Bet you wish you were here

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At the moment, I'm wondering whether or not to write this in the Jacuzzi. The downside would be (a) the real and present danger of getting everything wet and (b) that it feels faintly immoral, or at the very least lacking in etiquette - like talking on your mobile while you're on the loo (I'm concluding here that water and communication don't mix in polite society. On all other aspects of politeness, I have no clue). The upside, of course, is this - I've got a (imagine joyful swear word here) Jacuzzi! If I don't spend all available hours sitting in it, isn't that some kind of crime?

I'm in St Bart's (the island, not the hospital). All the way here, I wondered why people went away in winter. You always have to leave so early that you feel like you've got deep-vein thrombosis before you've even reached the airport. You always have to go halfway across the world for sun, rather than, say, Italy. You always have to travel with French people, who all (and this isn't racism, it's a tested fact) fidget like toddlers on aeroplanes and often give the very real impression that they're about to open the safety door and attempt absent-mindedly to go for a stroll. Sleep deprivation somewhere near the point of arrival has always caused you to fall out of love with either your travelling companion or your new swimwear. And then you arrive, and it all becomes clear.

It's perfect. Not because it's hot; you can be hot anywhere in the world, if you get your timing right. No, it's perfect because to be hot at this time of year, it must be posh.

I'll be honest, I've not yet seen Liz Hurley, let alone got the inside story on the forthcoming progeny which, while it's essentially just another Sex Causes Childbirth shocker, I nevertheless find fascinating. I haven't seen P Diddy, nor even identified the tiny sky-blue cove where he might moor his yacht were he to arrive. You couldn't, in any proper sense, say I was mixing with the jet set (although I did just spot a windsurfer, who from a distance looked very famous indeed).

Yet I know I'm at the epicentre of luxury. Even the stray cats here are classy with their funny sphinxish faces and snooty, I'm-a-dead-ringer-for-a-Fendi-bag manner. The cemeteries are posh - all headstones are perfect Persil white all covered in fresh flowers. Get this - even the matches are posh; there's a two-second pause between striking and catching fire (this I can't explain - is it to give the smoker a chance to ponder his or her good fortune before the practical task of smoking takes over?). The sun is obviously posh - it's out, isn't it? And the Jacuzzi - well, they get a bad press in suburban homes, but out here they enjoy their rightful Eighties status. They are as posh as outdoor water features get.

People are always pretending they need a winter break on account of their weather-induced clinical depression and suchlike, but I don't buy it. The truth is, it makes you feel swanky. I don't think I can ever holiday in June again.

If this is what happens to a band that?s been the victim of gun crime, imagine what would have happened if there?d ever been an English Biggie Smalls or an Eminem or a Puff Daddy. They?ve all had little firearm incidents ? they would all have been sunk, before they even went platinum. No wonder we haven?t had a decent musical export since the Beatles. Finally we?ve found out who to blame for that ? local councils.