Dreams - cymbals that clash in the night

A consequence of my ceasing full-time employment – I still can’t get used to the idea that I’ve retired or worse I’m a pensioner (even though I am) – is that on average I must be getting an hour or two’s extra sleep a night. Instead of being woken from a deep slumber by my alarm clock, I awake naturally. As a consequence I remember the dreams that visit me in the period of light sleep before full consciousness.
I must have always had dreams but could never recall them before. Rather than a boon the dream thing irritates – or rather does their sheer mundane nature.
I’ve always thought I was well endowed in the imagination department. So while something out of the Inception locker – Leonardo DiCaprio’s new movie – might be too big an ask, say, a little erotic ramble through the id would be welcome.
What I get instead from Morpheus is the dream world’s equivalent of the English soccer team – a lot of anxious running around to no particular purpose.
Freud would have gone into his father’s wool business if he just had my dreams to interpret.
This one is typical. I’m in a large car park looking for a car – not its owner – trying to return a rubber (an eraser rather than a condom). The strange thing is that the rubber looks exactly like a slab of smoked tofu. My concern is that when I finally find the right car how will I be able to leave the rubber under its windscreen wiper. That’s it; it’s a wrap, not.