Who's Afraid of Margaret Atwood?

The title of this post makes sense if you've been writing about Atwood for four days solid. I know you're out there, compatriots. The following all seems very Lady Oracle to me.

About twenty minutes ago, not long before 5 am, I climbed out of a horrible dream and into an empty house. I actually started crying like a big baby. I put on my phone and text my boyfriend - who is in France. I text Mybug on the off chance he was awake (student lifestyle.) I crept out of bed and locked my bedroom door. Then I thought, there's no way I'm getting back to sleep, I may aswell write it down.

The dream is dissipating now but Freud would have a field day with the parts I remember, I'm sure. I was in work. Someone was incredibly rude to me while I was serving them. So I yelled at them. (You're wondering where the scary part comes in aren't you? There are no werewolves or little green men in this one.) For some reason I had to work really late, so I left the building after eleven and switched on my phone. I had a voicemail off the boyfriend, complaining that he was waiting for me to meet him for drinks and had been for hours. Somehow, in the way of dreams, it was still daylight. I was crossing the road listening to the message and drinking from one of those bottles with the sports caps, and nearly bumped into somebody. I looked at his face, and recognised it. For a second I thought it was rude counter man. Then I realised I'd dreamt about him. He leered at me as if he recognised me too and I squeezed the bottle and sprayed my drink at him, then started hurrying back to my work building. He, following me, said something that struck me as incredibly frightening, but I can only remember a fragment of it. The fragment is "...a knife in your bed..." He caught me. I woke up. I cried. It seemed chillingly portentous.

A standard anxiety dream?

I have to get up for work in an hour.

It was nasty waking up so alone.