Last night I dreamt there was a dead mouse on the floor, next to a worm. At least, because the mouse was lying on its back, I assumed it was dead. Until it yawned and stretched and got up and bit my foot. It ran downstairs and I followed it and it wasn’t a mouse anymore, but a rat. I thought my dad (the dream was set in my childhood home) would do a dead-hard-dad thing and pick the rat up with his bare hands and put it in the garden, but he opened the door to the cupboard under the stairs and my mum shouted ‘THE PLASTICS AREN’T IN THERE’, as my dad pulled out two laundry baskets – one bright yellow, one blue and went to put them over the rat, but the rat had gone.