I had an awesome dream last night. It had heroes and villains, mysterious substances that had the power to turn people into mutants and an inflatable skate park. The main character was a teenage boy and he and his father ended up defeating the baddies.

I loved it. My favourite dreams are always the ones where I get to witness the action without having to play a part in the action

As always, I woke up in the middle of the night thinking to myself ‘now that dream was actually good and coherent, you should write it down.’ Followed by ‘It’s so vivid though, there’s no chance I’ll have forgotten it by the morning.’

Yeah right. The short summary from above was but a fragment of a gloriously hyper-coloured whole. But what good would writing it down have done? I never would have been able to capture the essence of such a strange experience in such a groggy state.

I’ve never successfully managed to translate any part of any of my dreams into a decent piece of writing. It doesn’t matter how hard I try to force the feelings to make sense they refuse. It makes me wonder how closely our emotions in dreams are attached to the things that are actually happening. Maybe something new to research. Or maybe I should just spend more time sleeping and less time trying to write about it.