I dreamed I was starting work as the youngest curate in a team of three. The other two were an acerbic woman and an older man who dressed flamboyantly- off second-hand stalls- and wore a feathery musketeer's hat. I'd been directed to visit a Mrs Kinbolton who lived at Kinbolton House and whose mother had died. "I hope they've put her in a box," said the boss. The parish I later learned was also called Kinbolton- and was a district of Birmingham. I kept setting off- with my folding street map- only to be diverted. Once I found myself running out to sea with one of my colleagues to meet a gigantic wave that carried us back inland. I checked my map afterwards and it was still dry. A shadowy adviser told me not to let myself to be ordered about by "those two chicks" (by which he meant the other curates) and then, inconsistently, that I'd be fine so long as I did as I was told.