A few hours ago, I was up to my chin in gleaming glorious turquoise sea water, the sun warming my lily-white Irish shoulders. As I floated, face to the sky, my toes poking out in front of me, I almost drifted off, until a big wave came and slapped me over the head.
I am having the best week of my life in Miami. The happiness I have been feeling, in overflowing bursts of joy, is making me want to rub the cheeks of babies in buggies, grin at canoodling couples and squeeze the old lady in the supermarket to death for calling me sweetie.
This elation might be due to the fact that I haven't had a holiday in almost two years, or because I have spent most of my life swaddled in knitwear and am now experiencing a Vitamin D high, but it is positively not due to the one thing I usually attribute my happiness to... men.
I know this because I am on holiday alone. I thought I would be miserable.
I pictured myself crying into my cereal in the morning and wandering around my hotel room at night, desolate and bored with only the hotel safe to play with. Instead, I have been having so much fun I almost feel guilty. I am reading unfashionable books all day, listening to Cat Stevens and drinking beer at 11.30am with no judgment.
I've also had time to do something I do far too little of – think.
For instance, as I floated happily in the sea, I suddenly felt the urge to pee, and wondered if it would it make any difference if I just went in this vast expanse of water, or if like me, it would just be a drop in the ocean that doesn't add up to much anyway?