I'm sitting at the award ceremony in my fancy black frock and my high-heeled shoes that always make my feet hurt but I have to wear them because they look nice.
I'm listening intently to the categories, and am shocked to hear my name read out in the Columnist Of The Year category. I look at my husband for confirmation, and he beams at me, squeezes my hand and motions me towards the stage.
I stand up, smiling, making sure my skirt isn't tucked into my knickers as I walk as confidently as I can towards the stage, secretly repeating the mantra 'don't fall over' to myself as I go.
Stephen Mangan, the host, greets me warmly, and I walk towards Stephen Fry who is brandishing my prize - a £50 book token.
I shake his hand, take a deep breath and take my place at the podium for my acceptance speech.
I thank my Mum and Dad - my Dad when I ask what he thinks of my latest column either says 'very good' or 'it must be hard to come up with something to write each week'.
My husband and daughter, who proof-read for me and say supportive things like 'please don't mention me anymore - I absolutely forbid you talking about me in your column'.
My friends, who have been a source of strength, provide inspiration, caffeine and alcohol on occasions when required, sometimes simultaneously.
It's all going swimmingly, and then I see a Stephen waving at me, and to my horror both Stephens rush towards me going 'Stop, there's been a terrible mistake! You're not columnist of the year at all. We've got the wrong card. Sorry about that. The proper winner is of course Caitlin Moran.'
So I hand the book token back, and shuffle off the stage feeling mortifyingly embarrassed that I went up there in the first place.
And then my alarm goes off and it's 6am on a Monday morning. Of course, that's just a classic anxiety dream isn't it? Nothing like that would ever happen in real life!