Inception

I saw Christopher Nolan's mind-bending film recently - and then felt I had to remind everyone I know that he was in my A-level French class - a fact that might be more exciting for people if I could say that I actually spoke to him at all in those two years. But of course I didn't, because at the time I was mortifyingly shy and couldn't speak to anyone. Bit ironic that I ended up with a job where I regularly had to pitch to and work with quite a few big-time-famous-types, which required high levels of 'fake it till you make it' confidence. But that's all by the by - I am very happy that Chris Nolan now has a stellar career, whilst I'm still holding out for a lottery win and, frankly, giving up working at all.

Anyway, aside from a somewhat depressing compare and contrast in the career stakes, the film has understandably made me worry about my dream life, in the same way that for a month after I'd seen The Trueman Show, I worried that my entire life was being faked for TV. Because since the move north, my dreams have become just ludicrously odd. Someone surely must be messing about with them for nefarious purposes.

I've had a spate of them in which an ex lurks about, being moody and ignoring me (much as he did when we were going out, actually), with a vague air of menace, like a watered-down Moriarty. In the last one he was about 15 feet tall and dressed like Marilyn Manson (with those ludicrous shoes and everything). I dreamed that I was scuba diving and faced with a Great White shark; however, the shark that got me was a massive, googly-eyed thing that looked like Marty Feldman with six rows of teeth (I've never been scuba diving and now I'm certainly never going to). Then within the last week, I've had another brace of celebrity dreams: first up, a dream in which JEREMY CLARKSON chatted me up in a spectacularly creepy way. I woke up in a cold sweat, nearly screaming. Clarkson! My absolute bete-noire. I'm still haunted by a 4-sheet poster campaign on the Tube advertising his loathesome books, which exhorted his fans to 'Read Clarkson. Think Clarkson. Act Clarkson' - a truly terrifying manifesto.

Last night's dream involved me attending a party with My Future Husband David Mitchell. Yay! Despite the fact it didn't seem to be fancy dress, we were both dressed as cowboys. I was managing to be a total twunt by a/ quoting bits of his sketch show back at him and b/ texting a friend updates on how it was all going, on DM's mobile, as the battery on mine had died. Even in the dream, I was thinking, 'God, what if I don't manage to delete these and he reads them? He's going to think I'm mental'. The dream ended with him having an epileptic fit, and me standing around feeling useless.

Why is my subconscious so unsupportive? Dreams are supposed to be fun - you imagine you can fly, you come up with brilliant business ideas, you wake up humming 'Yesterday' and realise, if you're Paul McCartney, that no-one has actually written that song before. Mine just involve me being made to feel small by an ex and then feeling like an idiot in front of celebs. I might have to hit up the old school network and see if I can get Chris Nolan to write me better scripts.