Theatre School for Scholars

Polkas productions are imaginative, innovative and inspiring, and provide a perfect
introduction to the magic of theatre.

Polka In Your Classroom!

Polka is delighted to be offering some great new school workshops for both pupils
and teachers. Why not bring the magic of Polka to your school?
Polka's directors, puppeteers, playwrights and actors lead workshops in your school
hall. We can work with up to thirty children at a time and tailor-make the experience
to suit your group.

These workshops based on a Polka production explore the plays themes and
production elements such as music, dance or movement.
Why not book a show-related workshop package? Our show-related workshops will
inspire and bring the shows to life using drama to explore key themes and issues.
Our workshop packages are from 200 and include:

A show-related workshop (at your school)

Free Teacher Resource Pack

Activity Sheets for the students

Join our professional puppet and prop makers as they deliver workshops exploring
either rod puppets, hand puppets, junk puppets, two dimensional puppets, junk
puppets or the art of object manipulation. Focusing on a theme or a book you are
working on in class, we can work with your group to create puppets and bring them to
life.

Let us help you make books and stories more accessible by bringing them to life in
your classroom using drama games and techniques.
Playwriting Workshops
Our playwrights visit your class and work with them on devising their own script using
creative drama techniques to focus on speaking, listening, reading and writing.

An Actors Life Workshop

Learn warms-ups, acting techniques, improvisation exercises and some of the tricks of
the trade.

Play in a Day
Our director visits your class and works with them throughout the day to devise a
play. We can focus on a specific theme or aspect of the cirriculum and using
improvisation, role play and storytelling techniques, use drama to explore other areas
of learning.

Multi-Sensory Workshops
These workshops are for SEN groups and can be adapted to suit your group's
individual needs.

A message from Baroness Floella Benjamin, this year's lead writer:

"Writing the World is such a brilliant idea and I am thrilled to be this year's writer.
When I was a child my father told my brothers and sisters and I fantastic stories from
every continent which opened our minds to the world and made us curious about other
cultures. His stories stimulated our imaginations as we visualised the characters and
places in them. I hope this exciting project will inspire children, not only to read and
enjoy storytelling, but to create their own stories, because everyone can be creative, all
it takes is imagination."

This years competition is now closed, but that doesn't mean that you can't write your
own story about London! Take a look at Floella's advice for writing a story for your
friends and family.
Floella's TOP TIPS for writing your story on London....

Set your imagination free and see what pops up.

Try to write about your experiences, your own life, your emotions or something you
like or dislike a lot.

Before you start writing a story make some notes about what is going to be in it,
you can add new ideas and move them around before beginning to write the full
story.

Make sure you plan a beginning, a middle, and an end.

You dont have to get it perfect first time, just keep writing, you can always cut bits
out, add bits or move things around. The main thing is to get it written.

Finally, I always speak out the words as I write them down as though I am telling
someone the story so the reader will get that personal feeling, the impression that I
am speaking to them and them alone!

Want some more ideas? Why not have a read of Floella's story........
THE FIFTH ARCH by Floella Benjamin
Why cant we go to Ikea and buy a new chair? Marcus moaned as he trudged along
the south London pavement not far from home.
Because I want to buy an antique chair, and Ikea dont sell antiques, his mum replied
firmly.
Arent antiques for rich people?
No theyre not! I want to buy an old chair and do it up, like this one. His mum took
the page she had torn from the glossy magazine out of her bag and gave it to Marcus.
The ornate chair in the picture was painted white except for the seat which was
covered in gold material. Its called shabby chic and thats how we are doing up the
front room, its the latest thing.

Marcuss mum loved doing things up. She was always buying old stuff which she would
repair and paint. Or old clothes from charity shops which she would alter and wear
stylishly. People would always comment on them.
You must have spent a fortune on that dress Mrs Holt, they would say and mum
would just smile, knowing she had got it for a few pounds.
Its not what you wear its how you wear it, she would say. These designer clothes
are a waste of money, back in Trinidad when I was little, we didnt have expensive
designer clothes.
How much further Mum? moaned Marcus, Im hungry.
There it is! Mum announced triumphantly.
She pointed towards the huge pile of furniture that spilled out onto the pavement
between two imposing gateposts. The centerpiece was a gold throne, its cushion and
arms covered in red velvet and a union jack draped over its back.
Around it were loads of other odds and ends, rolled up carpets, lampshades, mirrors in
gilt frames and chairs of every description. Above the gates hung a sign saying,
Alberts Furniture Emporium - Second Hand Furniture & Bric-a-Brac bought and sold.
If we dont find the right chair here, Ill eat my handbag, said mum excitedly, as they
crossed the busy road.
Beyond the gates in a small office sat a red nosed man, presumably Albert, who was
wearing an old coat, a flat cap and gloves with the fingers cut off.
Im looking for a chair like this, said mum holding out her picture.
The man nodded towards the first of the five railway arches which was piled to the roof
with old furniture. Chairs in there love.
Marcus watched his mum busily examining an old chair and decided to have a wander
around. He picked his way through the maze of stone statues, rows of assorted ornate
marble fire surrounds and stacks of wrought iron fencing, before finding himself at the
dark opening of the last arch. He peered in and his imagination raced wildly, to him it
looked like a mysterious cave which he felt overwhelmingly tempted to explore.
As his eyes adjusted to the murky light thrown by the aged fluorescent tubes, he could
make out several narrow corridors and hung on the high walls towering over him were
old oil paintings. Their dark glossy surfaces were covered in minute cracks and the
flaking gold paint on their intricate frames glittered faintly.

Looking down on him were portraits of soldiers on horses, men in armour and ladies
wearing flamboyant dresses and big flowery hats. He gazed up at magnificent
landscapes of sweeping hills and lakes, dark green forests, pictures from the past
covering every available bit of wall.
As he reached the back of the arch he was about to turn round when he glanced up
almost to the ceiling and what he saw sent a shiver down his spine. He had never seen
a sight like it before.
Inside a massive gold frame which was at least two metres tall and one wide was the
painting of a powerful man, his arms folded majestically across his bare chest. Round
his neck hung rows of intricately coloured beads. He wore a long deer skin cloak and a
head dress of eagle feathers framed his hawk like face from which two dark piercing
eyes held Marcus transfixed.
Suddenly a cold draught and a slight movement behind Marcus made him spin round.
There standing between two pillars was a very old man smiling at him, his leathery
dark brown face surrounded by an afro of pure white hair. Under his dusty black tail
coat, which hung loosely on his boney shoulders, was a yellowing white shirt and bow
tie.
Thats Hiawatha of the Onondaga tribe of Native American Indians Peacemaker and
founder of the Iroquois Confederacy, he announced reverently.
The old man shuffled closer to Marcus and gazed up at the painting with him.
That picture once hung in the Royal Albert Hall in London, back when my music was
performed there.
Are you a singer? asked Marcus enthusiastically.

No not a singer, chuckled the old man, I wrote and conducted music. My
composition Hiawathas Wedding Feast was so popular thousands of people went to
hear it. They would dress up as American Indians, like Hiawatha up there and sing
along with the music. It was like a huge choir and every one had lots of fun.
Marcuss eyed widened, Cool, he murmured.
Yes it is a bit chilly, agreed the old man rubbing his hands together.
So were you famous then?

I suppose I was, my music was played everywhere, even in railway stations. But it
wasnt easy having brown skin in London in those days, he said thoughtfully raising
his hand to his sad face. People found it hard to accept me, they said and did some
horrible things to me and my family but I didnt let them get to me.... I held my head
up high.
Its not much easier these days, shrugged Marcus looking down at his own brown
hand.
The old man sighed, You must hold your head up high too and keep smiling, never
show people the names hurt.
Marcus smiled and nodded as the mysterious man continued his story.
When I was your age my father went back to his homeland of Sierra Leone, in Africa,
leaving me and my English mother to fend for ourselves. We had a very hard time. But
I was lucky, I liked playing the violin and a man called Joseph Beckwith, became my
teacher and helped me to get into a wonderful school in London called the Royal
College of Music when I was just fifteen. There I learnt to compose music and the rest
as they say is history, he laughed knowingly. I met other composers like Elgar and
Vaughan Williams. I even went to America where my music was played.
Wow...you are famous!
Then I was asked to write a violin concerto by a rich American lady called Ellen
Stoeckel and her husband Carl. But when I had finished it..... something very
unfortunate happened.
What? gasped Marcus who by now was sitting on a pile of old frames listening
intently to the old man.
A look of great sadness came into the old mans eyes and a tear trickled slowly down
his face.
In those days the only way to send the manuscript to America was on a big ship. So I
carefully wrapped the only copy in a parcel and sent it off.....but it never got there...

Why? exclaimed Marcus, what happened to it, did the postman lose it?
No, I just I picked the wrong ship to send it on...
What do you mean, what ship was it?

It was called the Titanic....

THE TITANIC! Wait a minute Ive heard of that ship, we did it in class. Didnt it crash
into an iceberg and sink and loads of people drowned?
Thats right...it was a terrible disaster. So I had to try to write my violin concerto all
over again... from memory.
The old man sat down opposite Marcus and buried his face in his hands.
For a while there was silence. Marcus couldnt think of anything to say that could
possibly make things better. So he sat quietly waiting until eventually the old man
sighed a deep sigh, lifted his head from his hands and wiped away another tear.
Im sorry about that, he said forcing a smile back onto his face, you must think me
very rude, I never even asked your name.
Marcus...Marcus Holt...my mums just buying a chair.
Ah theres lots of those here.....I think I must have sat on all of them. My name is
Samuel but some people call me Coalie because my middle name is Coleridge....
Samuel Coleridge Taylor...pleased to meet you Marcus. Do you live round here?
Not far...just across the railway line, said Marcus pointing up as a train rumbled along
the line above them, near West Croydon station.
Ah yes I know West Croydon station well.....I lived near there once too.
Where do you live now then?
I live here now amongst all this old furniture...
Marcus, where are you? interrupted the distant voice of his mum.
Oh, Id better go....it was nice to meet you Samuel, great hearing about your music.
..... by the way, did you ever finish writing your violin concerto again?
Oh yes, I did, but it took a lot out of me and made me quite ill..... Samuel paused for
a moment, shook his head sadly and sighed deeply, ...... soon after that,.....I just ran
out of steam......Off you go now Marcus, .... and take care........Oh, and if you ever get
a chance, have a listen to my Hiawathas Wedding Feast.
I will, waved Marcus...bye!
Mum was standing by the office proudly holding a chair she had bought and Albert was
handing over the change as Marcus ran towards them excitedly.

Mum, can we stop off at that record shop you like, theres a piece of music I want to
buy....?
Where have you been Marcus, I was getting worried? said Mum.
I was just chatting to someone down there....
Oh, who was that? Mum said, a slight note of concern in her voice.
Samuel, he writes music and he lives here...in the last arch. Theres this amazing
painting in there of an Indian called Hiawatha.....
Albert looked up strangely at Marcus.
No you cant have....I sold that painting years ago...and theres no one living here
called Samuel.
Yes there is...., protested Marcus, ..... he told me all about his music, he sent some
of it to America on the Titanic.....

Marcus the Titanic sank 100 years ago! said mum shaking her head.
Kids eh...great imaginations, laughed Albert.
Come on Marcus, you can tell me all about it when we get home.
Marcus followed his mum out of the Emporium reluctantly. As he did so he looked
back over his shoulder and could have sworn he saw a wisp of white afro hair and
black tail coat disappear out of sight into the darkness of the fifth arch.
Can we stop at the record shop mum......?

THE END