I’ve been having a lot of really weird dreams lately. I hope it’s not my psychosis rearing it’s ugly head again.

After months of therapy and finally coming to accept that I’m not the lovechild of Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher, I pray that my subconscious isn’t playing tricks on me yet again.

I wouldn’t have minded but I think my power suit and American accent was finally starting to win over my hot psychiatrist.

Anyway, I’ve been waking up in a cold sweat around 3am.

If the movies are anything to go by then my night terrors are obviously the work of Satan himself.

Though I very much doubt this as me and the big guy downstairs have always been on fairly good terms. He even sent me a thank you letter last year to tell me how impressed he was with my efforts in 2016.

But back to my dreams – I keep finding myself in all of those cliche dream sequences.

You know the ones: my teeth will all fall out, I’ll try to scream and no sound will come out. Oh, and the old classic of finding yourself naked in front of a ton of people, then everything turns black and white and a lot of Japanese people will start pointing at me and screaming “Godzilla!”

“Isn’t it something to do with your confidence when your teeth fall out in a dream?” Welsh Jenny asked me. “Maybe finding out you’re not really a Tory love-child has done a bit of damage?”

“Maybe,” I answered. “Maybe deep down I’m jealous of Carol Thatcher, or maybe my brain is telling me to go to a dentist ’cos I’m necking four litres of Pepsi and choking back 40 fags?”

“Well, what about the naked thing? Apparently that’s to do with your confidence, as well.”

“Pay no mind to the naked bit, I’ve always been partial to a moony.”

After an intense 15 minutes of trying to decipher the dream imagery that my tiny brain was spitting out, our temples had begun to hurt and it was time to pick the kids up from school.

So I stood outside school, minding my own business and avoiding eye contact with the other parents.

As usual I was wary of getting drawn into a mundane conversation about kids and the thought of having to smile was bringing on a mini stroke.

Now. This is true. May Satan strike me down if my lying little mouth is telling porkies.

A child, clad in a dinosaur hoodie, came running at me at 50mph kicking a Dora ball around.

It hit me right in the chops and, because of the brute force behind his foot, my tooth was chipped on my tongue piercing.

As I reached for my mouth in shock, I then suffered, to put it politely, a wardrobe malfunction.

“My God, Shell, you’re psychic!” Welsh Jen squealed as we sat in the emergency dentistry department at the hospital.

“Jen… can’t talk… toilet roll in mouth.” I gagged.

“Mouth… so dry… Pepsi…”

As she tottered off to the vending machine my heart fluttered.

Was she right? Had I seen this in a dream?

Is there some weird Final Destination stuff going down?

My therapist tells me I’m not psychic though – more psycho.

Though Satan did send me a smiley face emoticon on Messenger… plus a birth certificate showing my real parents.

I’m now signing myself as Shelley Reagan-Thatcher.