The time is 5.29am. I awoke from a bad dream about an hour ago and haven’t been able to get back to sleep since. Like that last olive you chase around the plate with a cocktail stick, never quite able to spear, sleep evades me, teasingly just beyond reach. And as I lay in the dark playing cat and mouse with sleep, listening to the sounds outside my window, probably of real cats and mice, it occurred to me that since I’ve been back on the prednisolone my dreams have been a lot more vivid. Now, if there’s one sentence in the world guaranteed to make my heart sink it’s, “I had this really weird dream last night.” Having to listen to other people’s dreams is my worst nightmare. I’m not even particularly interested in my own dreams, so the idea of having to grimace my way through the nonsensical nocturnal brain ramblings of George from accounts who ate too much Red Leicester before bedtime fills me with utter dread. So you had no body hair whatsoever, not even eyebrows, and you were being chased by Simon Antrobus who you haven’t seen since you were 11 when he went to live in Sheffield, but it was more like Simon Antrobus in medieval bear form. I. Don’t. Care. It’s muddledy-up claptrap. It doesn’t mean anything to George from accounts, why oh why oh why should it mean anything to me? Tell me, do you still speak to the ex-wife, George? Has she forgiven you yet for losing the family home because you got addicted to online poker? That’s more fun, that I am interested in. You can tell me about that, George, I’ll pull up a chair, George, cup of tea George? No it’s fair to say, I’m not a big dream fan. Dreams are just brain poo; the stuff your mind doesn’t need. It would therefore be most hypocritical of me to bore you with the potent whimsy and dazzling theatrics of my recent dreams. All I will say is I do seem to be dreaming more. And I wonder if that has anything to do with the 25mg or so of prednisolone I have whooshing through my bloodstream every day? Whatever, I'm not going to lose any sleep over it.