ARE there any psychiatrists out there who could interpret the bizarre and vivid dream that woke me up with a start on Sunday morning?

I don't normally recall my nightmares but this one is imprinted on my memory for some odd reason.

So, here goes:

I was in High Wycombe town centre late one night with my mum and dad. They refused to walk home but couldn't get a taxi because the 'Positive Parking' scheme had prevented any cars from stopping for even a moment in the street. Yes councillors, that was in my dream.

Anyway, we decided to walk into the town centre and came across a large marquee near the Guildhall.

We went inside and joined a packed audience listening to a speech from a man with a long beard. I think he was a member of the Taliban.

He told the crowd, to some applause, that he wished to honour Steve Cohen for his hundreds of Editor's Chair columns.

It was my turn to respond and I blurted out in my campest voice possible: "I'm glad he likes me. Perhaps we could get together this evening and see how well we get on."

It was cruel irony on my part, and it worked. My speech must have been connected to some kind of public address system, because I heard guffaws coming from nearby pubs, and I felt ashamed of my pathetic joke.

Someone asked if any of the audience had any questions. I put my hand up and they chose me.

But I couldn't stand up to speak, because I was only wearing a dressing gown which would have fallen off had I stood.

Let's face it, you couldn't have the editor of The Star butt naked in the middle of High Wycombe town centre.

Everyone waited with bated breath for my next remark. I wanted to pay tribute to a recently bereaved colleague, and began by saying: "I'm not the person you should be praising. We should be honouring ..."

And then I couldn't speak any more because I was so choked with emotion. It was terribly embarrassing and I didn't know what to do.

Then, like in all sub-standard movies where they can't think of a plot continuation, I woke up with a start.

So what does it all mean? Is the Taliban about to take over High Wycombe and impose harsh penalties on any motorists who flout the law? Or are they here already?

Perhaps the town's history has actually been written by Dallas script-writers. One day you'll wake up to find Bobby Ewing in your shower, and that the whole Positive Parking story, involving residents' parking permits and fines for errant motorists, was just one long nightmare.

That's a happy thought, but somehow I doubt it. You're more likely to wake up one morning with a Wycombe parking attendant in your shower telling you that you've parked your soap in the wrong dish and that you will be fined £40.

Honest readers, my dream was real. So anyone who can interpret it, should go and find something better to do with their time.

SHARP-EYED readers were quick to spot the obvious error in last week's column when I rambled on about giving back 20 pence to a store.

I wrongly (on purpose of course to catch you out) said 20p was equivalent to two shillings. Of course it was four, as one shilling was equivalent to 5p.

I was in primary school when decimalisation happened but have quite a clear memory of the money change-over.

So if I can't even get this simple piece of arithmetic right, what chance have I if and when we ever switch to the euro?