"At least you can't be late for work any more," said former editor during conversation about why commissioned piece was three weeks late and about to miss deadline.

"Because as soon as you wake up in the morning, you're already there."

"Yes," I agreed, as this was the simplest thing to do - rather than explain that, while I might physically be in the same building as computer and phone, bed was, if not physically at least symbolically, a long way from former boot cupboard now home office from which, having got through lengthy process of getting up, breakfast, getting Rugrats to school etc, I would eventually settle down to work.

The fact that I am actually based in the boot cupboard hasn't, though, had any effect on anxiety dreams about being late for work, which seem to trouble anyone who ever has had to get to work.

After years of waking in cold sweat, after dream in which I had to be at desk in London by 9am and it was now one minute to nine and various obstacles prevented me from even getting as far as Brighton station, I awoke in cold sweat earlier this week, with new type of work related anxiety dream.

In slumbers, was very successful, well dressed, obviously very-good-at-something type person.

I lived in enormous house with vast rooms and a huge piano (this may not be relevant but I thought I'd leave the detail in as Freudians may know otherwise).

On this particular day, though, my well-ordered life was in disarray and I was rushing around the house, trying to find the key to a room which my boss, who was about to arrive for breakfast, would need access to.

Not entirely sure what key was for or who boss was but still in panic that all would be lost if it was not discovered.

Then alerted to presence of co-workers in house who, it turned out, were, in fact, my glamorous, wealthy, well-heeled sisters.

We obviously had some sort of family set-up, the boss of which emerged moments later (in the dream) in the form of our father.

He arrived at the house irate and impatient with us, his inefficient daughters, who had failed to live up to his expectations of whatever it was we were.

The father in question was a ruthless property tycoon and the cause of his anger was that, by failing to find the key, we'd prevented the wingful of prostitutes he kept in the wing of our very big house, from getting out and doing their stuff - thus losing him valuable money.

In a fit of fatherly anger, he shouted and screamed at us, while we threw ourselves around his neck, begging for forgiveness, and then the phone began to ring and he yelled at one of us to go and answer it.

At this point, I realised the phone really was ringing in the sitting room where I was slumped on the sofa, having fallen asleep after giving myself a break from work in which I was allowed to watch post-lunch Neighbours.

For the first time ever, I was delighted to hear the voice of former editor having a go at me for failing to meet a deadline.

I tried to distract her from her task of chastising me, for late arrival of piece, by enticing her with idea for another piece about work-related anxiety dreams.

For example, when your boss is a tyrant and, no matter how hard you try, you cannot lay your hands on the thing that they must have now.

For some reason the call ended, almost as abruptly as it had begun ...