fridge for 15 minutes.

7. Mix the mincemeat and chopped apricots together.

8. Set aside some pastry for the tops of the pies. Roll out the rest and cut out twelve rounds (with a roughly 8cm diameter cutter).

9. Use these rounds to line a muffin tin.

10. Distribute the mincemeat mixture between the cases.

11. Roll out the rest of the pastry and cut out shapes for the tops of the pies.

12. Bake for roughly 12-15 minutes (until golden brown) and serve warm.

STAVE THREE: THE SECOND OF THE THREE SPIRITS

The Ghost of Christmas Present’s Roast Chestnuts (FromLuluGrimes’s RoastChestnutrecipe)

Of the ghosts in A Christmas Carol, the Ghost of Christmas Present is probably my favourite. One of the highlights of his feast is roast chestnuts, so here they are!

Heaped up on the floor, to form a kind of throne, were turkeys, geese, game, poultry, brawn, great joints of meat, sucking-pigs, long wreaths of sausages, mince-pies, plum-

puddings, barrels of oysters, red-hot chestnuts, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears, immense twelfth-cakes, and seething bowls of punch, that made the chamber dim with their delicious steam. In easy state upon this couch, there sat a jolly Giant, glorious to see; who bore a glowing torch, in shape not unlike Plenty’s horn, and held it up, high up, to shed its light on Scrooge, as he came peeping round the door.

“Come in!” exclaimed the Ghost. “Come in! and know me better, man!”

Scrooge entered timidly, and hung his head before this Spirit. He was not the dogged Scrooge he had been; and though the Spirit’s eyes were clear and kind, he did not like to meet them.

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Present,” said the Spirit. “Look upon me!”

(For16ormorechestnuts)

-16 (or as many as you like!) chestnuts

1. Preheat the oven to 200C/180C fan/gas mark 6.

2. Placing each chestnut on a chopping board, flatter side

Quentin Blake’s 1995 illustration of the Ghost of Christmas Present

down, use a sharp knife to cut a slit or cross in the top. Cut through the shell, but not the actual nut. The shell is tough but flexible, rather than hard.

3. Arrange the nuts on a baking sheet, cut side up and roast for 30 minutes, until the cuts open and the shell begins to peel back. If the shells do not peel after that time, roast for another 5-10 minutes (but don’t burn them!).

4. Leave to cool, but put a board or plate over so that the steam is trapped and they are easier to peel.

STAVE FOUR: THE LAST OFTHESPIRITS

The Cratchits’ (mini gingerbread) House (FromCassieBest’sgingerbread housetopperrecipe)

The Cratchits’ makes a great gingerbread house: it’s warm, cosy and imperfect, much like most of the ones that I make!

At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being tasted, and considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovel-full of chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Cratchit family drew round the hearth, in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, meaning half a one; and at Bob Cratchit’s elbow stood the family display of glass. Two tumblers, and a custard-cup without a handle.

These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden goblets would have done; and Bob served it out with beaming looks, while the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily. Then Bob proposed:

“A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!”

Which all the family re-echoed.

“God bless us every one!” said Tiny Tim, the last of all.

(Foreightmugtoppers)

-125g unsalted butter

-100g dark brown sugar

-3tbsp golden syrup

-200g plain flour

-1tsp bicarbonate of soda

-2tsp ground ginger

-250g royal icing sugar

1. Melt butter, sugar and golden syrup together in a pan on low heat until the sugar is dissolved.

2. Sift the flour, bicarbonate of soda, ginger and a little salt into a bowl. Pour the sugar mixture into this and mix using a wooden spoon until it forms a stiff dough. Cool in the fridge until it is stiff enough to handle.

3. Preheat the oven to 180C/160C fan/gas mark 4. Roll the dough out according to the following template. You will need two of each per mini house. If you like,

The Cratchits’ house from the Muppet Christmas Carol, 1992

cut out a door from the bottom of each C piece.

4. Continue to cut them out until you are out of dough! Bake for 89 minutes, then leave to cool for a few minutes more, until they are hard enough to handle.

5. Slowly mix the royal icing sugar with water until it is pipeable, then transfer to a piping bag with a small, round tip.

6. Glue B pieces to C pieces, then use A pieces to form a roof. Leave each join for half an hour before doing the next one.

7. Once the houses are stable, decorate with the remaining icing! They will keep for 5 days.

STAVE FIVE: THE END OF IT

Smoking Beadle (with grape juice!) (adapted from ElizaAction’soriginal recipe and British Food History’s recipe)

The original recipe of this came from Eliza Action’s 1845 Smoking Bishop recipe. The ‘Smoking’ part comes from the bitter oranges, but the ‘bishop’ comes from a number of alcoholic drinks that were called ecclesiasticals, all named for different orders of the clergy: port for a bishop, claret for a cardinal, and champagne for a pope! Considering that my version of Scrooge’s drink doesn’t have any wine in it, I think it’s only the drink of a beadle…like Mr Bumble from Oliver Twist!

“Hallo!” growled Scrooge, in his accustomed voice, as near as he could feign it. “What do you mean by coming here at this time of day?”

“I am very sorry, sir,” said Bob. “I am behind my time.”

“You are?” repeated Scrooge. “Yes. I think you are. Step this way, sir, if you please.”

“It’s only once a year, sir,” pleaded Bob, appearing from the Tank. “It shall not be repeated. I was making rather merry yesterday, sir.”

“Now, I’ll tell you what, my friend,” said Scrooge, “I am not going to stand this sort of thing any longer. And therefore,” he continued, leaping from his stool, and giving Bob such a dig in the waistcoat that he staggered back into the Tank again; “and therefore I am about to raise your salary!”

Bob trembled, and got a little nearer to the ruler. He had a momentary idea of knocking Scrooge down with it, holding him, and calling to the people in the court for help and a straitwaistcoat.

“A merry Christmas, Bob!” said Scrooge, with an earnestness that could not be mistaken, as he clapped him on the back. “A merrier Christmas, Bob, my good fellow, than I have given you, for many a year! I’ll raise your salary, and endeavour to assist your struggling family, and we will discuss your affairs this very afternoon, over a Christmas bowl of smoking bishop, Bob! Make up the fires, and buy another coal-scuttle before you dot another i, Bob Cratchit!”

- 750ml Grape Juice

- 3 oranges

- 8 cloves

- 250ml water

- Brown sugar to taste

1. Bake oranges whole on an oven tray at 200°C for roughly 25 minutes, until they have started to blacken.

2. Remove from oven and leave to cool, then slice.

3. Pour grape juice and oranges into a pan with the cloves and water.

4. Simmer (don’t boil!) it for 20 minutes or so.

5. Add sugar to taste, the strain if preferred.

6. Serve in small mugs or glasses.

Vera Ryten

John Leech’s 1943 illustration of Bob Cratchit and Scrooge drinking their smoking bishop!

A Puzzle By Johann

Holmes and Watson walked to the scene of the crime. The apartment was a small one. There was a living room, and a kitchen merged into one. A bathroom was located through a small door in the corner of the room. The body lay on the blood-stained carpet, a knife sticking out of its chest. He was a stout man, wearing a uniform. There was a bright Chan label on the breast pocket. He had short blue trousers and was wearing leather shoes. Suddenly, Holmes noticed a small slip of paper peeking out of the Chan label. He read the following words; “Holmes, solve the monochromatic before it is too late. Is the bishop on B5 or B6?” Holmes turned and faced a chessboard. This was the position:

(There aren’t 2 bishops, you must decide which square the bishop is on.) There was a magnet on one side of the table, and there were two other magnets on the other side, one saying B6, one saying B5. Holmes felt he needed to choose a magnet, but he wasn’t prepared to choose the wrong one. Suddenly, as the room fell silent, Holmes and Watson heard a ticking noise. It was the unmistakable sound of a bomb. It all made sense. Pick the right option, defuse the bomb. Pick the wrong option, death. Will you die or survive?

Monochromatic- this means that no light squared piece may move to a dark square and no dark squared piece may move to a light square (e.g. if a queen starts on D1 she can’t move to D2 because it is the opposite-coloured square). Answer on the next page.

Answer:

B6. Firstly, we can deduce that the knight never moved because in a monochromatic game knights cannot move. Because the pawns didn’t move off their home squares, we know that the king couldn’t move. The only possible squares the King could have moved to were all on the opposite color.

In a monochromatic game, you can split up the white army into its white-squared and its dark-squared brigades. White’s white-squared brigade starts on white and never leaves, and its black-squared brigade starts on black and never leaves. Black also has its own whitesquared and black-squared brigades.

To eradicate one of the four brigades, you have to take every piece of that coloured squared brigade. As we can see, there is only one black piece remaining, black’s white-squared king. Therefore, the whole of black’s black-squared brigade has been eradicated by white’s only remaining free-moving piece, its bishop. Hence, the bishop must come from white’s blacksquared brigade and is on B6 not B5.

If you picked the correct option, you survive! If you didn’t, you are no more.

Johann

Eugénie Tucker, ‘Hemera’

Closing Notes

“My name is Hercule Poirot and I am probably the greatest detective in the world”

- Hercule Poirot, The Mystery of the Blue Train

Poirot is probably my favourite book and TV series ever I’ve read the books and watched all thirteen seasons of Agatha Christie’s Poirot (except for the very last episode, which I cannot bear to watch!). So, when I remembered that Murder on the Orient Express was published exactly 90 years ago, I took the opportunity to tell Alice and make the theme of the ‘Spooky’ in its honour- I hope you’ve enjoyed it!

This term, Synthetic Violet has seen the largest number of people ever contribute, so I’d like to say a huge thank you to everyone who has done so- I’ve loved reading and seeing everything!

Then, thank you to Mr Buchanan, for printing all of the posters and paper copies, to Paola for the amazing PAC vouchers, and last (but certainly not least!) to Mr Green for helping so much!

Finally, Merry Christmas and a very happy new year - I hope that everyone has a brilliant holiday!

Vera Ryten, rep

Notice

Synthetic Violet the Perse Literary and Cultural magazine will be accepting submissions for the Lent term issue throughout the term and Christmas holidays.

Here is a reminder about the genres we accept (you may be published under a pen name or your own):

• verse (poetry of all kinds)

• fictional prose (short stories, creative writing etc.)

• articles/ essays on varied subjects - including all the humanities!

• book recommendations/reviews

• art (both for the covers and within the magazine)

• puzzles, in any shape or form!

Please email any contributions/queries to syntheticviolet@perse.co.uk

Back cover art by Sophie Ulrich