At first I blamed it on a sensitive and vivid imagination - a legacy from my childhood. Ever afterward I am destined to shrink at the first sound of a raised voice, or the sudden chill that halts a previously warm conversation. A car back firing renders me so panic stricken that I have become a master of disguise to those observing me. This has taken me decades to perfect. Anything to escape the unwanted attention of the neighbourhood good samaritans.

Forgive me. I digress. So, having excluded my vivid imagination, I wondered whether it was a product of taking so many medications. After all, there are always articles in the press alerting us to this problem, especially for the over 50’s. I’ve moved on another decade and thankful that I don’t have to pay for my prescriptions anymore. I couldn’t afford them to be honest, not at £9.90 per item. But that extra ten years has affected my physical health considerably. So much so that I find myself trawling the internet for the best deals on funeral plans. It’s such a ball getting old.

I went to see my doctor about things. I asked about taking so many medications. Was it possible that certain interactions were to blame for my belief that someone was always watching me. I said that it was beginning to take over my life, causing feelings of anxiety and dread that I just couldn’t shake, besides turning me into a total insomniac. I was feeling wretched, over-wrought and so tired I could out-sleep a sloth.

Dr Jackie Telman had been my regular GP at the Moorcroft Surgery for several years. She had seen me at my best and worst. I liked her. She didn’t suffer fools gladly but had focused empathy in spades. And she always did her best.

I tried to make myself comfortable in the ubiquitous grey plastic chair at the side of her desk. She saw my pained expression as I lowered myself into it.

"Sorry the chairs are so uncomfortable - I’m trying to persuade the partners to replace them all.” I looked at her and weakly smiled.

“Now, what’s been happening to bring you here today?”

And so I told my story. How it all began about three months ago. Just small things - the bin being repositioned on the drive, no matter how many times I lodged it tightly in its storage area. Then the milk delivery missing the odd one at different times in the week. I had contacted the local farm ready to make a complaint about my order not being fulfilled, only to find that they had, in fact, delivered the right number as asked. I felt really stupid after that call, but then the same thing happened the following day. What on earth was going on?

Dr Telman leant forward, nodding in agreement whilst rotating the loose gold band on her left hand with her right thumb and forefinger.

I momentarily hesitated to tell her what happened next. What if she really did think that I was losing the plot? My mind was ruminating over the possible consequences of this. My head lowered and my view was of my fur-covered jeans. I’d forgotten to brush it off before leaving.

“Are you ok to continue?”

I looked up. Her earnest face gave me permission to continue. After the bin and the milk bottles, things escalated. Whenever I stood at the front door I was convinced someone was nearby, hidden, observing me. I would scan the trees, walk down the drive, look up and down the road and even walk backwards up the drive (goodness knows what the neighbours thought) to keep it as much as I could within my sight. Then, I would retreat inside, conscious of my heart beating and my palms wet and clammy with perspiration.

Since I live on my own, there wasn’t anyone who could moderate my rapidly advancing paranoia. I double-checked the window and door locks. I had a local trader fit a dead lock on the front door and add an extra lock to the back door. He joked about turning the place into Fort Knox whilst I made him a coffee. After which my bank account was nearly £200 lighter.

I paused, a downward glance at my watch told me that I’d been in the consultation room for ten minutes already. Dr Telman must have read my mind as she calmly said

“I’ve given over plenty of time for you, so just carry on.”

Feeling comforted by this, I ploughed on. I recounted the dread I woke up with. How I fastidiously checked and re-checked every room and item to make sure that nothing had moved or disappeared whilst I had slept. And how this routine was taking me longer and longer. I felt imprisoned in my physical home but the cell bars of my mind were equally oppressive.

I adjusted my position in the comfortless chair. I took a breath.

“This is really difficult…thank you for being so patient.”

So I told her the final thing that had broken this camel’s back. Just a couple of days ago I’d forced myself out to the local shops. My fridge was empty, save for a rapidly mouldering microwave meal that I’d defrosted but couldn’t bring myself to eat. And if the three bears had broken in looking for food, they too would have been as disappointed as Goldilocks, perhaps more so as there wasn’t any porridge at all.

I closed the front door behind me. Stuffed the keys in my pocket. I looked around the garden. Red leaves, looking like discarded confetti, lay jumbled in random piles. I focused my attention on the big elm tree to the right. It’s trunk was easily thick enough for someone to hide behind. I told myself that I just needed to get to the shop as I began to pick up my pace. And though the rest of the world was getting on with life right in front of me, still I felt the familiar uneasiness and terror return.

I looked behind me. Nothing. I cast my glance across the road. Only a hassled looking woman with a small protesting child in tow. I caught a glimpse of myself in the windows of a red Toyota. I looked like I’d been on a month long bender. In the distance I could see the SPAR shop and anticipated the relief I would feel once inside the door.

Just a couple of minutes. I told myself that it was all in my head. Relief allowed my shoulders to drop, I pushed my hand into my right coat pocket to reassure myself that I had brought my purse. The tatty scrunched up plastic bag with it crinkled.

Then liquid horror flooded my body. As I looked ahead, on the corner of the next street was the familiar figure of someone I feared, loathed and despised. I blinked and made myself stare hard just to make sure. I wanted to scream but my tongue stuck like glue in my dry mouth. I quickly felt around in my left pocket, then my back pocket, “Shit”, I’d left my phone at home.

I felt faint, steadied myself against a lightpost and went through my options like a computer running a complex programme.

I ran up the next drive which had a car parked in it, shouting for help and banging loudly on the door. A confused middle-aged woman looked me up and down, fortunately got the gist of what was happening and ushered me quickly inside where I sat down as she called the Police.

I told the woman where my ex had been standing and asked her to see if he was still there. She furtively parted the lace curtains in the bay window, turned to me and said that he was still there, smoking and grinning at her.

I was petrified he would break in. The woman, who told me her name was Jill, did her best to reassure me that everything was going to be ok and if he did try anything he would be sorry, especially since her only companion in the house was an ex-Police dog that she had offered to re-home two years ago after his retirement. Jill went to get him from the kitchen, then introduced a huge, black and tan German Shepherd who went by the name of Rollo.

He approached me, looked at me with his liquid brown eyes, bent his head to sniff my outstretched hand then took a step backward and sat down.

“Oh, he really likes you. Usually he just sniffs people and walks away”

I was relieved and comforted to have Rollo in the room.

I finished up by recounting in between wiping my eyes, how the Police had arrived, taken my statement and contact details and asked Jill if I could remain there whilst they rounded up my ex. Apparently, they were looking for him anyway in connection with a serious assault and stalking charge.

It took another day for them to track him down. During the interview he confessed quite brazenly to stalking me, taking the milk and moving the bins. He had also been caught with a flick-knife and told the investigating officers that he was just waiting for the right moment to kill me but wanted, like a cat with a mouse, to ‘play’ first.

Leaving the surgery I stopped to sit on a nearby bench. It was now Spring and the cherry-tree blossom was glorious. It had been a desperately difficult time but, I had come through. Dr Telman had arranged some PTSD counselling and I had found this really helpful in allowing me to deal with all the mixed emotions from recent experiences and those that had lingered from my early life.

I looked at my watch. I’d arranged to meet Jill at Nibbles, a favourite nearby café for lunch and a catch up. We had kept in touch and found that friendship was a good antidote to loneliness. And sometimes I took Rollo out for his walk, but I always remembered my phone.