Drugged Britain: ARE WE HOOKED ON HAPPY PILLS? [1]

When my oldest child was four weeks old, I took her to my local surgery for a routine check-up. Like most new mothers, I was exhausted. I’d endured a terrifying birth, involving a horribly speedy emergency C-section, followed by a general anaesthetic while my womb was removed from my body to be stitched up.

After a grim hospital stay, back home I’d been flung into the maelstrom of sleepless nights and endless feeding. My baby cried non-stop. So, when a kind-faced GP asked how I was doing, it was hardly surprising that I found myself crying helplessly too.