That’s the only trouble with holidays, after weeks of a supermodel’s calorie deficit you check in on day one looking like prime Freddie Flintoff and check out a week or two later doing a passable impression of a James Corden tribute act.

Last week me and the Boss enjoyed a week away in Mallorca, primarily because the novelty of her month-deep early retirement from teaching meant we could go away in term time for the first time.

And for the most part we lazed around in the golden sunshine for hours every day, after rolling out of bed for the most delicious breakfast literally handed to us on a plate, a stroll along the clifftops to gaze at the insanely turquoise Mediterranean (only after checking both our life insurance policies were up to date) and basked in the golden hour of post-shower, pre-dinner sundowners on the balcony.

I say for the most part, as Mallorcan rainstorms are something out of the Old Testament. Thunder like a Keith Moon drum solo from 1970 and rain like emptying entire contents of the pool from the hotel roof - no wonder so much of the sunblasted island is so green.

Panoramic view of Porte de Soller, Palma Mallorca, Spain

placeholder image — Panoramic view of Porte de Soller, Palma Mallorca, Spain

Which all plays havoc with the Spanish sewage system, whose pipes appear to be made of used toilet roll holders and held together with dried spit, and stinks like a teenager’s bedroom.

We’d only been on the island for 24 hours when an apocalyptic storm knocked off the power in our hotel for half a day. We joined the rest of the guests in the gloom of the buffet restaurant, using the torches on our phones to see what was for dinner. Spirit of the Blitz? I nearly said it out loud, but heard the couple in front speaking German so didn’t.

One of the reasons we enjoyed the trip so much is we didn’t lift a finger for a week. Maybe this is how the mega wealthy live and why they routinely live well into their 90s - everyone does everything for them.

The most effort we applied was walking miles every morning and evening to and from the ports in Cala d’Or and Portopetro, kissed by the golden sunshine and breathing the warm sweet air with all the time in the world on our hands. 10,000 steps a day? Completed it, mate. We knocked them off by lunch and came home with bronzed thighs toned like a Tour de France stage winner.

And let’s be honest. The glorious weather is the main reason we go, to escape our dreary, rain-lashed island in the middle of nowhere run by a bunch of self-serving idiots, who replaced the previous bunch of self-serving idiots in July.

What else? Oh yeah, the boss swam out to sea from our hotel’s cove (very salty and full of fish - who knew?), a vibrant shirt I thought I looked swish and slinky came out in a photo like one of my late mum’s old Pippa Dee blouses from the 1980s, and many of the yachts in Cala d’Or harbour are bigger than our house and next door put together, and cost 10 times more.

As Mike Skinner of The Streets said in Fit But You Know It 20 years ago, a total result of a holiday.

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