I'm not the soundest sleeper. In fact, if the constant complaints of my partner are anything to go by, It's fair to say that I'm a “bloody nightmare” to sleep next to. Recently I've taken to trying Nitol, which is a bit of a con, I think, as the instructions tell you that it's impossible to over-dose on them. As far as I'm concerned, if anyone's selling medicine which can't be abused, it can't possibly do any good.

But sleep is where it's at. Sleep is the new meditation, so I've heard. Modern doctors are prone to discuss “quality of sleep” just as much as “quality of life”, and it's becoming more common to hear that people are finding it difficult to get as much down-time as they feel they deserve.

Maggie Thatcher famously got by on just three or four hours a night. But then if you look what happened to her... Still I've read in quite a few self-help type books that eight hours is a habit rather than a requirement. Maybe I'm getting as much as I need and I just have to accept that this is the way I'm made.

The problem for me is that I don't switch off. I get tired by ten, and I get ready for bed. That's great while I'm sat watching the opening titles of the Ten O'clock News, but as soon as I've had a glass of water and brushed my teeth, I'm wide awake again. By the time I'm in bed I simply can't think why I ever thought it would be a good idea.

I'll usually drift off after a couple of hours. And then I'll wake up at midnight. And then at two, and then I'll get up about half past three, and then at five. It's that last hour that's always the most frustrating. The daily “Shall I get up or not?” debate, which invariably ends with me falling asleep twenty minutes before the alarm goes off to wake up absolutely shattered, and (for the first time since yesterday morning) desperate to get some sleep.

It's learned behaviour, I suppose. Given time I'll probably break the cycle. But the only time during the day that I ever feel tired enough to sleep is either just after my alarm goes of, or ten minutes after I leave work and set off for home. The daily commute back from work is a predictable struggle of traffic jams and heavy lids. Maybe I should just give in, and take my eight hours in the car park at Hartshead Moor Services.

One thing I'm rarely short of, though, are dreams. Despite my lack of sleep, it's rare for me to wake up without remembering what I dreamed about. One of my less endearing habits is the fact that I love sharing these stupid stories with anyone who'll listen. ”...and then the truck lost a wheel, and Bono was screaming his head off about the carbon footprint a rescue helicopter would need!” I've learned over the years that the best thing to do is quit before I see the eyes glaze over. There are few things in life less interesting than other people's nocturnal make-believe.

But because my dreams are so vivid, it's always been a subject that I find personally fascinating. I've read up quite a bit on the various theories people have on dreams. From the new age drivel about them telling the future, to the scientific drivel about them unlocking secrets we've even hidden from ourselves, there are no shortages of plausible sounding explanations for something that nobody really understands.

My personal favourite appeared in a 2004 copy of New Scientist, which argues simply that dreams are just something your brain does while it's bored.

One thing I've noticed is that my dreams have recurring themes. When I was five or six, my dreams were usually nightmares, and they revolved around being abducted by a sinister man who lived in the dark of the upstairs bedrooms. My dreams always followed the same pattern, of not wanting to go to bed because he would be waiting for me. During my teens, most of my dreams involved train travel, or being on railway lines as trains approached. Although these dreams do occasionally occur even today, they are (like most of the country's rolling stock) much less frequent than they used to be.

These days I can guarantee what I'll dream about. It's always the same. The details change, so does the location, but the common theme is always – and I do mean always, that I'm back in the army. Sometimes I meet old friends who I've missed. Sometimes I'm at war. Other times I'm due to be somewhere very soon and I haven't got the right kit. But it's becoming so predictable that it's almost tedious.

More often than not I'm content enough with these dreams, though. They are often quite entertaining and I rarely wake up with a sense of enormous relief that it wasn't true. Last night I was driving a Bedford flat-bed around a housing estate to pick up some troops for an exercise. The night before I was on my way to give a lesson on Military Ethics but I got involved in marshalling a cross country run.... Like I said. Other people's dreams are rarely very entertaining.

But there is one aspect of dreaming which really interests me, and that's the concept of lucidity. The idea of being able to realise that you're dreaming, and in some way take control of what's going on in a similar way to a film director. Now that really would be worth falling asleep for!

As most of you know, I pride myself on being sceptical about most supernatural claims. If somebody tells me they can see auras, then to my way of thinking, it means they are either lying or deluded. Likewise those who see ghosts, or people who can detect energy flowing through trees. But this is one of those subjects which sits rather awkwardly for me, because I've had personal experience of it, and it's blown me away every time.

I remember on one occasion when I'd set out to become lucid, I managed it just about straight away. I was astonished by the clarity of the detail. The feel of the wind, the smell of the grass, the heat of the sun. I looked up at the sky and was amazed by just how jaw-droppingly big it all looked. In time, I noticed a house, and for some reason decided to climb up the drainpipe onto the felt roof.

When I got onto this rooftop, I remember looking at the little bits of grit on my fingers and being surprised that a dream would have that level of detail. Moments later I noticed that I'd knocked a plastic plant pot off the ledge, and as it hit the ground, I heard the unmistakable sound that a plastic plant pot makes when it bounces on a hard surface.

I don't remember any more. And, let's face it, falling plastic plant pots aren't exactly what you'd call a life changing experience (unless one landed on your heard, perhaps.) But I had set out to achieve a state of lucidity whilst sleeping and it had happened, which rather took away my ability to sneer.

However, it's not an easy thing to achieve. Otherwise it would be a regular occurrence for me now. You see, the fact is that when we're asleep we don't usually realise that we're asleep. Dreams are tricky buggers because they usually involve some sort of quest. When ever you have a dream, chances are that you're trying to get somewhere or do something, or escape something. It's a safe bet that when you're in the middle of a dream, you simply don't have the time to ask yourself if it's real or not. But to be fair, how often do you ask yourself that question while you're awake?

For those who want to try for sleep lucidity, I would be fascinated to hear of any success you may have. The trick is to condition yourself to look out for signs that you're dreaming. When ever you look at your watch or your mobile phone, you should ask yourself if you're really awake. If you can read the dial or the display (and it makes sense) then you're not dreaming.

When ever you turn a light on, you should ask yourself the same question. If the light doesn't work, it's a good indicator again that you're having a dream. (always be sure to double check the fuse box first before you attempt flying from a bedroom window). Another classic technique is simply to check on reality every time you pass through a door. If the next room is the same as what you were expecting, then you're probably in the real world.

These techniques sound simple, but to an undisciplined mind like mine, actually making them part of the daily routine in the waking world is harder than giving up smoking or sticking to an exercise routine. As fun and exciting as lucid dreaming sounds, there is a level of effort and concentration needed that I have so far been unable to muster.

So it's led me to the conclusion that we really are a race of sleepwalkers. As clever as we are, as smart as we get, when it comes down to it we're not even aware enough to notice whether our experiences are based in every day reality, or just the result of too much cheese at bedtime.