It doesn’t take long for me to fall in love. A young Adonis with a six-pack bounced on a trampoline, his dark curls flapping like spaniels’ ears. Waiters flitted about with drinks. Ridiculously attractive couples, all with perfect bodies, lounged on the beach in front of us, rosé on ice to hand.

We’d arrived by water, fetched by a barefoot beauty in an Albergo Aurora-branded white polo and batty riders, who helped our party of five out of our little launch and onto the Albergo’s riva as if not only our lives depended on it, but her job too.

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Something about Italy, everything about Lake Como, makes one feel a teeny bit classy, a bit Grace Kelly on the Corniche, even if it’s only in those few seconds when one’s stepping onto a creaky wooden pontile in greedy expectation of a serious lakeside lunch.

There must be a word for it, a German word probably, which expresses that syndrome often experienced by serial enthusiasts with short attention spans like me. Within a day or so of meeting you’re head over heels and, suddenly, the rest of your life makes perfect sense and at last you can see the road ahead.

But I wasn’t thinking about divorcing Ivo for the young god on the trampoline.........

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