I was recounting to Mr. Waffle in the car how I dreamt that when I arrived at my office it was occupied by a young whipper-snapper and I was confined to a desk in a dark windowless cubbyhole. “And I didn’t even protest,” I said mournfully.
Herself pipes up from the back, “That was a dream? But it sounds like exactly the kind of thing that would happen to you in real life!”
I was telling a friend in work about this and she said, “Gosh your daughter knows you really well, doesn’t she?”