He holds no truck (is hold the right verb) with dreams. I do. If I can’t make sense of them I like to see where the germs of them might have come. Last night, or possibly this morning, I dreamt I’d made a fried egg sandwich for Boris Johnson. It was in an envelope and I was dithering whether to give it to him or not. We were having a meeting about some government owned flats in an airport, not sure which one, that were being used and abused by civil servants, one of which had a girlfriend called Jordan. I was to make a performance piece about it. He took the sandwich and I watched him eat it. (He separated the slices of bread to see what was inside before he ate. It looked more like a cold egg sandwich then.) He didn’t thank me but took it as a matter of course that I would’ve considered his appetites. So where did it come from? Well the food represents my endless planning for his meals. And BJ? Well, we’d been discussing a crossword clue and the solution looked like ‘bumbling’. Need I say more?