On the casino floor of our hotel, Tom puts his arm round my waist to steady me. “Bed?” he asks softly. I nod dumbly and let him lead me past the din of the slot machines and shouts and squeals from people playing table games. Vegas will still be here tomorrow, when I can actually appreciate it properly.

The next day I take myself for a walk through the swanky shopping center in Caesars Palace. When I say shopping center, that might bring to mind somewhere like Westfield. This is not like Westfield. It is like a small and very exclusive high street, shops on either side of a pedestrian thoroughfare, restaurants and cafes in the middle, interspersed with fountains and sculptures. I treat myself to some designer—7 For All Mankind no less—jeans and pay an exorbitant sum for a cashmere sweater in the most beautiful hunter green. Walking past Agent Provocateur, I decide to get Tom a treat. One look at my coloring had the shop assistant turning to select an electric-blue set, but I swiftly shut her down. “Burgundy,” I tell her. Tom’s favorite color. Soft silk and a touch of lace; demure, sophisticated and it makes me feel sexy as hell. Perfect.

You know the montage they always use in films? The one where the protagonist is doing one hundred things in quick succession, scene after scene flashing by, as he trains for a fight, or goes on a road trip, or falls in love? I have never thought real life was like that. Until this trip.

The next two days race by, leaving me an assault on the senses and a collection of memories I will treasure.

The cool night air blowing my hair as the taxi speeds down the Strip.

The scent of vanilla in the hotel reception.

The noise of a thousand slot machines ringing and hundreds of chattering men and women gambling.

Sugar-bombs of alcoholic slush drinks in huge novelty cups.

The collective gasp of the audience as the acrobat performs a death-defying aerial display.

The feel of the dice in my hand as I throw them for the first time, praying that they don’t bounce out of the craps pit and into the casino.

The taste of rosemary and salt on my lips from the best fries I have ever had, followed by a pizza so loaded with toppings we had to use a knife and fork.

The communal exhalation of a heads-back “Wow!” as everyone looks toward the light show on the canopy above them.

The view from the top of the replica Eiffel Tower, timed perfectly to coincide with the fountain show.

We wake up early on the morning of our last full day. Tom has a craving for fried chicken and waffles, a very un-British combination that had made no sense to me. Until I tried it and discovered that you could drown fried chicken in maple syrup and it would taste divine. As we are walking through the casino to the street, we pass a table of slightly drunk Irish guys obviously still up from the night before. They are playing a form of table poker against the dealer, whooping and hollering and generally acting like idiots.