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Cosgrove Hall's enigmatic The Pied Piper of Hamelin , 1980.
School
Conforming, sport, tradition, marching and more conforming were the norm at school, with
the emphasis on learning facts rather than understanding or questioning. This might have
blighted me for good, as my eventual university essays were little more than observations and
lists rather than any original thinking. That only seeped through later. The arts at school were
certainly plentiful, though at the time they seemed more worthy than dynamic. Shakespeare
lost his dirty jokes; Chaucer never farted; D.H. Lawrence never ate i gs, and the boys played
girls on stage. I was way too petulent to appreciate just how much music and drama was being
of ered, or that my love af air with the arts was starting. My art master, Mike, encouraged me to
i nd my own voice. For that much thanks this was more fuli lling than learning to shoot people,
a skill I hope not to need. Another master held morally suspect but hugely enjoyable late-night
candlelit 'cof ee' evenings for a select few, with music beyond the ubiquitous Planets and Four
Seasons . Names like Purcell, Rameau and Britten somewhat intoxicated me. He had topics of
provocative paintings, and poetry I almost understood. We retired furtively back to
the dormitories, me high on newly discovered art, the others, well, high on other
newly discovered pleasures. This was Jean Brodie , the Dead Poets' Society and The
History Boys rolled into one, with maybe as much damage done. These sessions
were about natural responses, intuitive passion and some inquisitiveness. Their
illicitness causes a thirst that has yet to be sated. I don't think it ever will be, not
while I excitedly i dget in my seat as the lights go down in a theatre or a cinema.
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