Let’s not mince our words – it’s been a creepy week... And that’s appropriate since it’s Halloween on Sunday.

But like all good tales of mystery and imagination, it started innocently enough.

For instance, last Monday, I was travelling down from London on the early coach (about 7.10am) when a woman got on at Hillingdon and sat next to me.

She was in her late forties, smartly dressed, pleasant.

I smiled, she smiled, I gave her room to fit her safety belt, we both smiled and then she asked: “So what side of the road do you prefer to walk on?”

And that was it. Nothing else. Not a word. Despite the fact I was clearly struggling to cough up an answer. And even when I did reply – I think I said something lame like ‘the pavement side’ – she still refused to acknowledge me. All the way to Gloucester Green.

Anyway, it didn’t rattle me – just left me rather puzzled.

But on Friday, the second strange incident took place. A friend rang and asked if I fancied a trip to the theatre.

“Sure,” I replied. “What’s on?”

And he read (from the entertainment listings of this very paper): “Oct 29, performance art by Barbara Dean. A single white sheet will be unfolded to a six-minute piece of Japanese music. Performance part of Invasion of Privacy event. 6-8pm. Free admission.”

Mmm. As I said to him, I was intending to dry out a duvet all this week, probably to Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony, otherwise I would have jumped at the chance.

Then on Saturday, a good friend of mine, Zara (that really is her name – and you’ll soon understand why I have no wish to protect her identity) was watching television with me when a commercial for Haribo Tangtastic sweets came on.

Now if you have children, you’ll know that Haribo commercials always end with a toe-curling, cringe-inducing jingle that goes: ‘The happy world of Haribo’ (oh, if only these words could truly convey the saccharine sickly goo of the harmony).

Momentarily poleaxed by the rising tide of bile in my throat, I suddenly noticed that Zara was actually dancing along. Noticing that I was noticing, she stopped and said: “I hate that song.”

“So why are you dancing to it?” I asked (reasonably enough I thought).

“Because it’s catchy.”

Suffice to say, Zara won’t be welcome again.

The worst – or most unsettling – however, was yet to come.

Yesterday, wandering into town, a youngish man walked past me, looked over his shoulder as we cleared Magdalen Bridge and said: “It’s my sister who’s sending those letters.”

By the time I’d made sure I heard correctly, he had run (‘run’ I stress) down a side street.

Back at home, I reviewed all my mail for the past two months and apart from the usual love letters from Visa, there was nothing from anyone’s sibling.

So, after a week like that, wouldn’t you too have woken today with a feeling of dread?