I must shamefully open this column with an embarrassing admission: I have degrees in English literature that have clearly prepared me for nothing of importance. Smarter choices would, with hindsight, have prepared me for great things, such as the possibility of leading a great nation. Unfortunately, the only things my choices have left me with are the ability to write a little or enjoy some of the world’s greatest literature now and again.

My degrees come from recognised institutions or, to err on the side of caution, institutions that have been recognised until now. This means nothing though, because being in possession of the wrong kind of degree is a burden I will be forced to carry for the rest of my days. I feel too old to be able to get back to a life of academia, so there is no light at the end of this tunnel. I have felt melancholic for the past seven or eight years because it’s if something vital has been denied to me, some special sauce that could have turned the world into my proverbial oyster if only I had known of its existence at the time.