We drew into the dock � no more than a few wooden planks which appeared to be strapped together by twine � and were met by a host of smiling, dancing and singing camp counselors or �GI�s� as they are known in Club Med. On the trip over I�d noticed how lovely and clear the water was, the colour of a thousand pale blue sapphires rather than the sewer green I was used to. Hurrah! Holiday spirit started to course through my veins. Dancing in the shallows were a manner of all sea creatures, apparently unperturbed that 100 holidaymakers were about to interrupt their lives, turn redder than lobster and peel viciously � all in a matter of days.

Everything had a picturesque glow, not dissimilar to those low budget movies that appear on TV from time to time. My husband audibly sighed in pleasure, and I could hear his thoughts (mostly consisting of beer, bumming around and beach) as his fantasy of lying on a lounger and ordering drinks from a pretty tanned babe seemed to be coming true.

One thing you must always remember when you go on holiday, especially a beach holiday, is that suncream is a must. I take a rather laissez-faire approach to using suncream in that I don't use it, instead preferring to cook myself medium-well in as short a time as possible. My dear husband, for all his flaws, slathers up every time he ventures out and is the first person to start laughing when I return, redder than a blushing schoolgirl and wincing with pain whenever something touches my skin. In fact, he takes a rather disturbing pleasure in poking me sharply when I say anything that aggravates him, watching me howl in pain whilst he laughs in a sinister Doctor Evil manner.

Having paid a near fortune for one week of paradise (all food, activities and drinks included) I was determined to make the most of it. Rousing my husband at 7 o�clock (�The early bird catches the worm!�), we dragged ourselves down to the pool for a spot of morning water aerobics.

Well, I can assure you I have never been worked so hard so early in the morning. I was starting to feel there was a startling similarity between the Hitler Youth and Club Med, with scary Gladiator type people called �Wolfgang� and "Carbonundrum" pushing us around our 10th lap of the pool, making us wave our hands about as if prisoners of war. Panting, sweating and cursing as I did my exercise of the year, darling hubby seemed to have perked up and was energetically joining in with the GI�s, urging us unfit people to work harder and try to be like him. Shocked by this betrayal, I dragged him out of the pool (very unwillingly) and we set off to our first SCUBA diving lesson.

There�s nothing quite like taking your first breath underwater. Your body is instinctively telling you that this is unnatural and you should be drowning horribly, but your mind says that this is fine. The air is very dry, and your saliva has unexplainably disappeared so soon your throat is unbearably like sandpaper and, in a fit of madness, you open your mouth a little to swallow some water. Before you can swallow, the huge goggled face of your instructor looms into view making frantic arm signals, indicative of someone being tickled madly. You realize, with the salt water in your mouth, that you are now more thirsty and your throat more sore than before. Damnit! But you swallow anyway, and as is the wont of stupid people you choke and in a fit of panic, push yourself off the sea floor ignoring all previous warnings telling you not to do so because of nitrogen bubbles forming in the blood causing painful death. Something is grabbing your foot. ARGH! You struggle furiously against this unwanted hindrance, whilst swallowing more water and choking violently. Your foot released, you shoot up to the surface (all of 3 meters), throwing off your mask and air hose, breathing in deeply. Your instructor languidly swims up and berates you for being as stupid as to panic whilst your air supply is cut off. Resigned, you don your mask (with a satisfying squelch), out your mouthpiece back in and venture once more into Davy Jones� Locker.

After an exhausting morning, lunch called.

Such a feast I have not seen since Christmas with my grandparents. Huge tureens of whipped mashed potato, bright red lobsters piled on top of ice, rows and rows of freshly shucked oysters and peeled prawns, a soft drinks fountain looking like something from my dreams as a child, sauces of every texture, taste and description, a huge roast turkey being carved into hearty chunks�but the piece de resistance most definitely being the table of deserts ranging from a fluffy looking dark chocolate gateau to a thick and creamy cheesecake, huge tubs of exotic coloured ice cream pronouncing themselves �mangosteen�, �bribert� and other exciting names. They all called to me, and what human would resist?

Looking plumper and feeling infinitely better, the afternoon activities began. I had opted for beginner�s trapeze whilst hubby was off playing golf with his new best friend who he had met whilst trying to steal some lobster at lunch. The trapeze, I reasoned, was something I could excel at. Surely all you had to do is hang, time it right, then jump and be caught?

Over fifteen tries later, the circus men looked perplexed. Apparently I was the first person who had never been able to hold onto the trapeze, let alone swing my legs onto it and hang upside down (the simplest move, apparently). Try as I might, my weak arms, flabby from too much writing and not enough weight lifting, kept giving out leaving me to plummet to the safety net below. A crowd had started to gather in the manner of a real circus, and they were all gawking at the freak who couldn�t hold her own weight. Disheartened, I let myself drop for the last time and set off in search of something I could be good at.

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