I gaze at the calendar my mother has given me for Christmas. It has pictures of British beaches, and I know she intends for it to speed my return home from Ghana.
I count the weeks we have left.
"Eight weeks" I tell the others. "We'd better go away for the weekend, to make the most of it." Really it's because I've ridden the local horses to exhaustion, and now I want to go fishing.
To be fair we haven't been roughing it, a solid stream of guests since November requiring trips ranging from super-luxury to gap year in Cape Coast, Akosombo, Big Milly's Backyard, Elmina.
But the renewed pressure of a deadline to leave Ghana brings a fresh excuse, and we decide on a little trip to Ada Foah.
It’s no small undertaking. We know of only one hotel, we've stayed there, and I wrote so many pages in the guest book (a menu that bore no relation to the reality of supplies; two-pin sockets for three-pin appliances; and universally depressed staff) there was a queue of guests lining up behind me to read it.
"How will we explain our return?" I say.
My husband rifles for the tourist book. "There must be somewhere we overlooked".
There is. Tsarley Korpey, a two-storey house with inestimable stone cladding that would leave my (Welsh) compatriots gasping for air.
“Aren’t we lucky?” I say to Magnus as we survey the River Volta while waiting from 12.30 to 2pm GMT (Ghana Maybe Time) for three salads in a national characteristic that makes my husband
Our lunch wait time is being underused, so I call a man I've met before to bring his boat at 2pm so we can catch a barracuda, then take Magnus to a jetty to fish.
”You go first” I say, handing him the rod in the hope that he’ll catch something and start liking it. He feigns interest, plops a worm into the drink and hands it over.
But there’s nothing here, it’s like Cowes Week gone south, a persistent hum of speedboats that has sent the fish to the shady banks of the island over the way. I reel in, get stuck on a rock, and am forced to cut the line and lose a South African spinner I’d bought just the day before. As I pull in the rest of the line something hits the water. Plouf. The arm of my finest reel has worked loose and is sinking away from me, through dark water and down into sinking sand, and there are crocodiles, and I'm not going in after it.
"I must have the highest ratio of lost equipment to caught fish in the world," I say to Magnus. "You should give up," he says.
The barracuda boat comes with its owner, whose number's stored on speed dial as Moussa Fish, though only one of those is his real name.
I feel my luck's in. But I’m on form, the parody of a fisherman, losing another reel, another set of tackle, some pride, an afternoon, and several fish. Magnus sleeps through the whole round-trip.
“We’ll try the island tomorrow” says Moussa Fish, apologetically. He has caught nothing either, though unlike me his rod and his pride appears intact. “I’ll pick you up at 8”.
Eight comes and I'm lifeless, pinned to the bed by an interminable pain, a dagger welded in my middle so sharp it’s like Olivia's been with the cowry. “I’ll be fine,” I say. “I’ll cancel the boat” says my husband, and they disappear to breakfast, then return to say goodbye because they are going on a jetski. I drift away, clasped ‘twixt Morpheus and Nauseous, but overhear Magnus from over a mile away screaming delight across the estuary.
When they return, it’s time to go. I uncrumple myself, and my husband shows me to the receptionist. “The latest strain of malaria starts just like this,” she says (not food poisoning from our hotel! Good God no! Malaria, for sure, typhoid maybe. Bilharzia. Bubonic plague but most emphatically not food poisoning, no siree!)
We rush back to Accra for a malaria test at the hospital and by the time we arrive I’m bent double in pain. “I feel very sick" I say "like I have food poisoning, and I need a malaria test."
The receptionist takes down the information, asks if we’re paying cash, then says "you're an emergency, go straight in."
The doctor looks at me gravely and directs me to his ultrasound machine. Strange, I think, I assumed a malaria test would require some blood.
“I feel sick, in my stomach, and I ache, like the ‘flu” I say, “what is it you’re ultrascanning?”
He doesn't answer.
“Almost definitely malaria” he says. He looks at me, concerned, like he’s about to break bad news. “Are you paying cash?” he asks. Yes. “Better stay in.”
I'm drugged, dripped and left. Then there follows an incredible crescendo of antipathy. Drips fail to drip, and two big nurses come to tell me off; they storm in at 4am and turn lights full-on, then ask why I'm not resting. They try to take a blood sample and say my veins are wrong, and they tell me off. And so on.
My son meanwhile is delighted because it occasions a meeting with Dr Boy, who saw him when he was admitted with (vile) dysentery, and who said to him "My name is Dr Boy. I am not a girl, I am a boy". My son repeats it regularly as part of his "I'm a Ghanaian" line up that also includes, in strong local accent, "Your buttoss is itchy!" (you've ants in your pants) and "Jolloff rice is tooooo nice!" (but your buttoss will get fat).
I hold Doctor Boy in slightly lower esteem. He comes into my room, spies my son, whom he talks to adoringly, then my husband, to whom he is reverent (Ah! The BBC man! Great to have you here. How was Kenya? East coast suit you well? Been travelling much? You look on fine form!) and leaves. He has ignored me, on the bed, drips not dripping and wrong veins. He pops back in, as if he's forgotten himself, gives me a cursory "you OK?" and leaves before I answer.
Twenty-four hours, five non-dripping drips and nurses who sing sweet church songs while violently flushing a vein later I am allowed to go. We go to pay the bill. It's almost one thousand dollars, with a premium on everything because the man with the ultrasound machine was the country's top gynaecologist. We didn't know.
"We thought he was the doctor on duty, we told you I wanted a malaria test" we say.
The woman, who's behind a thick pane of glass and talking deliberately quietly, says "You saw the gynaecologist, do you know how good he is? So you have to pay what it says on the bill."
The credit controller comes, and we explain. She sucks her teeth and says "pay it". There follows a loud row. Not between her and me, because I'm being puny and still ill, but between her and my husband, who has become excellently terrifying.
The medical director spies that we're being manhandled by the credit controller, a woman who raises aggressive a few notches and turns it into fanged loonyism. She ushers us into her office, apologises, and we emerge triumphant, sensing the credit controller will be the next person in.
We pay the right amount and walk out past an audience we've entertained for the past half hour.
As we reach the door my husband, a reasonable, cerebral, (usually) conflict-averse man, turns on his heels. "I'm going back to the credit controller," he says, "to tell her she's toast."
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