Tim Dowling: I had this amazing dream. But I can’t divulge the details

I wake up suddenly and early, the dog lying so heavy across my legs that my feet have gone numb. I extract myself and hobble across the bedroom until circulation is restored. Then I throw open the curtains to introduce my wife to the new day.

“Ugh,” she says.

“I was just having this dream,” I say.

“What?” she says.

“Everything was normal,” I say, “except there was a horse where the sofa used to be.”

“What time is it?” she says.

“Seven something,” I say. “And I was working from home in a mentoring capacity, so that was obviously going to be an issue.”

“Mentoring?” she says. “You?”

“I know!” I say. “Also, there was something suspicious about the way my first client ignored the horse.”

“Perhaps he was being polite,” my wife says.

“She. But no, it was more like the horse was part of some larger plot.”

“Why are you telling me your dream?” she says.

“In the middle of it all, I suddenly thought: this will make such a good column.”

“A column?”

“Apart from anything else, there’s a horse in the living room,” I say. “The whole rest of the dream was me basically figuring out how to structure it. I had the intro more or less written.”

“So the point is, you’re so conditioned to mining your existence for copy that it even infects your dreams?”

“No,” I say. “The point is, I woke up and realised none of it happened, so I can’t use it.”

“Ah,” she says.

“I’m bereft,” I say. “Now I’ve got nothing.”

To be honest, this is not the first time I’ve woken up with a feeling of complete serenity – the intro is more or less written – only to be plunged into grief when the events I have been gifted evaporate, and nothing remains except my stupid life.

Two hours later, I am sitting in my office shed staring at a blank screen. I look out the window, unconsciously willing a horse, or a donkey – or really any large mammal – to come round the corner. Let it go, I tell myself. You were never believable as a mentor in the first place. A mentor for what?

The cat walks up to my office door and issues a silent command through the glass: miaow.

“If this is you auditioning,” I say. “Thanks for coming in. We have a lot of other animals to see.”

“Miaow,” says the cat.

“Nonsense,” I say. “Not only have I fed you twice, but the second time you saw me use up the last of the cat food and put the empty box in the recycling.”

“Miaow,” the cat says.

“I think we both know where we stand,” I say.

An email from my bank pings into my inbox, informing me that someone is trying to switch my account from one type to another. “If you have any questions about this change …” it reads.

“Yes, I do have questions,” I say. “Starting with: are you really my bank?” Another email arrives, informing me of the now completed switch from one account to the other. “Your important documents are attached,” it reads. “If you are ever suspicious of an email, please delete it immediately.”

“I’m suspicious of this email,” I say. “Why should I do what it says?”

Through the window I can see my wife making lunch in the kitchen. I stand and cross the garden.

“The bank has informed me of some questionable activity,” I tell her, “regarding our joint account.”

“I switched it,” she says. “It’s cheaper and we get free breakdown insurance.”

“They emailed me,” I say.

“I emailed you,” she says. “Did you not read it?”

“Anyway,” I say. “I’ve handed the whole thing over to their fraud team.”

“If you don’t read my emails,” she says, “I can’t help you.”

“Why wasn’t I consulted?” I say. “How do I know this breakdown insurance is better than my old one?”

“Because you didn’t have breakdown insurance,” she says. “Now you do. Lunch isn’t ready – go back outside.”

I return to my office and read my wife’s email, which seems to back up her story. The tortoise walks past the door, a timely seasonal reminder that I own a tortoise.

“Where have you been?” I say, trying to remember our last interaction. The tortoise gives me a look of mild disapproval – the only facial expression he’s got.

“Spring is here, I guess,” I say, looking across the lawn. A horse, I think. My kingdom for a horse.