I WAS trying to knit two giant tapestries together but I could not remember how to cast on ... as I crawled under the barbed wire I felt it snag my rucksack and knew I’d be caught ... the elephant was being remarkably unreasonable as I tried to feed him ham sandwiches in return for a lift to the hairdressers.
Don’t talk to me about vivid, varied dreams – I get eight of the bleeders every night and I can remember them all.
Every morning is a race to shoo them out of my scrambled mind in time to get up and get ready for work.
While the snooze button goes off I’m firing rocket launchers at insurgents or making cakes out of cat hair and my mind tries to hold on so I can finish whatever I’m doing rather than return to the real world.
Each one is a bizarre pic a mix of whatever I’ve seen on telly, conversations from the day before and the deep well of fear inside me that one day my teeth will fall out as I run away from a rebel massacre.
The only highlight is the fact that I usually get some good celebrity boyfriends now and again – Clint Eastwood (circa 1979) took me out for lasagne the other night and Jason Statham played tennis with me on one occasion.
So it’s something of a relief that this is all perfectly normal.
Women have a wider variety of dreams, according to research by Professor Kelly Bulkeley, co-author of Dreaming In The Classroom.
Further time in the lab suggests that this may be down to hormones, in which case I must have them on special offer.
And I must be shifting about a fair bit. I go to sleep in a crisp, neatly made bed and wake up with the sheet binding together my head and left arm and the pillows kicked off onto my nightstand.
It’s only a matter of time before I wake up outside in the flower beds.
A friend mentioned the other day that’s there an iPhone app that records whatever you say in your sleep. Apparently she knew someone who had it who listened with bated breath the next day only to hear himself shout excitedly: “I’m a pineapple!” Seems to me Freud would have a field day with that one.
I won’t be signing up any time soon – who knows what fevered ramblings would emerge?
Perhaps I need a trip to Ikea for their Happy to Bed campaign – the idea being if you buy a nice enough bed and some soothing lighting then you’re bound to sleep the sleep of the righteous.
I’m not convinced. Spending money I don’t have on a lamp I don’t want seems sure to induce anxiety nightmares about credit cards.
No, instead I’ll settle for boring my peers with my brain’s nightime adventures – breaking the golden rule that you should never share your dreams.
To you it is a fascinating tale of psychological insight, but to your friends it is a dream and therefore does not count as gossip since it is not real.
I may feel excited at playing doubles with Jason Statham, but my friends know he’s never going to call.