I dreamt I went to Hidden Valley again and sat in the sunlit orchestra of my youth in the wood-and-glass library of the York School. The doctor, the benign dictator who forever shaped my musical sensibilities rehearsed the Brahms Serenade in A Major, Op. 16 and although I could play the piece, I could not read the part on the music stand. My oboe stood on its instrument stand in front of me when I wasn't playing, and the reed was wrapped with violet thread. I had only a vague sense of the orchestra that surrounded me, strings, without violins in front of me, flutes to my right, clarinets and bassoons behind me, and horns in the distance somewhere. We were all golden children, sort of a classical music version of Woodstock, but without the rock'n'roll or the mud and the chaos.