“For Christ’s sake BURN!” A weak column of white smoke spiralled up from the four-foot-high pile of soggy garden detritus, that flanked a small pond, in the folds of our Victorian country home. “Couldn’t light a fire in a haystack” riffed Grandad as he trooped by, his latest cigar in the greenhouse further stunting the growth of that year’s tomatoes.

After a few drinks at dinner one evening, and with an old knee injury playing up, I’m careless, and mistake powerful sleeping pills for ibuprofen. Twenty-minutes later, in bed, flat on my back, sidelight on, window open, I’m listening to electronic music through over-ear headphones. I stare hard at the long cream curtains, attached by rings, to their antique wooden rail.

I’d not heard the question. I’d been thinking about a tyre rolling down a hill. “I’m asking if you’ve had a problem with high blood pressure before? With Hypertension?” repeats the nurse. The tyre was no ordinary tyre. A titanic ring of reinforced rubber, it had likely come off a tractor or a digger, then been abandoned. We’d discovered it, my eleven-year-old school mates and I, on one of the generous stone and clay paths that run, like streaks of caramel sauce off a scoop of pistachio ice cream, from the top of Pitch Hill down to what is now the mountain-bike mecca of Peaslake village.

The article reflects on the author's experience with Tourette's Syndrome, paralleling it with the biopic “I Swear” about John Davidson. Diagnosed at thirty-two, the author highlights struggles with stigma, vulnerability, and mental health. Despite challenges, including overwhelming symptoms and mental health decline, there’s hope for change and a commitment to transform public perception of Tourette's.