Perhaps my psyche is getting back at me for not attending the conference at Loughborough, for I've now had two Tolkien-related dreams in three nights. The first, three nights ago, was only tangentially so, but in it I found myself standing next to indefatigable scholar and fan, Jessica Yates, on a balcony overlooking a ritual in which the current queen was ceremonially (yet unceremoniously) dumped on her head by a flunky. Jessica shouted the suggestion that next time she should put down cushions, and the queen thanked her for the advice.
In the second dream, I visited Tolkien himself, in the company of nineweaving. He lived in an attractive country cottage, and was all old-world courtesy. He gave me a copy of a book, underlining passages for my particular attention. A little later we heard he had died, and were melancholy.
[I think this second one may recall a visit I made - not with nineweaving - to the poet Charles Sisson in Langport, about 18 years ago, when he generously gave me his copy of Poly-Olbion.]