Wake up with all my own teeth. Relieved, as minutes earlier I had spit five molars into my palm. Dreams like that make my insomnia seem like the easy option.
Tooth dreams are, apparently, about the fear of growing old and not having achieved anything. This latest one was probably prompted by my school friend visiting – she who has just landed a top job back in the north and has her own car, house and husband. I have an Oyster card, a rented shoebox and a young Southern man who is committed to Arsenal.
I remember having a conversation at primary school, probably echoed by girls in playgrounds the nation over, about how when I was 21 (which was, like, sooooo old) I would:
1. Live in a big house with a swimming pool - possibly on Ramsay Street;
2. Be married to Jason Donovan;
3. Be a vet, own a zoo - or both;
4. Have twins.
As it turned out, when I was 21 I was living in a bedsit with a cat, driving a train along Brighton seafront and pondering a career in journalism.
While taking an extra big swill of Listerine I decide to delete my age from my CV.