I have a recurring nightmare.In it, I am eight years old again, searching Uncle Teddy’s house. I’m searching frantically for something. I open boxes and biscuit tins. I shimmy under beds and into crawlspaces, discovering new hidden compartments. I think I may be searching for the deed to the property (which was an issue) or perhaps it’s my cellphone, in the peculiar logic of dreams.Around me the house, in all of its maddening perfection, keeps expanding. New hallways, new rooms. 9/