The Gammons didn’t pay me much mind either. They never looked behind to see if I was there or asked what I wanted in the coffee shops, or offered to pay – I wasn’t the little girl on the pool noodle being reminded to keep my water wings on anymore. As far as they were concerned, I was there but not there. Like the sky. Or the third Jonas brother.

After our third ‘little rest stop’ of the day for refreshments and a slice of pizza so dry the point had curled up like the end of a Turkish slipper – we nipped into a supermarket for room provisions – six cans of Spanish lager and Gloria’s Valium from her handbag while she was in the loo. I deposited The Gammons on hired beach-loungers and once they were safely all asleep, I gave them the slip to catch the 2.00 p.m. minibus to the Pink Lake.

The ride there was torturous, as is always the case when I’m crammed into a clanky, moving box loaded with dickheads and their hot farts. There were fourteen of us – three pensioners, three Fiat 500 Twitter types, two sets of couples in their 30s, three of the loudest children I’d ever met and me – the serial killer. The kids had the worst names – Kasidy, Braxxton and Swayze, and they were so dosed up on Haribo Tropifrutti that sitting down was an impossibility. I like children normally, but I didn’t like them. If the bus had crashed and I was the only one conscious, I resolved not to help.

Our rep Chrys with a ‘y’ – like ‘y’ can’t anyone spell their fucking name anymore? – informed us along the way of what we could expect from the Pink Lake – information the guy who sold us the tickets hadn’t.

‘Now Laguna Rosa is a salt lake so although it might look like a giant milkshake, it’s not nearly as inviting and is actually full of bacteria which gives the lake its pink hue. So sadly you can’t go for a dip, I’m afraid.’

‘What?’ said a pensioner with flip-top glasses. ‘Not even to paddle?’

‘‘Fraid not, no. You can sit beside it and have your picnics, take as many pictures as you like, or do a mud pack – the mud on the banks is great for your skin actually – but no swimming. It’s pretty lethal.’

Great, I thought. So we’ve driven nearly an hour to sit by a salty pink puddle covering ourselves in muddy pathogens? Ugh.