Last night I dreamt that my parents exchanged my brother for Daniel Radcliffe

When I’m asleep, my subconscious imagination runs wild and weaves stories so bizarre that I have to write them down. Here, in Last Night’s Dream, you’ll find some of these stories.


My parents (who are divorced in conscious life), my brother and I are sat at a restaurant awaiting our food to be served. As the plates arrive my dad announces, “We’ve got something we need to tell you. We’ve made a decision.”

“Your mother and I have decided, that despite all the time we’ve spent together, things with your brother just aren’t working out. We’ve decided that we think someone else would be a better fit for this family and we feel that that someone is Daniel Radcliffe.”

My brother and I look at each other and after a moment or two, we shrug and nod in understanding. Dad’s right. Daniel Radcliffe really would be a much better fit in this family, and it’s pretty clear to see.

“So uh, if you could just grab your coat and head off? Daniel Radcliffe’s outside you see, and it’s a bit rude to keep him waiting.”

My brother leaves, my new brother Daniel Radcliffe enters and life continues on – only now with Daniel Radcliffe as my brother.

One morning, my brother Daniel Radcliffe and I are sat at the breakfast table in the family home, eating our cereal – Weetos, my brother Daniel Radcliffe’s favourite. Adjusting to our new, improved family life together has been a seamless transition, it’s like he’s just always been here. Dad was right – Daniel Radcliffe really is a better fit for this family.

Suddenly, our dog barks loudly and runs out of the open front door. My brother Daniel Radcliffe and I run to the door. He sprints after the dog, trying to stop her from running into the road.

A car is coming, and it’s heading straight for our dog. Selflessly, my brother Daniel Radcliffe runs in front of the car, getting our dog out of the way just in time. But it’s not good news for my brother Daniel Radcliffe, who has been hit by the car instead and killed on impact.

Well, we’re all devastated. I’ve lost my brother Daniel Radcliffe and my parents have lost their only (second edition) son. Even the dog is upset, hanging her head low and showing signs of feeling a little responsible for our tragic loss.

And now we’re at my brother Daniel Radcliffe’s funeral, everyone mourning the loss of this key member of our family. As I cry onto my dad’s shoulder, I notice that my mouth feels odd. My teeth have started to crumble, and they’re crumbling fast. I put my fingers in my mouth to try and stop it, but it’s no use – they’re crumbling into tiny, tiny pieces that feel like the inside of a paracetamol capsule.

“Dad!”, I say, showing him the crumbling teeth in my mouth, and the tiny pieces in my hands, “Look!”

My dad looks at me, unconcerned. “Sprinkle them on Daniel’s grave, love. It’s what he would’ve wanted.”

The End

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Last night I dreamt I was Harrison Ford’s financial advisor

When I’m asleep, my subconscious imagination runs wild and weaves stories so bizarre that I have to write them down. Here, in Last Night’s Dream, you’ll find some of these stories.


I’m sat on a balcony of a gloriously Greek villa, overlooking a sprawling sea that sparkles under a summer sun. It’s hot, I’m wearing a hat (for both shade and style purposes) and the glass table I’m sat at is hosting a delightful array of breakfast pastries.

The breakfast is exquisite, but that’s not the only reason I’m here. I’m a financial advisor, and accompanying the breakfast on the table is my MacBook and a significant amount of financial records belonging to the client I’m working with, waiting to be discussed and analysed.

I’m drumming my fingers on the glass surface of the table. “What’s keeping him so long?” I wonder, checking my watch. He’s been in the kitchen for over 30 minutes.

With that, my client Harrison Ford hurries out through the balcony doors, carrying a plate of scrambled eggs atop a toasted English muffin.

“I’m so sorry!” he says, putting down the plate with a clatter on the glass. “The first batch weren’t as yellow as you usually like them, so I re-did them for you.”

I settle his worries with a wave of my hand – he really is so silly about this sort of thing. As if I’d really mind about the shade of my scrambled eggs. This is so typical of my client Harrison Ford.

“So Harrison, here’s what we’re going to do. This account you’ve got here – it’s just not doing much for you. We need to invest it in something better, something that’s going to work hard for you and make your money go further. We’re going to invest it in Spotify, ok? Their shares are about to sky rocket, and you’ll be laughing all the way to the bank when they do.”

My client Harrison Ford looks at me, amazed by my idea as usual.

“I just… I just really don’t know what I’d do without you. I’m so lucky to have you as my financial advisor. My finances have never looked better. And are you still absolutely sure you won’t accept any other payment than just breakfast?”

“No Harrison,” I say with total sincerity, “I’ve told you already. I don’t do this for the money – I do it for the breakfast. Always have, always will.”

The End