As if things weren’t going pretty well for you before you draped yourself in a pashmina and slurped champagne from a plastic flute, you feel entitled to mooch around extra-slowly under palm trees too.
Decked out in Cruise Collections, your shiny toenails peeking out from sandals whose single leather thongs still cost more than you’re paying the Phillipino couple to keep the home fires burning.
Removing your floppy hat to paw at silky highlights and fat earrings, bikini held together by costume jewellery.
Sparkly bits on everything that isn’t the enormous gold beach tote housing one tiny tube of SPF750 Karl Lagerfeld lip balm.
Sunglasses conspicuously folded on the table, hot fourth finger bulging in its platinum boa constrictor.
Your other half in creased linens, George Hamilton tan, sweaty wrist weighted by Successful Watch.
Chasing around thirty dollar salad leaves under stylish ceiling fans whirring in well-maintained unison.
Your long-limbed kids sulky in white shorts and head phones, fresh from the stupidly-shaped pool, hair so blond it hurts.
When just down the road, you could be getting a pina colada with a cocktail-speared glace cherry.
Joking with the bar staff, making the acquaintance of a family of four from Spalding (one boy, one girl).
Getting comfy on a wicker chair, swaying to some steel drum popular covers.
Thanking God you’re not at the extreme end of the beach with the tightly-packed floral brollies and scorched non-tightly packed flesh.
Being sold a big shell or a trip on an inflatable chair going really fast behind a speedboat.
The sand is better where you are because the locals tread it like it’s yours and the tourists are busy in the local market stuffing clothes-staining souvenirs into shoulder bags.
But watch out for the sun.
Nothing makes it feel more exclusive than zapping a botoxed brow.
And there’s no greater leveler than a burnt nose.