The dream was turning into a nightmare.
Not only was I working in a rabbit warren office with narrow corridors radiating from one central hub, which was lined with desks of dark brown wood, and sitting in between twins I remembered from school who were accusing me of copying, there was the malign presence of Dominic Cummings roaming the creaking floorboards.
On my way to deliver a typewritten memo, he brushed up against me in the corridor. There was a flash of pointy teeth and satanic-looking eyes as he pinned me to the door frame.
If only I could make it to the door at the end, where the nameplate said: “Queen Elizabeth II”. If I could get past him I could burst through to her room, fall at her feet and ask for a transfer.
And then, the next moment, I was on the top road near the old BBC World Service transmitting station at Rampisham, in the back seat of car with Cummings, Matt Hancock and Mr Loggins, a friend from Lush Places.
I could see in the rear view mirror (the car was being driven by Slimer from Ghostbusters) that a large truck, with a grinning grille and headlights for eyes, was rapidly approaching us from behind.
I screamed, the truck missed us but rammed straight into a car coming the other way. Bodies were flying, children were curling up in craters and I shouted that we needed to stop and help, especially as Mr Loggins had a first aid at work certificate.
But Cummings declared that it was none of our concern and put his foot down, having taken the wheel in place of Slimer without anyone noticing.
This morning, I woke up in a cold sweat, not because the car-wreck was clearly a dream interpretation of the Brexit talks running out of road but because I remembered my dream me found Dominic Cummings faintly attractive.
In an attempt to get that horrid vision out of my head, here’s a picture of my dog asleep.
That’s about it.