Lest it be supposed that the photos of Seychelles suggest a paradisaical realm, I feel duty bound to point out that during a period of nearly five weeks I never once felt any sense of bodily comfort unless I was either:

1. In the shower, or
2. In the sea

At all other times, I was in a state of feverish humidity. The heat was so intense, my shirt was so wet I could have wrung it out, my skin leaked from every pore, I stank of sodden baby nappy, and wherever I was, in any moment of repose, it seemed I was being bitten.

At ‘Magnificat’ – Mamie’s abode – her glorious garden cultivates mosquitoes amongst the flowers, which makes it impossible to sit anywhere, least of all in the shade, without burning coils of cough inducing repellent; and even then, with the slightest breeze, the protection is minimal.

On the beach, sitting for more than a moment brings out swarms of sand flies, whose bite is just as noxious as that of the mosquitoes.

When I die, if I go to Paradise, I might easily mistake it for Hell, unless it has a reasonable temperature – say, mid to high twenties – a dryish atmosphere, a complete absence of biting insects, and also, a reasonably well stocked shop selling half decent cheese.