The half-light of our slumbers can be disturbed by a range of classic and recurring nightmares. For a lot of Irish people, the stereotypical one has to do with the Leaving Cert.

In this dreamworld horror the dreamer finds himself or herself sitting in an examination hall as the papers are distributed. When the time is right the invigilator instructs the candidates turn over their papers and it is then the real nightmare begins. For some, the paper is blank, but for most, a cursory at the questions tells them they know nothing about the subject or have studied all the wrong things.

In my spare time I occasionally tread the boards as a member of the local amateur drama group. My recurring nightmare finds me walking out on stage on the opening night and realising I know none of my lines. In one particular version of the dream the curtain has gone up when it dawns on me that I haven’t been to one rehearsal.

My opposite number in the two-hander is standing there, with a horrified look on his face, waiting for me to deliver the first line. To my relief I see a script taped to a table at the centre of the stage and make a beeline for it, only to find the script open at the last page containing two words - ‘THE END’. I wake up in a lather of sweat, never more relieved to find myself in the bed.

Some of my fellow thespians would say I suffer the recurrence of this particular nightmare because it very much reflects the truth - my habit of sailing close to the wind when it comes to learning lines.

I’m inclined to believe that nightmares are a reminder of how close to chaos we are at all times, and how the mere twitch of a muscle or the throw of a word has the potential to land us into all kinds of trouble.

I don’t know about you but every now and again I feel tempted to do something completely daft, not because I want to but because I can. I remember as a young fella being bored during the rosary one night and deciding to alleviate the boredom by conducting a scientific experiment.

I stuck the poker into the fire and then grabbed hold of it, just to see how it felt. I found out. I presume this is what is meant by devilment, or possession. What possesses us to do certain things? Or perhaps it is just impulse.

In the days before the plague, I made it my business to attend a number of land auctions every year. These can be great spectator events, especially ones that are tightly fought and prolonged.

As the bidding progresses the tension is palpable, especially when two bidders remain in the fray and the end comes into sight. Like a pair of gunfighters with a limited supply of ammunition they pace themselves, making every shot count as they take sporadic and careful aim at one another.

The biggest fear of the spectator is that he or she might get caught in the crossfire. As the action reaches its climax the auctioneer will survey the crowd in search of a fresh gunslinger, someone with a pair of loaded six-guns and a Winchester 73 who will carry the fight to a new level. Everyone in the room is afraid to raise an eyebrow, touch a nostril or pull an earlobe in case he or she is identified as the one with the Winchester.

At the same time the devil is moving among the silent and motionless majority looking for anyone who will raise a finger, just for the craic.

With more auctions now happening online I find myself attending a few a week from the increasing discomfort of my own desk. I log on as a spectator and although everything is virtual, the tension can be palpable while the temptation to click the mouse and put in a bid can be overwhelming.

The only thing stopping me is the prospect of having to explain to the current consort why our finances are in disarray and why she is now the proud co-owner of 15ac of ‘summer grazing’ in Shanballymoregurrasheen.

Here in the so-called First World, most of us live such an ordered existence it is easy to forget how close to chaos we are at any given time. It is also frightening to realise that individually we have extraordinary power when it comes to maintaining the status quo, transforming our lives or plunging them into turmoil. Any alcoholic who ever fell off the wagon, and got back on, knows all about power, powerlessness, order and chaos.

Our dreams and nightmares give us a taste of all these things, in fragile times it is no harm to be aware of them.