‘You’re a tight little number,’ he added, squeezing both my butt cheeks.

‘Pardon?’

‘How’s our vibe! Let’s go back to your cabin,’ he said hotly into my ear. ‘My room’s so small, you gotta be a ventriloquist to get in there.’

‘I think you mean contortionist,’ I corrected him.

‘I’m, like, totally woke, by the way,’ he added.

‘Must have been that espresso martini,’ I joked.

‘Huh?’ he replied.

When I’d walked into the whoosh of body heat that was The Erogenous Zone an hour earlier, I’d immediately executed a 180-degree swivel on my high heel to get the hell out of Cougar Country. But Emerald had seized my elbow and frogmarched me to the bar.

‘There’s so much cock in here. Act half normal and you’re going to get laid,’ my normally straight sister shouted in my ear. ‘Any woman could pull on this boat. Jabba the Slut could pull. Indeed, I think I snogged her myself on the dance floor last night!’ she laughed. ‘But first you need some cougar juice,’ she explained, ordering cocktails.

All around us, waterfalls of neon light cascaded down the walls as inebriated young men careered like toddlers, pinballing around the dance floor, shouting over each other in rapid-fire lingo. Older women wobbled on too-high heels in overawed orbit around the cubs, their smiles welded on with a mix of desperation and desire.

How pathetic, I’d thought – only to find myself, three martinis later, bumping and grinding along with them to Hot Chocolate’s ‘You Sexy Thing’, feeling happier and hornier and freer and more fabulous than I had for decades.

Now, I am to dancing what an African dictator is to world peace – I definitely move to a different drummer. But, unfortunately, the cocktails had affected my critical abilities to the point where I thought I could dance, which is why, moments later, mid ABBA medley, I’d found myself hitting my head on a disco ball as only a girl from the Insular Peninsular can, before toppling backwards into the arms of the young bloke with whom I was now entwined. And, good lord, could the guy move. He danced as though his feet had taken steroids.

As Cyndi Lauper’s ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’ morphed into ‘Sexual Healing’, a slow beat reverberated through the floor. Marvin Gaye’s crooning had couples moving sluggishly through the warm air, and my dance partner and I swayed sensuously with them.

‘What’s your name?’ I shouted, tipsily.

The young man gave me a scorchingly hot look. How hot? Put it this way – if I were an egg, I’d have hard-boiled. ‘Wave,’ he replied ardently into my ear. ‘Spelt W-A-Y-V-E.’