Nicaragua. Much more my kind of place. Sultry, cheap gin and salsa on every corner

Holiday time. Someone told me the Delano Hotel in Miami is where all the chic people hang out, so off I went. Maybe I misheard him. I didn’t warm to the receptionist, who told me South Beach would “rock my ass”. My ass was jet-lagged and didn’t need rocking. A lot of floating white muslin and a minibar full of monogrammed Babygros doesn’t do it for me. I checked out and got on a plane to Nicaragua. Much more my kind of place. Sultry climate, cheap gin and salsa dancing on every street corner. People don’t get above themselves there. I think it’s the live volcanoes puffing away on the horizon that keeps everyone in their place.

I was accompanied by the boyfriend, who is charming company but has an unsavoury iPod habit. As we sat decoratively by the pool in San Juan del Sur, it became apparent that he would rather listen to Christina Aguilera than my constant stream of witty observations. We were a week into the holiday before I realised he was also plugged in during our candlelit dinners. The thin flesh-coloured wires snaking up from the neck of his cap-sleeved T-shirt (bearing the slogan "I'D DO ME") gave the game away. The nerve.

It was too hot to create much of a scene, but I did manage a dramatic abandonment of my lobster bisque and a sulky mince to the beach. Aware that I was being watched by the boyfriend and our fellow diners, I recklessly peeled off my sarong and entered the inky sea. Might he plunge in after me to beg forgiveness, I wondered?

Sadly not. I glanced over my shoulder only to see him tapping away at his BlackBerry, no doubt sending himself a "To Do" list ready for when he got back to work.

Just then a terrible stinging sensation spread around my left bicep, and I splashed my way back to dry land, yelping like an injured puppy. Everyone within a ten-mile radius ran to my rescue.

As I writhed in agony on the wet sand a couple of waiters fought their way through the crowd and shone torches on me.

"Jellyfish!" said one.

"Help me!" I begged. "I'm going into toxic shock!"

"There is only one cure. Urine!" said the waiter, looking hopefully at the crowd for a volunteer.

Eventually, a burly hotel guest stepped forward and, despite my moans and groans, I heard the unmistakable sound of a Wrangler fly being unzipped. (One of the benefits of my gloriously promiscuous youth is my ability to identify the make of trousers from the sound of the zipper. From Prada to Primark, I've never been wrong.) While the cure was being administered it seemed only polite to chat to my saviour, whose name was Tyler. "Luckily I've been on the beer all evening," he said. Oh, the glamour.

The flight home brought more humiliation. After several goldfish bowls of Merlot I visited the bathroom. How was I to know that while I was in the cubicle they would lower the cabin lights? It made relocating my seat a matter of pot luck. Unfortunately I got it wrong and flung myself on top of an angry businessman, who wasn’t half as obliging as my Tyler.

So all in all it's a relief to get back to Blighty and our traditional half-hearted celebration of the birth of Baby Jesus. I theme my presents each year, so it might be towels, books or glassware for everyone. Then I send my PA out to buy them. It saves writing a list. This year everyone's getting a packet of sleeping tablets - apart from the boyfriend, who also gets a session of colonic irrigation. I think it shows how much I care.

I don't suppose NS readers, being left-wing liberal types, go over the top about Christmas either. I expect you're all doing voluntary work at soup kitchens for the homeless and making your own cards out of potato peelings. I hope it rocks, as they say at the Delano.

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