'How a novice traveller is pressing my buttons. Badly.'

We are about to travel to Africa. By ‘we’ I mean me and my partner of four years. I am terrified.

It’s not the thought of deep, dark jungles or ferocious, foreign fauna that has me jumpy.

It’s him. Because the 44-year-old man I’m in love with has managed, in the past few weeks, to morph into someone almost unrecognisable. I say ‘almost’ because I’ve seen one episode of Bear Grylls. And this is clearly who he is modelling himself upon.

There is no contingency for which we are unprepared. Purchases by my partner thus far include:

• Green tea “just in case you want to have something different”. This would, indeed, be a departure from my regular sipping habits, since I never drink green tea. Ever.
• Strap-on mining headlights for the week we’re camping "so if you need to go back to the tent it will be easy". (Editor’s note: The author of this post is my sister. I would pay very, very good money to see her with a mining lamp strapped to her forehead).
• Miso soup “just in case - and all you need is hot water”. Brilliant!! A touch of the Orient in Botswana. Just the cultural experience I was hoping for.
• A pack of three power point adaptors, ensuring global power access, supplemented by a single adaptor for the UK and the African countries we'll visit.
• Ginger tea. As above.
• Mountain Designs dry wicking t-shirts AND a Kathmandu organic cotton quick drying t-shirt, for those occasions when Botswana's 25 degree July heat will be barely enough. Forget the fact he has a cupboard FULL of perfectly good t-shirts, some never worn.
• Kathmandu zip-off pants (cost: $90). “Darl, they were down from $189” – which I will admit is a bargain. Still.

And of course:

• Rock climbing shoes. FYI: We are not doing any rock climbing.

We had to have yellow fever injections, so while he was at the travel doctor he also got typhoid, cholera and measles - or was it mumps? Anyway, safe to say he’s unlikely to die from any of the common infectious diseases.

We are also now armed with a medical pack that would put Medicine Sans Frontiers to shame. We have Ibuprofen, Nurofen and Disprin. What type of headache demands such specificity? Isn't a headache a headache? We have Imodium (granted, I might eat my words on this one), dehydration tablets and tea tree oil – again, "just in case you get a little scratch or cut". We have bandages, bandaids, syringes and swipes.

And before you nod and say ‘better to be prepared’: on the week we are camping we are on an organised tour with camping specialists. They have medical kits up the whazoo. They have lights to strap to our heads and torches and tents and they’ll cook splendid meals. He will not be required to catch wilderbeest between his teeth and drag them back to camp for skinning.

I know I should be more sympathetic. He’s not a seasoned traveller, and I work in the travel industry, so there is a bit of an imbalance. And I have to confess to trips where I’ve disappeared down this same rabbit hole.

I was travelling to New York: Nothing would do but a very specific beanie-with-bauble reminiscent of Sarah Jessica Parker. I was going scuba diving: A Tag Heuer diving watch became essential. And yes, when I went to Africa for the first time, I took syringes too. I’ve bought caftans for sailing and, once, when I was much younger and fancied myself living in the country, an Akubra hat and Dryzabone. Heads up: I’m allergic to horses.

And I know I'm not alone. There must be a million people travelling with parents addicted to spreadsheets and 'just in case' supplies.

Our holiday will last three weeks and take us to South Africa, Zanzibar and Botswana.

I can imagine his excitement - and perhaps trepidation - is starting to build. Mine is too. I mean, if he’s bought all this before we go, what the hell is going to become essential once we’re there? Will he come over all Hemingway, in safari khakis and pith helmet, mumbling about big game trophies?  Will he start wearing the vermillion cloaks and beads of a Masai warrior? Will he go old-school and insist we deal with malarial mosquitoes with another gin and tonic?

Worst of all – will he revert to his at-home job and try to project manage the erection of our tent?

I’m comforted by two things. First, if it all gets a bit much, the tour is sold out, so I’ll be able to talk to other people and pretend he isn’t mine.

Second, he’s bringing some lollies. “Just in case we feel like something sweet at the end of the day.”

Now that’s a plan I can work with.

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