I was in this great big farmhouse in Paris, of all places, but, oddly, nobody spoke French. It was a rabbit warren of rooms and passages, filled with people – some I knew, some I didn’t. I kept working all the time but the house was so big that my work was never finished.

Davina was there [our eldest daughter who lives in Dubai]. She pointed to a fireplace that was only half-painted and she smiled derisively as she held up a corner of the mantelpiece, which had come off in her hands.

“Oh, I thought I had finished it,” I explained.

My husband, too, was always working and I rarely saw him. He looked like a drummer from a famous band in the eighties, except that he had fair curly hair.

I couldn’t cope with all the clothes scattered around and, suddenly, I found myself walking down a leafy boulevard.

“Hi!” I said to a handsome man who looked like Bjorn Borg, “You’re my brother-in-law, aren’t you?”

“Why yes,” he said sexily, “Will you have a drink with me? I’m the manager of the Turkish baths here…” [He waved his arm towards some steps going down from the street.]

“But aren’t you a famous tennis player?” I asked.

“Sh, nobody here knows that,” he put a finger to his mouth.

“The funny thing is that I can’t remember my husband’s name…” I said, perplexed.

Suddenly, I was in a crowded fashion-house – haute couture – and I was going down a spiral staircase when someone picked up a strange golden striped shoe. It looked like an Eighteenth-Century shoe but instead of being tiny [as is usually the case], it was extremely long and incredibly thin and sausage-like (definitely an ugly step-sister shoe).

“Is this yours?” a voice asked.

“No, nobody in the world has feet that could fit into that!” I retorted.

My sister Mary, wearing a fetching black dress with big white polka dots, waved at me from the crowd.

“Hello Sally!” she smiled enthusiastically.

When I turned around my mother was standing at the bottom of the spiral staircase. She was wearing a sparkling pink jacket and matching sunhat. She leaned her arms on the banisters at the bottom and, very pleased with herself, held out a leg; on it was the strange sixteen-inch long, stripey sausage shoe.

“I’ve never worn such a comfortable shoe!” she beamed.

When I opened my eyes the dogs were surrounding me – two on the floor, their tails wagging, and the other two on the bed (Sasha and Malaki has spent the night with me), their tails wagging too.

I came to my senses and burst out laughing. The more I recalled of the dream, the more I laughed – I had to jot it down while I still remembered it. And a short while later (after feeding the dogs and having some cereal myself) this is the transcript of the scribbles.

Now I must feed the farm animals – my work is never done – and I must phone Chris. That’s it! His name is Chris!