When I was little autumn was the season for suffocation. I would wake in the middle of the night, struggling for breath, my mouth dry, my larynx swollen to a size that crushed my windpipe shut. I remember one of these attacks vividly: I am lying in my bed, the hulk of a hospital size air moistening device is puffing cool, white clouds into my face and the Smurfs are dancing on my belly. Here is Papa Smurf, baring his sharp little teeth at me, there is another little blue gnome laughing and pointing at me wildly.

Be it fever-dreams or the nightmares that wait on the edge of sleep, dreams are bold and colourful. They recall cruel, visceral fairytales and ancient rites. At times of duress the gap between waking and sleeping seems to be closer and nightmares seep into the waking world.