So we have escaped. A drunken chat, a seed set, a last minute clamouring of organisation and suddenly we are here, in Spain. An impulse induced by one lone, bombastic night of London sun that rapidly turned into an absolute, a must-do, an imperative life decision, affording no time for financial nor work related deliberation. There, on the bench in our local Franco Manca – shoulder to shoulder with the other weary locals, the day’s work still pressed within the cracks of our faces, our knees squashed against our partners’ assets – we were rebels dreaming of Andalusian fields.

Hell’s bells, I thought, all this spontaneity…perhaps I could finally become “that” girl: the one who tosses a couple of lightweight dresses into a handbag, a couple of t-shirts, a pair of multi-purpose sandals, a couple of g-strings (less material), a tome of great literature and a Lonely Planet guide. Just call me Patti Smith.

Turns out the only affiliation I have with Patti Smith is her book ‘M-Train’ that I would take, along with three others. Why wouldn’t I? Because now, after a single, earth shattering, cold sweated moment of revelation I realised I could not possibly just take hand luggage, I could not be condensed, there was no such thing as lightweight living, no, I would pay easyjet an extra £44 to take a slightly bigger suitcase on hold. The kitchen sink was being dismantled as we speak.

So now there was to be options. The sartorial flood gates had opened. My boyfriend, The Beard, looked on in dismay. Three entire days before we were due to leave, he had packed his bag. That’s seventy-two hours he had gained in calm and seventy-two hours I had left in turmoil, making life changing decisions about how many varieties of black tops to take. (I would settle on seven).

The “shoe situation” was also something of a labyrinthine, psychosis-inducing plight. It still marvels me how one can balk at the presumption that eight pairs is nonsensical for a week-long holiday. These aren’t wild, whimsical accidents, these are fully justified provisions: trainers for travel, wedges for strolling, flips flops for poolside and hot sand salvation, mid-height black heels for evening, mid-height tan heels for evening, not so nice flat sandals for well, just because just BECAUSE! The same would go for handbags.

It’s true life would be exceedingly simpler if I could just decide on a palette. Am I the black-hued rock chick(en) who opts for anal over military and would only ever entertain colour in her wardrobe if it was a wine stain? Or the earth-hued Cambridge-type: a mouldy corduroy vision, swinging leather satchel along cobbled corridors and who would rather die than be parted from Grandpa’s cardie? Or perhaps the rainbow revolutionary who will put denim with pearls and tartan with stripes and try anything twice?

Turns out I am all of these things (minus the anal), and therefore getting ready for me is more a case of “getting into character”, so it is entirely mood dependent. Fantastic for a highly strung and sensitive girl and particularly for said nutter’s boyfriend. There has been many a nice occasion we’ve been due to attend – birthday bash, bbq, casual few beers, commonplace gatherings, not Queen Elizabeth’s Coronation. Yet on a significant number of said occasions I have been so fraught that I’ve refused to go at all and The Beard will then loyally opt out too (with suspicious ease – ripping his waistcoat off like Michael Jackson before entering a detailed conversation about what we should now cook and will I finally watch Blade Runner on Netflix?)

This derailing is not entirely unusual for a girl, is it? We can go from a calm and steady ‘3’ in sanity to a searing, soaring, scintillating ‘10’ quicker than you can say “jumpsuit”. Sometimes I wonder what it must be like for The Beard. He is gifted a small window to get ready – a compact ten minutes to conduct a military style operation: Boxers. Vest. Socks. Deodorant. Shirt. Trousers. Belt. Scent. Beer. I hover around the door like a cannibal on the other side of a glass wall that is rapidly cracking. He settles down to watch seven episodes of ‘Parks and Recreation’ as I clamber in, Prosecco in hand, tricking myself into thinking this is the “fun bit”, that I’ve finally reached the golden hour, an effervescent purging of creativity, a buzzing Fashion House, music pumping and I will resemble Julia Roberts in ‘Sleeping With The Enemy’ as I bounce in front of the mirror, costume after costume, wielding her mighty smile and naïve assumption that all will be well. Well it wasn’t for her and it would not be for me. She would be hunted by her psycho husband and I would emerge two and a half hours later in much the same manner with mascara dripping down my cheeks, a bit pissed, very flushed, screaming “I NEVER WANTED TO GO TO THIS STUPID BASTARD PARTY ANYWAY!” and that yesterday these skinny jeans fitted nicely and now I’m squeezed in so tight my arse is around my neck.

The Beard, knowing not to disturb the growing gargoyle but, starting to panic about being unforgivably late, gently taps on the door a couple of times, opens it a jar, manages a swift “…erm, babe…?” before seeing that look in my eyes, the clothes depot that’s just had a delivery, the rainbow of nightmares and finally the love child of Barbara Cartland and Beetlejuice. He edges away as I sink to my knees amidst a brutal cloud of colour. The clock ticks like a sledgehammer hitting my brain and now Fear Of Missing Out syndrome has hit.

The party will be in full throng now. We will have missed the champagne. And there will be champagne because, no I’m not friends with Jay Gatsby nor was I made in Chelsea but post-30 every social gathering is a landmark celebration whereby engagement rings glitter and those old school boozed black outs will no longer consist of coming-to to find a lad who smells of ham trying to stick his fingers up your bum you will now wake up in a corner where you have spent the last 45 minutes cooing at baby videos. The dribble is real and alive. The last of these celebrations I went to there was a magnum of Krug head down in an ice bucket and I reacted a bit like someone who missed the last lifeboat fleeing the Titanic. So yes, there will be champagne and you will have missed it.

It is also vastly important to get to this party before it gets dark because it is A BBQ being held IN A GARDEN! For Londoners who have fgbeen deprived of green spaces for so long, to have sacrificed air and light to you know, chase their dreams, it is Very Significant when you are invited to a party In The Outside. Particularly when food is being cooked In The Open Air. Never underestimate the power of warm Prosecco and burnt sausages consumed as your heels get stuck in a lawn and your skin turns blue, my friend. This is British Summer and we have earned it…