As the coach roared to a shuddering stop in our resort I thought what fresh hell is this? How can a place that looks and sounds so beautiful, calm and restful in the brochure be so different in the flesh? When I’d mentioned to Tanya, one of the younger and trendier school mums (she Twitters and has her own page on Facebook), that I was off to Ibiza she raised her eyebrows. “I love the Med and I can’t wait to relax and eat tapas at little cafes and watch the world go by,” I announced outside the school gate. Tanya’s response had been a little disconcerting; “Oh you’ll have a great time. But you won’t be sitting in cafés. It’s a party island and trust me, you’ll want to partay!” I wasn’t quite sure what she meant and, trying to sound young and laid-back, said I was happy to go to a few ‘partays’ while I was there. She continued to enthuse about the place, reassuring me that I’d have a ‘really cool’ time. I should have cancelled then and I really should have gone home when hundreds of eighteen-year olds in hipster jeans, cowboy hats and boob-tubes with ‘The Best F*ck You’ll Ever Have’ emblazoned across their chests, appeared at our check-in desk (and that was just the reps).
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