Dove soap

The leather chair has such a large hole in the middle that I'm momentarily foxed, wondering if it's one of those ominously-named delivery chairs that I've heard of but never actually seen.

But no: it's just an old broken chair the nurse is perched on, in the middle of the childrens' ward. The ward is shabby, but light and clean. There are hand-painted guinea fowl mobiles floating over each bed near to felt-tipped green apples (or are they hearts?) with the message: Get Well Soon.

"I've brought you something," I tell a nurse. I'm waiting to interview a senior consultant. I've learnt it's often best not to arrive empty-handed in these cases.

I hold out my package: seven or eight individually-wrapped Dove soaps, some Dove deodorant (Black Dress Friendly, apparently it's a new line) and some toothpaste. A family friend has been sending these packages for seven years. His Dove soap has gone to childrens' homes, MDC officials' wives ("She'll use it at the church camp this weekend. None of her friends will have nice soap like this," the official in question told us happily as we skulked round a deserted building in the east of the country), victims of the Murambatsvina slum clearances, a would-be hairdresser in Mabvuku, Mrs Dube-who-gives-me-mealies and, and...

An older nurse appears. "I am the sister," she announces. "These are nice. Are they for me or for these girls?" Until January, nurses were being paid the equivalent of 50 US cents a month. "You must decide," I say, embarrassed by my heels and a tan leather Longchamp bag that's at least 10 years old but still looks expensive.

A chair appears, as if by magic. "Sit, sit while you wait," the nurses say, smiling. I do -- and the seat is solid.