I wonder whether I can stream my dreams directly onto YouTube? One last week was especially vivid. It was a summer evening, during the school holidays. A policeman sat in the living room of a suburban semi; two girls stood in the middle of the room, as he spoke to their father.

There’d been complaints, see. Girls climbing the wall into the garden of a big local house. Noise. Flowers being picked, trees climbed. Vandalism. There probably wasn’t enough evidence to prosecute, but the officer thought that he’d better call round. See, the two girls before him had allegedly been seen climbing back over the wall into the street earlier that afternoon. And the gentleman who owned the house was pressing for charges to be brought.

“Do you have anything to say, girls?” their father would ask. They’d stare at the carpet, silently.

“Perhaps it would be better if they don’t answer that while I’m here, sir,” the constable would advise. “Wouldn’t want to hear anything incriminating. But the teacher from their school who saw them was quite clear on their identities, and the clothes they’re wearing exactly match his description.”

He stood up. “Well, sir, thank you for your time. Maybe it would be best if I left you to, erm, deal with matters yourself. I never think it’s worth troubling the courts, really, if I’m sure that the girls have had a sound talking-to at home.”

The sisters were sent to their rooms as soon as the officer had shown himself to the door. Their father left them alone for a few minutes to contemplate their conduct.

At this point, my dream switched to the perspective of the younger girl, sitting nervously on her bed. She heard her father’s heavy steps on the stairs; her heart pounded. This time, he went to her sister’s room first: she heard the door close firmly, and imagined the conversation that must be taking place. A long lecture: his disappointment, sense of shame. The explanation that he had no choice; his belt being unbuckled and doubled over. His elder daughter instructed to take down her jeans and bend over the end of the bed.

The first stroke resonated through her sister’s door, and across the corridor, followed by a cry. A pause, then the second, then more, then she tried to lose count as her sister’s sobs foretold her own impending fate.

And then silence. A long silence. Before the door opened and closed, and her father’s footsteps came towards her across the landing…