Barbara Streisand is back in my dreams. She and the Queen of England have made regular appearances over the years. They've yet to appear together at the same time but it's probably only a matter of time until they do, according to the laws of probability. But last night it was just Barbara and me, in bed. And the light was soft, peeking through the mesh of the curtains and the sheets were ruffled and it was lovely and cosy. But it all turned really bad pretty quickly as an orange substance with the consistency of porridge began to leverage itself out from between her legs, like a slow but insistent lava flow. And this is where my doctor skills obviously kicked in because without any hesitation I knew exactly what to do. And so, utterly in vain, I spent the rest of the dream trying to push it back in, in a mild panic. Barbara wasn't phased at all. A consummate, unflappable professional she was - if not a little bit disinterested actually. A bit of a team effort might have been appreciated but I suppose we just do what we have to do. Thank God Her Majesty wasn't there though. I'm dutiful in my efforts to spare her such things. I never told her, for example, about the time I found Princess Anne and the Duchess of York living in a tent at the bottom of my garden, both training to become belly dancers. Princess Anne had a large opal in her navel. Please, God, where are these dreams coming from?