It was a dream, just a dream but I wanted to catch it before it went. I was at Cambridge University. I’d got a place on a course, though I couldn’t remember in what or whether it was for a PhD or an MA. I was in this enormous hall and climbing down these huge steps, some of which I had to let myself down bodily, towards a central part where I thought I could find someone to help me. People, students were scurrying off to lectures. Then I realised I didn’t have any paperwork with me or my notebook. I kept walking arriving in a suburban setting with houses and then rooms. A woman who looked like the typical rather dotty art teacher was standing at the threshold of one of these rooms, I could see easels and students drawing. Come in, she said clearly delighted. Her hair was grey and wild. No, I said trying to explain that I was looking for something else. Was it the English Department? Then she began to ask about my father and whether he painted. I said that he may have done. Then she wanted to know what size. I got angry with her. Why can you tell me where I’m supposed to go? I shouted. As I left I saw another door slightly ajar. Should I close it? I thought. And then I woke up.