…which is a bloody tricky maneuver, let me tell you.

The fact that I almost never remember my dreams is a source of occasional wistful regret. I’ve always believed that the fact that I don’t have access to the meanderings of my subconscious has held me back creatively, and I really, really don’t need much holding back creatively.

On the evidence of last night, perhaps it’s as well I don’t usually remember. My subconscious is apparently really, really boring.

I was playing poker in a place of no particular import or character. The other players, as generic and forgettable as the room, folded round to me on the small blind. I peeled up the corners of my hole cards, saw the jack and nine of hearts and called. The big blind - a schoolfriend I haven’t seen or spoken to in about fifteen years - raised. I called the second bet.

The flop came down with the king of clubs and the seven and eight of hearts, giving me flush, straight and straight flush draws. I bet out, and was raised again. I called the raise, and the turn was dealt - and it was the miracle card, the ten of hearts, making me an unbeatable straight flush.

I bet, and was immediately raised again. I took one more peek at my cards to make absolutely sure I was playing what I thought I was playing - and I wasn’t. I had an ace of diamonds and the eight of spades. “Oh my god!” I thought, aghast. “I bet out on the flop with second pair!”

And then I woke up. To coin a phrase.

Yeah. Thanks, subconscious. Samuel Taylor Bloody Coleridge gets to visit Kubla Khan’s sacred pleasure-dome and compose a 1000-line epic poem in his dreams, I get this. Fantastic.

Admittedly, I’m fairly sure Coleridge didn’t play as much online poker as I do.