A dream I had a few nights ago:

Every day, twice a day, I had to call the PGCE people to report on my doings and assure them that I was following their directives — as if I were on parole. I went through my spiel wearily, and the nameless person who was interrogating me sounded anxious, even a little desperate, as if he knew that there was an ocean between us, and there wasn't much they could do to me if I suddenly decided to tell the truth, or not to call at all. But we still went through the charade twice daily.

Then I was in a nearly empty airport, pushing a huge suitcase. On an escalator the suitcase — which was bigger than me — tipped over and tumbled down, down, down. I ran after it. When I got to the bottom of the escalator I saw that it had popped open, and its contents — a dead body — had fallen out. It was then that I remembered that I was a mortuary's courier, charged with bringing home the war dead — all the dead of all the world's wars: even those killed in their own homes had to be dragged through this limbo by me or one of my colleagues.

In retrospect this dream looks like a nightmare. But then and there I took everything in stride: without fear or squeamishness I packed the body back into its case, and continued lugging my burden through the deserted airport.