Why do Londoners find it so hard to switch off during their holiday?

Many of us are so stressed in our day-to-day lives that it’s impossible to immediately switch into happy relaxed mode as soon as we reach our destination. Phoebe, 31, a lawyer, confesses: ‘I’m such a ball of exhausted fury by the time I arrive, I can’t even cope with charming local quirks. I threw a really shameful s*** fit on Mykonos last summer when the waiter couldn’t understand my urgent medical need for a Bloody Mary, then refused to eat any bread because it wasn’t gluten free. Only by day four — following an abortive hunt for chia seeds — did I realise that releasing myself from my control-freakery was kind of the point.’

Even if we do manage to escape the hamster wheel, the psychological revelations that come with leisure may prove disturbing. Time off brings room to think — and that can be a killer. My brother has invented a term for this state: ‘holiday emo’. One assesses one’s work, relationships and love life and finds all wanting, prompting a series of post-hols resolutions even more pathetically short-lived than their January rivals. (Currently, I am supposed to be engaging in strenuous sleep hygiene combined with HIIT sessions. Spoiler alert: I’m not.)

Whoever we travel with is destined to prove a problem. If one lays claim to a partner, there will always be a moment in which we hate them; indeed, a single moment of loathing should be considered pretty good. The issue of facing the challenges of travel, language, uncertainties and climate means that one’s own and the other person’s idiosyncrasies are inevitably revealed. September must be second only to January in its provision of D (divorce) days. A couple I adore still refer to ‘the gelato-face incident’. (If one chooses to holiday with family then quadruple the problems.)

If one is single, there is the question of who to go with: a close pal with whom we risk falling out, or a casual acquaintance who will force us to be on best behaviour? A friend, who asks to remain anonymous, recalls with horror the ‘cruise of doom’ in the wake of which he and a lifelong ally never spoke again.

You might imagine that opting for a group sojourn would ease the tension. You would be wrong. The most hideous week of my life took place on a villa holiday stuffed with the muckers of a (now thankfully) ex-boyfriend. Think: a posse of terminally dim posh yobs intent on smashing the place up. Even if you like your companions, some Lord of the Flies situation will develop before the first vat of pink drink runs dry.

As for excursions with packs of children, is anyone getting a holiday apart from said lobster-coloured louts? Parents remain trapped in some Dantean circle of hell while gazing at the nipper-free folk enjoying themselves. (It’s okay, they’re not.) And then there’s the weather. If it’s ‘bad’ then the collective feeling is that participants have been short-changed. If it’s ‘good’ then there is lethargy and short-temperedness to contend with.

Either way, it’s appalling. I say this as a woman who has recently returned from a Florentine heatwave that even had the locals flustered. In my capacity as an ashen-skinned vampire, I could hardly move. All this for a fleeting couple of hours feeling human on return, only to disappear with the first Armageddon-filled email.

Alas, the more we capital types are deserving of holidays, the less equipped we are to deal with them. The answer, dear Londoners, is clear. Either do what the rich do and embark upon a state of rolling hols, so that even this begins to seem like a job, or abstain. Pick an Airbnb on the other side of town and luxuriate in everything the capital has to offer. Dr Johnson was right: there’s exoticism enough at home.