I had another mundane dream again last night. I was trying to push enormous plastic coins through a slot into some kind of plastic box but was unable to squeeze them in. This is a good example of the kind of nightmare I experience a-nights. It is a variation on another classic dream of mine when I am trying to compose a number on an old fashioned telephone dial but keep putting my finger into the wrong digit hole and am forever having to start again. They are dreams where the principal sentiments are mild frustration and trivial irritation. Blocked off from me are dreams of bliss and joy, horror and dread, pathological compulsion or ecstatic delight. No. My dreams are obsessively quotidian, bland and vapid, banal.. If they were a colour they would be a matt grey; if they were a sound they would be a middle-aged man clearing his throat. Does this reflect poorly on my inner life? After all, there are no dark quests through expressionist townscapes; few purple nights and crimson days; little in the way of daggers and poniards behind a velvet arras. Though the other night, in my sleep, I was apparently wincing in great existential angst. What was it that tormented me? A fall from the balcony of some great monochrome cathedral? Bitter tears shed in a poisonous night garden? No. Just another plastic coin that wouldn’t fit into its slot.

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