He ignored the neat rows of parking bays nearer the store where the majority of spaces were filled and pulled his Land Rover into the middle of a row of empty bays at the far end. He turned the engine off and sat there, taking stock.

His breathing was even. No headaches or tingling. His pulse was faster than normal, considering he was a pretty fit guy, but it wasn’t hammering. This is good, he told himself. This is okay.

He glanced at the book lying on the passenger seat. Panic Attacks and Agoraphobia: A Practical Guide. It had taken him a week to order it after the incident at Moji’s shop, another two before he’d opened the cover, and he’d been reading it on and off for the last month or so.

The early chapters on self-care hadn’t seemed very useful, so he’d skipped over them. He ate well, looked after himself, ran at least four times a week. Nothing new to learn there. He’d also skipped over the following few chapters of psychobabble, suggesting things like journaling. What was he? A thirteen-year-old girl? Besides, every time he picked up a pen, it was the same. His brain emptied and all he could do was stare at the blank page. Hardly a therapeutic pursuit.

What had caught his interest was the section full of practical tips and exercises. ‘Systematic desensitization’ was where he’d eventually landed. He could see the sense in that: expose yourself to a situation that has caused panic before – but do it in a smaller way, tackle the situation in bite-sized pieces – and gradually you should be able to defuse some of those panic attack triggers.

This supermarket had seemed the obvious place. He’d had his very first attack here, right in the middle of the fresh produce section. At the time, he’d thought he was dying. He’d been sure he was either having a heart attack or a stroke, that something inside his brain had just popped, ripping through his consciousness, erasing neurons left and right, doing untold damage. Other shoppers had frowned and tutted, assuming he was under the influence of something other than his own brokenness.

While he wasn’t exactly whooping for joy inside his head at being back here, he did feel a tinge of excitement mixed in with the trepidation. The local farm shops he used provided excellent quality meat, fresh produce and a few extras, but if he wanted something a little more exotic, he was out of luck. And he’d been hankering for Thai green curry for months now. He had all the right herbs and spices. The only thing missing was fish sauce, and his last bottle had run out almost a year ago. And the more he’d thought about it, the more Thai green curry had been all he’d been able to think about.

His plan was simple: three easy steps. A few techniques from the book combined with a bit of stern self-talk should power him through it. It wasn’t as if he was trying to do a full shop, cramming a trolley with items and staying inside the supermarket for up to an hour. Just one bottle of fish sauce. Five minutes, in and out. He could manage that.