The VSO office sat huddled in concrete, two floors above the Red Cross, just off Siaka Stevens’ Street in the throbbing heart of Freetown. Not a place to linger.

The British High Commissioner certainly didn’t hang around, keeping his pep talk focused on the perils of having relationships with or, God forbid, marrying the locals. He wasted no time in asking about our jobs, destinations or worries, as obviously British High Commissioners have much better things to do. After a curt goodbye, he tippety-tapped down the staircase, past the Red Cross office and pushed his way through a crowd of Liberian refugees to head straight for his shiny, air-conditioned car. There were no windows in the VSO office, but we watched him through the latticed brickwork that allowed a little air to circulate.

Mike found it all very amusing, but then he was a seasoned Aid Worker who had already spent a number of years overseas. Wooden leg or not, he was unlikely to have problems. Mike told us the two main reasons for volunteers being med-evacced were motorcycle accidents (not a problem for me, I wasn’t going on any motorbike) or psycho-vaccs. Well, nervous breakdowns weren’t my style either. After all I was a stable sort of character, wasn’t I?

Of course anybody could be stable when they’d had an easy life like mine: never abused or raped, no major bereavements, no ghastly relationship breakdowns, and even my parents were still married to each other. A spoilt only child with a cushy, middle class upbringing; that was me. I had no excuse to be anything but an optimist. And now it was payback time. Help!

“He’s totally ignoring all those refugees,” Susan sniffed as the British High Commissioner’s chauffeur shut him into his cool oasis, closing the passenger door on the smelly, noisy humidity of downtown Freetown.

“What can he do, Susan?” asked Mike.

“He’s the High Commissioner, he should help them.”

“How, Susan?” pressed Klaus, ever the realist. “He’s not responsible for Liberia, and besides he’s only in Salone for decoration. The Foreign Office is hardly likely to send its leading lights here.”

“Apparently he’s been relocated from Outer Mongolia,” whispered Lindsey.

“I rest my case,” said Klaus. “At least he’s invited all we lowly VSO subjects to his Christmas Party.”

Only three months till Christmas. I tried to forget about the bit in-between.

“Did everyone see that bit in The Guardian about Doe?” continued Klaus.

“Who’s Doe?” I asked.

“Liberia’s president. Don’t you docs pay any attention to current affairs?” groaned Lindsey.

“No, we leave that to smartarse librarians.”

“Well he’s an ex-president now,” laughed Mike. “Got himself knocked off by the rebels last week.”

“And good riddance by the sound of him,” added Lindsey.

“Oh dear,” said Susan. “Will that bring peace to Liberia?”

“I must say, civil war does sound worrying.”

“How does it worry you, Doc, when you obviously don’t know a thing about it?” teased Mike.

“Actually, Liberia “came up at a family planning lecture last month.”

“What?” spluttered Lindsey.

“Liberia was one of the main producers of rubber for the condom industry. The civil war’s caused a bit of a supply crisis, especially with AIDS causing such a surge in demand.”

“So is that all we care about the dreadful things that are happening in Liberia?” Susan howled. “Our condom supply?”

“Well the Saloneans sound a pretty laid back lot. Sixteen tribes and no wars,” mused Klaus. “Sound safe enough for you, Doc?”

“That’s the only reason I agreed to come.”