Last night I dreamed that I had taken up an academic position in Hamilton. I seemed to have inherited it, and a large house on campus, that had been owned by my stepdad's uncle. The house was in a poor state inside from long disuse - dusty, dirty, things scattered everywhere. I was going through the books, trying to put them in order and decide what to take to my office. Most were philosophy. There was a huge old hard-cover copy of the works of a particular philosopher - it was the size of about ten bibles but all bound as a single book with one ridiculously long spine. It was unwieldy and and I was excited about owning it, telling myself I'd read it and feeling like this would legitimise my position but at the same time - deep down I knew I wouldn't. I didn't know what the philosopher was about, I didn't know where to start, and I couldn't even figure out if it was his works or - it seemed almost to be a compendium of works by others on him.

The great-uncle's son was there working on the garden - he was also an academic at the same university but he didn't look like one - he was too rough and physical. I asked him about his teaching and he deflected the question. I could see he was deeply uncomfortable and disillusioned as an academic, knew it was not the job he was good at, that in fact he was a gardener at heart and that was all he wanted to do.