#weirddreams Catch-up

I bumped into an old work colleague. She hugged me and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I think she might have had a few drinks, because she kissed me a few more times on the cheek. She explained that the company was now made up of many layers, and she illustrated this by putting her hands horizontally, on top of each other, again and again. The company had appointed a number of people from Guy Vets. She said this as if it was supposed to mean something. Just then we were approached by a group of men who were paralysing people. They did it simply by pouring a tiny amount of some liquid into your ear. They did it to me and, almost immediately, while I was still conscious, I could no longer move my limbs. I had to wake myself up to escape.

#weirddreams Farage

Surprised to see Nigel Farage appointed as the new head of our department. He's thinner than I expected, almost gaunt-looking. He told us that we had been awarded a 6% increase in funding, but that we now needed to "hustle". I asked him what that meant, was it going out and trying to attract more business, or dancing in a suggestive way? I illustrated this by twerking in front of him. Perhaps not the best career move.

The dream was also notable for the way that locations can change during a dream. Our office was (originally) in a long, winding corridor. You had to walk past a Portuguese cleaner before going through the only door off the corridor, which in turn led to some stairs and our office. When I returned after meeting Nigel (I feel we're on first name terms now), the corridor and the cleaner were still there, but now there were many doors, most of which seemed to lead into medical facilities of one kind or another. It had basically turned into a hospital.

#weirddreams Crumble rumble

A "crumble rumble" means the civil disorder that takes place when a regime breaks down. In the midst of a dream I saw this on someone's Twitter feed. To be honest, it seems rather too friendly a term for something that could result in death and destruction, but who am I to argue with the power of dreams?

#weirddreams The privileges of being an ex-prime minister

In 1993, between the end of the Relax ban and the Spice Girls first LP, I was briefly the UK's prime minister. It was only for about three weeks. However, one of the benefits of being an ex-prime minister is that you get invited to official functions. And so, last night I had to turn up at 10 Downing Street. I didn't really see much of it, just a spacious entrance hall. There were also relatively few ex-prime ministers, just Harold Wilson, Margaret Thatcher, and Gordon Brown. I shook hands with Gordon and Harold, but didn't get the opportunity to meet Margaret. She was a little way away from us, and, in the advanced stages of dementia, wasn't very responsive anyway.

My spin doctor and I (yes, I had my own spin doctor) wandered about for a bit. We didn't see anything really interesting, although there was a small whiteboard that detailed the agenda for the week, and what was going to be the focus of the following day. I can't remember what the focus was going to be, but we changed it to cheese and biscuits.

We were then all gathered together, and walked out of the front door towards an enormous limousine. For some reason three women in traditional African dress were waiting to cheer us out. Into the limousine we piled, together with David Cameron and his wife. Samantha Cameron didn't say anything (I'm not sure she ever does) but David was discussing with an adviser who should be appointed to have responsibility for early years education. He didn't appear to be taking it too seriously, but I was surprised that he was getting involved with this level of detail.

#weirddreams Alan Titchmarsh and his double

Perhaps Chelsea Flower Show wasn't the best of places to look for somewhere to play five-a-side, but suddenly through the crowd came Alan Titchmarsh, his double, and his bodyguards. It was not unlike this classic picture of Frank Sinatra, his double and bodyguards, taken by Terry O'Neill. However, Alan and his double pushed their way through and passed us without a word. I wondered later why Alan Titchmarsh would have a double, but it seems likely that he would be used on the more dangerous gardening shots - those involving forks and power tools, perhaps. It would be foolish to risk the typing fingers of Mr Titchmarsh, particularly if his tetanus injections aren't up-to-date.

#weirddreams Buying a piano

Went to a house to look at a piano we might possibly buy. The woman was hassled, with three or four children running around. We couldn't see a piano anywhere. "Oh it's there, in those bookshelves," she said. In an alcove in the living room were some red velvet bookshelves. "You just need to spin it round," she told us, and then proceeded to turn a handle on the side. The bookshelves span round and round, faster and faster, until they resembled a red velvet skirt with a tightly drawn waist. The spinning slowed, and now the bookshelves had turned into a cupboard. Opening the doors revealed a typewriter on a pull-out shelf (=a keyboard, nice joke subconscious) and an old-fashioned, although small, organ - a bit like those old-fashioned ones on which uncles played show tunes. We apologised that the size of the keyboard on the organ was too small, and we were looking for something larger. Already on the phone to a friend about something else, she shrugged, directed us to the door, and we left.

#weirddreams Running with Mark Lawrenson

I went for a run with Mark Lawrenson, the football pundit. He told me that he has his hair cut every day, but it grows incredibly quickly, so he can never get it cut short enough. To my mind this explains a lot. We started running at the top of a steep hill, and I made the mistake of running too quickly. I lost my balance, tumbled over several times and landed painfully on my face. However, by this time I was some distance ahead of Mark, who had now been joined by another pundit, Robbie Savage. I was able to escape embarrassment by continuing the run on my own.

#weirddreams Boris Johnson has split his soul into six pieces

I was invited to a reunion dinner at an Oxford college, and was surprised to meet Boris Johnson. He was surrounded by a group of six clones, each of them a slightly uglier version of Boris himself. Apparently each one of them had been given a sixth of Boris's soul for safekeeping. This was, perhaps, supposed to work like the Voldemort carve-up. However, it occurred to me later that taking all of the clones everywhere with you was probably not the most sensible of strategies.

Boris told me that Dave would be coming along later. At this point I made my excuses and left...