Fed up of tossing and turning and meteor showers of old memories, I got up at four, made coffee and dutifully wrote up the dream in my dream-diary. Here is more fuel for what Anthony Stevens calls 'hermeneutic frustration', i.e., the 'what-the-fuck-was-all-that-about?' feeling you get when pondering the symbols thrown up behind your eyelids every night. Am I letting the coming month's teaching keep me awake, for God's sake? Well, yes. I get dreadful stage-fright before meeting new classes. There's something even more nagging in dreams this year, though. Botched performances, collapsing stage sets, awaiting execution by beheading or being pushed off a high building - it's as if I am constantly being told I'm a fake, or at least that there's something elusively inauthentic about the way I am living.
Dear, dear. Must get into the shower, got to get the bloody train at seven today. All this will seem rather odd and quaint when the sun comes up.