Five Weeks To Departure

I woke up. It was 1am. And a ladybird had pooed on my face.

I don't get what it is with these ladybirds. For some reason, whenever the first cold snap strikes in October, every single ladybird in the UK performs a mass migration into my bedroom, where they remain until spring of the next year. I came upstairs one day a couple of months ago and counted thirty-six marching in a circle around my windowpane. I have nothing against them as a general rule, they are by no means the ugliest or most irritating of insects, but seriously, why my bedroom?

So, five weeks to go, and now the nerves are really starting to kick in. It transpires there is no medium between needing to get away right NOW and no no no far too soon.... A week or so more and I'll be in full-blown panic mode. Finding myself talking to people, I can hear my voice going "Yes, I'm going to travel to the coast and I'm really ex-cii-tedd..."- and that crack, right in the middle of the sentence, translates as What the hell am I doing? Africa? SIX MONTHS in Africa??? Can't I just stay in my bedroom and eat Malteasers?

The thing is, I still can't make soup without burning the pan. And in five weeks people are going to be expecting me to stand up in front of a classroom of kids, on the other side of the world, and teach them things. Just thinking about it turns my stomach into a snake pit. Now we're on the wrong side of Christmas, six months seems like an awfully long time, and it doesn't help that I keep saying goodbye to family and friends with the line "And I'll see you... ah, well, in July. Hah."

Time to freak out? I rather think so.

Six Weeks to Departure.

An evening with The Stud;

"You are absolutely mental." he said, shaking his head. "You're going to live in Ghana for six months, with a christian reverend, and you can't drink, and you are actually paying to do this. Seriously, what are you thinking?"

"It's going to help me grow, as a person..." I protested.

"Bullshit. Now I'm going to Japan. To be in a band." He coughed and raised his voice slightly, to make sure everyone could hear him. "that's Japan. Playing with my BAND."

Ice skating with The Raconteur; a gift of priscilla, queen of the desert and a blow-by-blow account of why Star Wars Episode I is a totally implausible film.

An emotionally fraught hour on Christmas Eve sobbing in The Actors house. His kitchen is being ripped out, and we sit on the floor of the sitting room with boxes piled high around us. He brings me a small glass of rum, tea and ginger biscuits and tells me it takes time. It has been snowing, but the rain washes it away, leaving small, sad piles of ice sitting around going now what? Tomorrow it will be Christmas Day, and then the new year and I will be gone.

My passport returns to me in the post, a brand new stamp across its page; Republic Of Ghana- Ghana Immigration Service VISAS, endorsed for six months from said date. I keep waking in the middle of the night thinking What The Hell Have I Let Myself In For?? Six weeks is far too close, no time at all. What will I do without my labradoodle?

Christmas Day- a freh start. Rip down all the photos on my bedroom wall and pin up an enormous map in their place. Soon I will start sticking pins in all the places I want to go. Presents of Ultra-lightweight towels, a mosquito net, sheets of soap and washing powder. A silver harmonica- considerably more portable than a grand piano. I plan a road trip from Oda to Busua, via the Kakum National Park, through Cape Coast, Sekondi and Takoradi. More whirling around on ice. Yes, I muse, I am queen of my destiny and full of poise. At least until several small children come ploughing into the back of my legs and send me flying.

Seven weeks to Departure

...Christmas is just around the corner. You can tell through the cold bite of the air, the drunken revelling of that extraordinary work Christmas party, The Medic cringing with embarrassment about her work Christmas party, finally making good the endless ice skating battle with The Raconteur, the return of UniGal from the cold, cold North. And I haven't even begun shopping.

I have sat down and penned a letter to The Reverend. I have done my best to cheerfully introduce myself, without being too desperately friendly. In point of fact, I have absolutely no idea what I'm supposed to say to a pastor. Will he, I wonder, stare down at my scribbled words and immediately know I am a non-believer? Will he denounce the heading of 'dear sir'? Perhaps I should have written 'Dear Reverend', or 'Dear Vicar'...

Or 'Messenger of God'???

I stared blankly at the sheet, trying to think of some way of fitting Do you have a piano??? into the message. We were advised to send a photograph of ourselves- the instant I was told, I could only think of the prints of myself in a corset and hotpants, with false eyelashes out to here. In the end I simply sprint out of my house, tear down the road and ram the letter into a postbox before I lose my nerve and take a match to it instead. I decided not to include a photo.

I am rather worried about the total absence of my passport. I packaged it up with my Visa application and sent it away at the Briefing. Since then, there has been neither hide nor hair of it. It's hard to know when is the fitting time to start panicking about ordering a new one. Perhaps I am being overly anxious- but then, the idea of trying to talk my way into Ghana without it seems altogether too much work.

Cheerful Christmas drinks with The Actor.

"I'm going away in seven weeks! It's so exciting!"

"I'm doomed to suffer a life alone, forever...."

'Tis the season to be jolly indeed.

Eight Weeks to Departure

My Mother calls from the United States of America, where she and the Chatterback are having a luxury weekend away.

"I've bought you a huge Mosquito Net! And a sort of ultraviolet zappy type thing you can neutralise nasty water with!"

"Aaahh... Joy. Thanks very much."

Perhaps it's a sonic screwdriver.

I've seen an awful lot of family members, and repeated again and again where I'm going, what I'm doing, and how excited I am about it. In fact, the date of departure seems to be coming worryingly near. I know I'm going to Africa, but I still feel in the sort of mental state where my brain is thinking "Well I'm going to Africa, but I'm not really going to Africa, not really really." I shall probably step onto the plane and have a complete meltdown. Now I must turn my attentions to my last Hep B jab, and my typhoid and yellow fever.