Two nights ago I had a very vivid – full technicolour – dream. In the true the-next-morning fashion of dreams, some of the details have already left the building. However I can share with you the main gist of the thing. An assassin was stalking my “loved one”. He was dressed in a very smart suit and spoke calmly, politely and seemed a very personable man. He very courteously warned me of his intentions. For some time he simply stood outside the house, across the road, and watched. Me and mine watched him, watching us. Then he moved closer to the house and stood in our garden. We locked the windows and doors, and pulled down the shades so that he couldn’t see into the house. But, we could still hear him speaking to us, calmly, politely and, even, pleasantly. “You can’t stop me,” he said. “I will eventually kill my target. You are simply delaying the inevitable.”

The next thing I knew he was inside the house, standing in my kitchen. The mother in the dream sobbed and yelled and beat him, all at the same time. “How dare you!” she said. “Your intentions are wicked, evil, heartless and cruel. How can you do these things and live with yourself?” He simply hunched his shoulders and endured her tirade. The child in the house then joined in, kicking the assassin in the legs and shouting, “Please don’t do it, mister! I don’t want to be left alone!” I simply stood to one side, with tears streaming down my face and watched them attack the man. Eventually, I opened the kitchen door and told him to get out. He walked outside but, as he did so, he said to me, “This doesn’t change anything. I will kill my target eventually.” I said, “You can try.” I bolted the door behind him.

Now it doesn’t take a psych degree to realise this was a cancer dream. It was my first and I don’t expect it’ll be the last. It was very upsetting and when I woke up my heart was still bashing against my chest. What surprised me was the way my subconscious chose to depict cancer: in spite of its deadly intentions it was so well-dressed, so urbane, so reasonable. And yet, it was those very qualities that made it so frightening.

Lately I’ve been pondering how to get my head around the thought of this malevolent intruder inside me. How does one adjust to living with a fatal disease? How do the guys on death row get through each day, knowing any day could be their last? How do I live in the land of You’re-Sick-Even-Though-You-Think-You’re-Well?

Perhaps my dream has a few clues: shut the windows, bolt the doors and don’t make it easy for the bas***d to get in. Then, if it does, beat the daylights out of it so it decides to retreat for a while.

Do any dream-interpreters out there have an opinion on this? Any suggestions? That River in Egypt is one of my favourite places these days. There’s nothing like living by de Nile.