A dream

I was in a strategy meeting for Jeremy Corbyn’s election campaign, in a classroom; there was a small group of us (about 10), seated at the desks. With much fanfare, Owen Jones, who was leading the meeting, revealed his big plan to win Corbyn the election: re-defining our relationship with Cuba. I wasn’t convinced (hadn’t America just done this already? would the British electorate care?) but I didn’t say anything because Stuart Hall was at the desk in front of me and he wasn’t objecting to it. I thought he would know best.

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A dream

I was at your place in London, where ***** told me that you were not in, but that I should go to the Royal Court theatre where you were an associate director. I jumped on the tube from West London, and when I got out, I could recognize the area, which resembled the Tuileries in Paris, but could not remember the direction of the Court. A passerby pointed it out for me: “You see St Paul’s, it’s the roof there”. “Ah yes,” I replied my memory refreshed, and set off. I took a shortcut I knew through a museum, but kept running into dead ends. I would go upstairs or downstairs again and again, but could not find a way that would take me forwards. Part of the museum was closed off for a black tie event and dinner. I could see some of the guests out of the corner of my eye. Eventually, I was unable to make my way through, and I woke up distressed, but determined to write to you immediately.