ASK anyone for the highlight of last week’s racing programme, and you will find general consensus that Altior was the star. There will be some grumbling about the uncompetitive nature of the Clarence House Chase at Ascot, which was essentially one-way traffic, and a long way removed from the events of 30 years ago when the corresponding race, then a valuable handicap, was won by Desert Orchid in one of the most memorable finishes ever seen in a jumps race. His battle from Swinley Bottom with the equally courageous Panto Prince is etched into the memory of those who witnessed it.

The anniversary gave the racecourse an opportunity to flood social media with the footage, thus ensuring that a new generation would have the benefit of that blood-quickening finish, described in typical style by Sir Peter O’Sullevan.

I watched the race sitting in an easy chair constructed of metal tubing and brown corduroy, the most hideous as well as the most precarious item of furniture I’ve ever seen, while my father sat on the sofa of our television room in Cushendall, as we did every weekend and the memory is as clear now as if it happened last week.

Indeed, my memory of a huge swathe of races over the next decade or two are equally clear, despite the fact that I had to skip university lectures or take unscheduled work breaks to see many of them. In my mind these race are categorised by a mental image of the race itself, attached to a vision of the tens of betting shops of different livery in different cities and areas of fluctuating kerb appeal where I watched them.

There aren’t many businesses which encourage you to hang out in betting shops all day, so I ended up working for the one that did.

These days my recollection of most races comes from peering at a small picture on my laptop, although I crank things up a notch or two for Cheltenham.

With a hectic home life, I kid myself that it’s a shame I can’t get out racing nearly as much as I do, but my days out are getting fewer, and I’ve not been at a race meeting since Brigadier Gerard evening at Sandown in May.

What a bummer that I’m tied to the house, I’ve thought to myself, when I could be having fun at the races, but I’ve never quite convinced myself on that score.

Last weekend, the stars aligned; I was offered tickets to Ascot, and my mother-in-law, who has struggled with her health in the last couple of years, agreed unexpectedly to babysit, so I left my house on Saturday morning and set off to see Altior at his magnificent best. I never made it to Ascot, and I realised when I walked to the gate that I wasn’t going. I should have felt a sense of release, of excitement at attending a winter race-meeting, especially after such a barren summer, but I didn’t. I felt anxious.

I reasoned with myself that my lack of enthusiasm was due to the weather and the impending train journey, which was unlikely to be particularly pleasurable, while I was a bit stressed trying to get the boys to settle down before I left. It would pass, I reasoned.

It didn’t pass, and when I got to Guildford I decided not to get on a train, but to get a cup of coffee and a bite to eat. It wasn’t worth the hassle, I decided, to go to Ascot. I’d miss the first, I probably wouldn’t see anyone I knew, and I was sure to fall foul of the famous dress code. It was only when the girl behind the counter at Greggs asked me – twice – if I was all right that I realised that perhaps the idea of trekking to Ascot for a day’s racing wasn’t just a bit of a pain, it was something which was I was genuinely dreading.

I’m a little ashamed to admit that I stayed around Guildford for the entire afternoon, and then pretended to my wife that I’d been racing. That’s normal behaviour, isn’t it? I slipped back into the normal routine, and I don’t think I would have thought twice about it, had I not read about Debbie Matthews, who overcame debilitating social anxiety to drive herself to Ascot to see Altior in the flesh. Debbie’s story is a long and complex one, and I won’t rehash it here, save to say that her courage in facing up to her fears has been remarkable, but not as remarkable as her determination to make the most of her opportunity to help others facing similar issues.

There’s a lot to be said for tackling your own demons head on to inspire others to do the same, or just to prod others (ahem) into honest self-analysis. We hear a lot about ‘raising awareness’ of mental health issues, but it takes someone to reach out to actually make a difference.

It’s easy to say we can all learn a lesson from Debbie knowing that next week’s narrative will move, but that’s wrong.

My failure to deal with a minor bout of anxiety is put into context by her bravery, and talking about how a disconnected ‘we’ should view that is letting myself off the hook. I’m ashamed of my weakness, however insignificant I may feel it is the grand scheme, and I can’t just shrug it off – I need to be honest with myself.

Next time I go racing, and I’m not sure when that will be, I’m determined to wear a green ribbon.