I do think that VSO is amazing, and I would and do recommend it. It’s just that my experience was frustrating for many reasons, and it’s still very recent – although, frankly, the craziness of my current job is tinging my memories of my Namibian work with rosy gold. Ask me now! Ask me now!

Anyway, they seemed rather taken aback by my response and suggested a debrief, to take place at a returned volunteer weekend in Birmingham, this weekend. To whit, I will spend a weekend surrounded by people who have finally been let loose in an environment where they can say “When I was in Ethiopia/Ghana/India/Namibia…” until they are blue in the face, and no one will roll their eyes or glaze over.. Oh, the intoxication.

I received an email setting out the schedule for the first day, and it begins with a session entitled “Just one thing…” to which we are encouraged to wear our favourite outfit from our time overseas. I am now wishing that I had spent that vast amount of money on the Herero dress I saw in the window of a tourist shop in Windhoek. My favourite outfit from Namibia was a pair of cut off jeans, a khaki t-shirt from M&S, my Mr Price plastic flip-flops – now sadly defunct, and adrift somewhere in Malawi, and my Ray-Bans, which are so scratched I can no longer see out of them. I’m not sure I’m going to measure up. Perhaps I should take my red satin witch’s hat…

I’m alternately filled with horror and amusement at the idea of this session. I know what many VSOs are like, and they tend to go all gung-ho and dress in splashy African prints and styles that just look outlandish on middle-aged, middle class white women. Then I feel shame at being so bitter and twisted and not entering into the spirit of things as I should. It makes me feel like an errant schoolgirl. I expect I will sit there chewing gum, rolling my eyes, and flicking paper balls at the facilitator.

The scariest part of all is that when I go back to Harborne Hall, it will be over two years since I was last there, and it will feel like five minutes.

Just one thing… How did the time go by so fast?

The man next to me picks it up, and indicating the bent wing, delightedly says “anhedral and dihedral”. Everyone chuckles. Except me, having a congenital inability to do maths or physics, and no knowledge of aerodynamics. I smile, wondering whether we will be making engineering in jokes all evening.

“Split the difference!” quips my future husband. Everyone laughs again. It is clear that a fine joke has just been made.

I pick up my glass to take a gulp of wine, and find a small blue plastic frog in it.

Christmas parties in Namibia just aren’t the same.

Everything is fine until Gordon asks if they do Mocha. I resisted the urge to laugh. I mean, I grew up in a part of the world where uttering the word ‘cappuccino’ in public would earn you a clip round the ear and banishment to the bathroom to wash your mouth out with laver bread. The girl, who is wearing a tabard, looks confused. She says “We have filter coffee?” hopefully, as if this will stop any more difficult questions flittering over the counter, and messing with the status quo.

“Well,” says Gordon, unaware of the mental havoc he is causing. “Do you think you could mix some filter coffee with some hot chocolate for me?”.

There is a brief silence. The most extraordinary expression of disgust and horror pulls its way across her face. Her lip curls incredulously. Her eyebrows move steadily up her forehead until they are lost beneath her bangs. “Um,” she says, clearly terrified beyond her wits. ” We don’t have a machine for that.”

Fortunately, we find a spoon, and mix the coffee and chocolate together ourselves, once she is out of sight. When we leave, the goose is still pecking around in the puddle.

We decide we don’t really want to get married in this particular venue, and drive off into the rain.