One early morning in March, I was seated in the departure lounge at Gatwick airport, all smug and pleased to be leaving the murk that was British weather. Dressed as though for an appointment in plain trousers and a loose-fitting blouse, I was squashed beside a rotund man garbed in shorts and a large white T-shirt, and a fake-tanned and wiry woman smelling strongly of coconut oil. She was decked out in a tight skirt barely reaching her mid-thigh and a matching, bosom-revealing top. Both characters were stark reminders of the holiday destination I was heading for. They seemed to know each other, too, and held a conversation across me. I leaned back further in my seat to let them have it, each informing the other of their preferred island locale, the man heading for Gran Tarajal, the woman M
