It's all gonna be peachy sweet and swinging sister. There's gonna be sunshine and cheap cocktails, and even cheaper Spanish waiters. And my mum. Who tends to encourage bad behaviour, so no worries there.

She's single, I'm single, my sisters are single. I hope the good people of Menorca are not easily offended. Or if they are, that they put out regardless.

That was a joke. Somebody I work with told me that I look 'dead inside' yesterday. It's doubtful that an empty sexual experience will do anything for my soul. Which is why I plan to have several!

So when I buy a shiny magazine, featuring a shiny star, and read all about how much she hates the size of her collar bones, or her nipples point the wrong way, a small part of me thinks 'there there dear, we all go through it. As they say, only women bleed.'

The rest of me, the rational, cynical, snarly part would like to clamber aboard her industrial strength soap box and make the following observations:

* Nobody is entirely happy with their body, apart from people who have more pressing concerns eg. civil war, famine etc. and therefore don't have the time to think about things like 'are my nostrils too wide?'.

* I am no better than your average self-indulgent female. My hair is wispy and disobedient. My teeth resemble a fence that's been battered by a hurricane. I was born with a lopsided face, in fact, the story goes that my dad bent over the cot to take his first look at his brand new daughter and thought 'yikes'. If I lose weight, it comes off my face and makes me look like a refugee, if I gain weight, it goes everywhere except my chest. My skin is a few shades paler than skimmed milk. I could go on, but nobody is paying me.

Oh dear god, the jitters, they are upon me! It might be a good idea to sprinkle a ground-up valium on my breakfast every morning for the next week. Except I don't eat breakfast, because I'm far too neurotic.

It's only Menorca woman! It'd take longer to get to Southend. Probably.

I'm not worried about an engine failing and spending my last few minutes of life with my lips flapping up around my eyebrows as the plane suddenly drops out of the sky.

Well, no, I am worried about that. At least, I am now I've put some thought into it.

What mostly gets my nerves standing up on end, like the bristles on a brand new toothbrush, is the fact that once you leave the tarmac, then THAT IS IT. There is no emergency cord to pull, no driver to threaten with a hysterical fit if he doesn't stop this thing and let me off right now! Although I did try that on a train to Switzerland and they outright refused, instead insisting I had a thorough examination with a French doctor whose attitude was colder than her hands and insisted that I raise my legs above my head, and ate something. It was a somewhat medieval approach that I didn't much appreciate at the time, and doesn't fill me with confidence for what lies ahead.

The other week, she heard from somebody called Brian. He struck her as quite a shy, reserved sort of man. They exchanged polite text messages for a while, before she decided it was time to find out more about him (was he confident using a washing machine etc.) Brian wasn’t very forthcoming. In fact, he was positively shady. Suspecting some dark, oozing secret, my mum pursued the matter like a ravenous bloodhound would a butcher’s van. Well, she is a social worker.

Turns out, she already knew Brian. Not personally, but by reputation.

One report described him as looking “like a beast with mad cow disease”. What a step father this man would make!

He'd have probably turned up on their first date bearing a cat's head scooped clean and filled with Quality Street. I suspect he cuts his toe nails with a chain saw. I'm pretty sure he wears a loin cloth made from dried-out human skin when relaxing in the shack he calls home.

She HAS to go out with him. I've offered to chaperone. I'll hire a stun gun if necessary.

This isn't a freak incident. Reports are flooding in from around the globe of suicide squirrels, ASBO squirrels, gangster squirrels...they are waging a war of terror on society.

Is this an operation on a par with Al-Quaeda? Is there a secret cave, somewhere in Nutwood, from which the Grand Master squirrel instructs his minions via grainy video footage to go forth and cause carnage in the human world?

What can they possibly hope to achieve? The right to vote? The first squirrel MP? A rodent state?

I’ve never watched her programmes before. Mainly because her kitchen is so shiny it causes night blindness. Also because there was such a fuss made about them by aforementioned panting journalists.

But last night, I crossed her immaculate threshold and watched her make use of some stale croissants that happened to be lying about. I mean, WHO has stale croissants to hand? WHO?

Anyway. I’m sure she’s a lovely person.

She bathed the pastry in a caramel sauce, which consisted of several eggs, gently yet firmly whisked, a sudden cascade of sugar and of course, rich, sensual, double cream, spurting from carton to pan in a glorious release of calories.

Whilst this was simmering in her pre-heated, cast iron oven, Nigella slipped into a black satin robe. She then returned to the kitchen to unleash the pudding from the depths of the heat, smothered it with yet more double cream, then sashayed upstairs to bed to fellate, I mean, devour it.

These were my thoughts at 9 this morning.

'Aargh! What have I DONE?'

These were my thoughts at 9.10 this morning, as I sipped my first cup of tea, and felt a strange emptiness between my fingers, an inordinate amount of air in my lungs.

It's 2pm now. Every fucker in Brighton is puffing happily away. I want to grab them and sniff their clothing. Or better still, have them exhale into my mouth.