I approached the desk, and the amused stare of its attendant. It was beyond mortifying to be back here, with my sunburnt tail between my legs. I gingerly lifted my skirt to reveal my blazing red, blistered buttocks. I thought back with longing to my perfect morning. Sometime during the night our ship had quietly moored off Lifou – one of the Loyalty Islands, in the New Caledonian archipelago. When we Ryan girls woke and drew back the curtains, the crystalline waters, pristine white beaches and steep coral cliffs were so breathtakingly beautiful it inclined us all to the adjectival. Having exhausted our supply of superlatives over breakfast, I’d suggested putting in an urgent request to Stephen Fry via Twitter to airlift in some even bigger adjectives.

High on excitement, we caught the tender into a jetty nestled in the crook of a turquoise cove. Disembarking, we were greeted by a line of palm trees with spiky Rod Stewart hairstyles, rising up like exclamation marks shouting ‘WOW! WOW! WOW!’ We soon found ourselves mimicking the palm trees by also speaking in exclamation marks. ‘Amazing! This whole, empty, glistening beach is really all ours?!’

With sherbet-winged parrots taking flight, and fish darting through the coral in their colourful underwater choreography, the island was utterly perfect. Even the shrubs had that happy and contented, ‘talked-to’ look.

The hardest thing about snorkelling is not talking – especially when Amber and Emerald, post truce, had forgotten their differences and suddenly had so much to say to each other. Best of all, the buoyancy of the saltwater had taken all pressure off my groin strain.

Diving and floating around atolls, I lost myself in the riot of soft corals and swaying anemones, their bright maws greedily agape. I was so enthralled by this multicoloured world – so entranced by the silent aquatic symphony of silver, sparkling shoals of angel-, lion- and triggerfish darting in unison, as though following an invisible conductor’s baton – that I hadn’t noticed I was burning. Sun-savvy Amber had worn a full-length burkini, and Emerald’s deeply unattractive but practical ensemble of long-sleeved rash shirt, knee-length board shorts and daggy surf hat had also kept the burning rays at bay. My exposed crescent moons of white butt cheek were now pulsating with red hot pain.

‘Cold compresses to take the heat out of the skin, aloe vera gel to relieve the pain, ibuprofen to reduce swelling, a water-gel burn dressing to alleviate discomfort at night, and drink plenty of water,’ the doctor recited. ‘Well, this is definitely going to put a damper on your toy-boy bedding.’ He chuckled. ‘No bed rest for you, young lady. If you can’t resist those hottie-hottie-dumb-dumbs, then I advise you to only make love sideways. Then your cub can say that you really are his “bit on the side”.’ The doctor chortled, clearly thinking he deserved an award for his Wildean wit.