A young man who tested positive for HIV in Gothenburg at the end of the 1980s told me how the doctor who had to inform him of the positive result burst into tears. He was nineteen when he discovered that he was infected. Instead of trying to cope with his own fear, he found himself having to console the weeping doctor.

When did you start being afraid?

When had I been afraid?

During the night I spent on the flight from London to Entebbe, I thought a lot about the occasions in my life when I had been paralysed with fear. I could recall three situations in particular, one of them was when I was waiting for news from a doctor.

I was in Mozambique, it was autumn, the days were hot. I was working on the production of a play, but started to feel unwell. I suspected it was influenza, possibly malaria, or it could simply be exhaustion. As usual, I had been working far too long hours. The tiredness wouldn't go away. I dragged myself as far as my Renault 4 in the mornings and sat there, having long, silent conversations with myself before making up my mind to try to work one more day.

But then one morning, when I reached the theatre and had parked the car, I stayed behind the wheel. It was obvious that there was something badly wrong with me. I was seriously ill, something nasty had found its way into my body and was threatening my life. I drove home again, but stopped on the way to buy some food. As I went up the steps I bumped into Christer, a Swedish dentist and aid worker.

"You're completely yellow," he said.

I went to my doctor, who sent me to a clinic for tests, and I returned with liver readings that were nothing short of catastrophic. I was sent at once to South Africa. I remember nothing of the journey. But it was an aggressive form of jaundice. (I suspect it was caused by a dirty salad at a restaurant in Pemba in northern Mozambique.)