I divide my patients into three broad groups; those I see most weeks and treat the practice as a social club, the vast majority who I see once or twice a year with something fairly genuine, and those who never attend. Peter Jackson is in the latter group and my next patient.

“Hello Peter. Or do you prefer Pete?”

As I speak, I quickly appraise the man before me – about 40, smart casual clothes, BMI 25, and clean nails. As he sits I notice what looks like a purple cloth scrunched up in his hands. I don’t mention it, but continue with my assessment. His hands tremble slightly, his face is pale and he has circles around his eyes. Best guess, stress at work and he wants sleeping tablets.

“Pete’s fine.”

I nod and smile. Wait for him to continue.
“I’ve not been sleeping too well recently and I was wondering perhaps about sleeping tablets or something.”
Bingo! I’m feeling pretty smug as I go though my usual routine of why we don’t like to prescribe benzodiazepines anymore. Usually people go at this point, but not Pete.

“I’m really desperate, perhaps just for a few weeks while I sort myself out?”

I really don’t want to prescribe any, so try another tack.

“Most people have trouble sleeping for a reason. It’s important to try and identify the reason and deal with that first. Is it stress at work perhaps?” I’ll give myself bonus points if it is!

“Trauma,” he says, flatly.

Car accident is my best guess now.

“Trauma?” I say.

He unfurls the purple cloth in his hand to reveal a Paratrooper’s beret. “This was my grandfather’s; he served in the Second World War. Towards the end he was captured. Gran, she told me that he’d had a bad war, never told me exactly what happened but I can guess.”
So can I. He would have been tortured in ways I dare not imagine.

Pete continued. “Gran was proud of him and she wanted me to have this.” Limply he raises the beret . “I was thirteen when she gave it me – said I was old enough to follow the one rule of ownership - never to put it on.”

“She thought it would be disrespectful?” I suggest.

“No, nothing like that. She said if I wore it, I would hear his screams, feel his terror, understand what exactly he endured. I respected that rule for 30 years. Then last month in a moment of madness, I tried it on.”

He breaks down sobbing. It’s total bollocks of course, but what am I to do?

“The imagination's a powerful thing,” I start.

He looks up with red-rimmed eyes. “You think I’m mad don’t you? Well if that’s the case, put this on, just for a few seconds, then I’ll go and not bother you again.” He leans forward and proffers the beret.

I swallow. “Temazepam 10mg for four weeks OK?” I ask, reaching for my pad.