I've always found the phrase 'strange dream' to be redundant. Aren't dreams strange by definition? I've never had one that wasn't. Take Monday night, for example. I dreamed about Sir Philip Sidney, and he looked exactly like his portrait. Why would he, of all people, appear on the stage of my slumbering brain? I have no idea, unless my subconscious was trying to remind me of the couplet most often quoted from his writings:

Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite,
'Fool' said my Muse to me, 'look in thy heart and write.'

Yes, yes, milord; I'll get back to it straightway.