An unwritten law of the newspaper business is that you never publish anyone's dreams. I shall now break that law, but fear not: this wasn't one of those incomprehensible affairs in which a goldfish leaps out of its bowl, turns into my grandmother and explains quantum physics, or nuffin' like that. The dream did feature one or two slight irrationalities, but was otherwise grounded in reality.

Before going to sleep that night, I had been reading about reality: the US Budget published earlier in the week, stories of China's anger over possible arms sales by the US to Taiwan, and the economic problems facing Bermuda's Minister of Finance as she prepares this year's Budget statement. The other fact of relevance is that China holds much of the US Government's debt, in the shape of Treasury bills.

The dream began with a small absurdity: I was the Premier, Head of State, owner and sole resident of Bermuda. I had somehow become powerfully wealthy, and bought every inch of real estate on the Island. All the buildings had been knocked down, other than the airport and a fabulous mansion in Tuckers Town (in which I lived), returning the rest of Bermuda to its original, pristine condition. If you can get past all that, the balance is relatively easy to follow.

The US provided defence services to my Bermuda, but one day President Obama informed me that budgetary limitations meant he could no longer afford to do so. I therefore proposed a deal, in which I would buy the US national debt. It totals about $12 trillion, and I said that I would assume all of it. I asked President Obama to pay me 10 percent of the total value of the debt outstanding, which was the percentage of the debt not owned by China. (The actual percentage must be much larger.) The President didn't have the $1.2 trillion he would owe me to take over the US debt under such an arrangement, so I said he could owe it to me. Mr. Big Shot. It seems I had a couple of extra trillion dollars of my own (but no goldfish, because that would have been silly). The deal would have the effect of reducing the US debt by 90 percent, and increasing my own debt from zero to $10.8 trillion. Dream big, they say.

A few weeks later, in the dream, the first of the Bermuda bonds matured. I announced to a packed press conference in New York City that I would be repaying all the holders of the bonds now due, but then China's cheque was lost in the post. After some hoo-hah at the United Nations, I revealed my brilliant plan: I had cancelled all the T-bills held by Red China and would not pay them one red cent. My total debts were thus neatly reduced to what the US owed me.

Following a short, ugly bout of brinkmanship between me and the Chinese Government, the effect of all this was a new era of US well-being and the collapse of the authoritarian regime in China. I was beloved by all Americans, whom I had freed from debt and economic crisis, and by the Chinese, who could now use the Internet freely.

In a sidebar, I should point out that I was also loved by all Bermudians, since I had overpaid enormously for their real estate, sprung for their airfares and bought them fabulous houses in their new countries (where, I suppose, they would all have been expats). The grateful nations sent many of their loveliest young women to Bermuda to express their national gratitude. Several hundred of them stepped off some jumbo jets at Bermuda International Airport (still, somehow, in operation and probably renamed in my honour). Then, as almost always seems to happen in such cases, I woke up abruptly, a bitterly disappointed man.

And now you know why newspapers don't publish people's dreams.

***

News reports this week state that the reefs around Bermuda are apparently worth $722 million. Someone will need to explain to me how that could possibly be true. They can't be bought or sold; they therefore cannot have value. How much is the ocean worth, then? Or the sky? Or your daughter's love?

***

The death of JD Salinger has been well enough reported, as has his desire to remain a private man. Most found his attitude curious, particularly for a writer, whose job is to communicate with, and therefore touch, people. In today's celebrity-mad world, many want the exact reverse of what Salinger sought. He created a lasting work and then fought for privacy; today's set wants to be famous for doing nothing.

A scene from Imagine, a reality movie about John Lennon's life has remained with me. A fan appeared at the door of the Beatle's house and asked John how he knew him well enough to write all those songs about him. Lennon explained that he didn't write the songs for the fan; he wrote them for everyone. This flummoxed the fan, whom Lennon cordially invited into the house and spent time talking to. Then, of course, his fame, in the form of an assassin, killed John Lennon. His death must haunt those who find themselves in the public eye. I have no time for the famous who decry the inconvenience their notoriety brings.

If you can't stand the heat, don't write the songs. But don't lie to us (and yourself) by denying that recognition was an element of your hopes and dreams.

"You love me, you really love me," Sally Field said, on collecting her Oscar. She was wrong, of course, but at least she spoke what she thought to be the truth.

Like all bylined journalists, I have a little experience in this matter. I receive compliments and some brickbats, usually in the shape of "If you don't like it, go home". That's odd: I am home. If I criticise, I do so with the intent of making things better, not of putting Bermuda or its people down.

In this regard, the Island, as is so often the case, provides the exact balance. People know you, or of you, but they treat you the same way they treat everyone else, which is just as it should be.

For a writer, whose job has parallels with that of a bricklayer (words, like bricks, in rows and columns), there is nothing better than feedback. For a human being, there can be nothing worse than adulation, I would imagine.

Salinger knew that. His determination to avoid it did him credit, for he accepted a life of diminished possibilities as the consequences of his talent.

If he 'vonted to be alone', he'd have done worse than to move to Bermuda, where he could have been famous and yet gone about his everyday life without difficulty.