I woke up in a massive, ridiculously comfy bed with no alarm going off and no small person appearing at the side of it asking for breakfast. Paul and I stayed there for another half-hour, talking about who we’d vibed with the night before and who we had our eye on.

A few of those people were staying at our hotel, so the conversation carried on over breakfast. Everyone was ready to leave their sensible selves behind and party for the next four days.

Our boat crossing was booked for 1:30 p.m. We’d chosen the slower party boat over a speedboat, which felt like the right way to arrive. A message in the pre-island chat told us where we’d be picked up and where to drop our cases. It was only a three-minute walk from the hotel.

Any pretence that I wasn’t a swinger had gone out the window with my outfit of the day.

I had on a denim miniskirt and a black cropped top that said HOT WIFE in the style of the Pornhub logo. My trucker hat said I AM A LIABILITY. Paul’s said SHIT SHOW SUPERVISOR. Both were entirely accurate.

Underneath, I was wearing a metallic green micro bikini. I’d added green hoop earrings and put my hair in bunches. I looked trashy in the most fun way possible.

Naturally, I completed the look with a Marks & Spencer wicker beach bag. Because, however feral I intended to be, I was still a middle-class British mum.

At about 11 a.m., we dropped our cases at the boat pickup point. Someone had posted in the group chat that they’d gone back to the bar we’d been in the night before, in case anyone wanted to join them while we waited. We had a couple of hours to kill, so we headed over.

There were about twenty of us there. Paul and I both had shandies, which felt surprisingly sensible for two people about to spend four days being feral. But it wasn’t even noon yet, and this was a marathon, not a sprint.

There was a supercar meet at the marina, too. Paul is a massive petrolhead, so naturally we stopped to have a look on our way to the boat. We took a few pictures to post in the family WhatsApp group later in the week. In every one of mine, I was casually and not at all suspiciously covering the HOT WIFE logo on my top.

Then we started walking towards the boat, and with every step, the nerves and excitement built a little more.

We gave our names at check-in, then Paul headed up to the top deck while I went to the bar for beers—and a bottle of water each, because apparently I still had some sense.

Oh my God. We were here. We were actually going.

There was a DJ on board and a compère getting everyone in the mood. People were pouring booze from bottles straight into other people’s mouths. There was even a body painter. The boat hadn’t left the port yet and it was already an absolute vibe.

We were told to be on our best behaviour while we were still in port. Once we’d been sailing for ten minutes, we could strip off.

I waited exactly ten minutes.

The skirt and top came off, and there I was in the tiniest bikini I’d ever worn. The wind caught it as the boat moved across the water. One strong gust and I’d have had no modesty left whatsoever.

Other boats sailed closer to get a look at what was going on. I can’t say I blamed them. If I’d seen a boat full of adults dancing, drinking and taking their clothes off, I’d have been curious too.

It took about an hour to reach the island, and when they call it a party boat, they are not lying. The music was pumping, it was so hot that the sea breeze was welcome, and there were games, dancing and a load of fully grown adults leaving their responsibilities behind to party like they were twenty again.

I went to the bar for a couple more beers and somehow got collared into doing body shots while I was there. What a hard life.

By then, I’d got swept up in it all. I spotted the body painter and went over. By the time I made it back to Paul, I was topless, with CAUTION: WET PUSSY painted across my tits and an arrow pointing down.

“You only went for beer,” he said. “How have you come back topless and painted?”

When the island came into view, it was picture-perfect. Everyone was so excited as we climbed off the boat. Paul grabbed our suitcases and added them to the case drop-off pile, then we joined the queue to check in.

With 150 people having just got off the boat, it wasn’t the quickest process. But everyone was chatting, and luckily, we’re British. Queueing is practically a national pastime.

When we reached the front, we found out we were staying on the south side of the island in Room 68.

“So close to Room 69,” I joked.

They offered to change it for us, but Paul said, “No, it’s fine.”

Fine for him. He’d just ruined my go-to chat-up line for the next four days.

We were given wristbands, directions to our room and a tote bag filled with stuff. We headed straight there to check it out and freshen up. It was about a twenty-minute walk from check-in.

The path was hilly and rocky, and I quickly realised I wouldn’t be wearing heels that week unless I fancied a broken ankle and no immediate medical attention.

Partway up the hill, we passed a Spicy Island sign with the most incredible view. Fuelled by beer, body shots and the fact that we were finally here, we decided to fuck on it.

The sun, the atmosphere, the view over the Adriatic Sea… It was the most stunning backdrop I’d ever had while being railed.

After our spontaneous detour, we took a breather and carried on in search of Room 68.

When we finally found it, it turned out to be a two-bedroom safari tent. We had our own shower and bathroom, plus air conditioning—which was very welcome in the Croatian summer heat.

Best of all, our tent was on the front row. Trees lined the shore, with the blue sea stretching out beyond them. We’d spent the walk joking about Room 69, but looking at that view, I was very happy with Room 68.

First, we investigated the goodie bag. There was a SpicyMatch beach towel each, a purple SpicyMatch bikini, lip balm, nipple pasties, condoms and a fan. They make the bikinis in a rainbow of colours, so obviously I now need to collect them all. Which means more holidays.

Honestly, who doesn’t love a goodie bag?

Paul went back to the case drop-off point to collect our suitcases. We put them on the spare bed, opened them, and decided that counted as unpacking. As a forty-year-old mum, living out of an open suitcase for four days felt positively unhinged.

We freshened up, I threw on a tiny pair of bikini bottoms and a kimono, and we headed out to join the welcome party.

Now, I am not normally a naked person. But you would never have known it that afternoon.

There is something absolutely freeing about walking around an island in a thong, Birkenstocks and a kimono-style cover-up, with your tits out and not giving it a second thought.

The welcome party was at the beach bar, so that’s where we headed. We spent the afternoon drinking, flirting and getting to know people. We talked about what they did in real life, how they’d found out about Spicy Island and where they were going afterwards.

I loved how easily those conversations happened. People had come from all walks of life, but nobody seemed to be putting on an act. You just took people as they came.

By about 5 p.m., the party was winding down and we needed a nap. Spoiler alert: we napped every single day.

Island life quickly fell into a rhythm: a daytime party, a nighttime party and, crucially, a nap in between.

We set an alarm for 7 p.m., figuring we’d get up, get ready for dinner, then change for the night party.

Things never quite go to plan. I slept straight through the alarm.

Paul tried to wake me, but apparently it wasn’t happening. He went to dinner at about 7:30, came back around 8:30 and I was still asleep. When I eventually woke up at 9 p.m., he told me he’d decided to let me rest.

Lovely of him. But I was up now, and there was a party to get to.

One quick shower and some make-up later, I was ready. Tonight’s theme was Enchanted Forest. Paul wore black boxers printed with skulls and roses. I had on a black lace thong and bra set embroidered with neon flowers, a light-up flower crown and pale green fairy wings—all courtesy of SHEIN.

I promise it wasn’t tacky. Think cute, sexy, slutty Tinker Bell.

And off we went to the party.

The party was in the middle of the forest, and when we arrived, it took my breath away. I was honestly lost for words. The lighting, the music, the stilt walkers, everyone’s costumes—it was so immersive that I still don’t think I can do it justice.

Paul went to the bar for drinks, and we spent the next couple of hours dancing.

Later, I went to the toilet. On my way back, I found myself looking around at the costumes and all these people having the time of their lives. And I had the strangest thought:

Sandra from the school run would never, in a million years, believe what I’m doing right now.

I needed to start a blog.

That was the exact moment the idea for Zoe’s Modern Life came to me.

When I got back, I ordered a couple of drinks. Paul was talking to Hank and Britney, whom we’d met the night before.

We chatted. We flirted. We definitely knew something was going to happen by the end of the night.

Then Paul decided he needed the toilet. He was gone for approximately six minutes.

What can happen in six minutes? Quite a lot, apparently, if you leave Zoe unsupervised.

I turned to the group we’d been talking to. “Can anyone else smell weed?”

“Yeah,” someone said. “I may have accidentally smuggled a weed vape over. Would you like some?”

Now, you might think I’d pause to consider that question. But I was on a private island, dressed as slutty Tinker Bell and feeling wonderfully free of my usual inhibitions.

“Yes,” I said. “That sounds like an absolutely fantastic idea.”

What could possibly go wrong?

I was being semi-sensible. I hadn’t smoked weed in about ten years, so I decided I’d have just two tiny puffs.

And because I’m not the President of the United States, I did inhale.

But oh fuck. I was now very, very stoned and beginning to suspect that two tiny puffs had not been the sensible decision I thought they were.

Then Paul appeared.

“Paul, I got accidentally stoned, and I think I need my bed. Like, now.”

Paul knew me well enough to suspect there had been nothing accidental about it.

“I was gone for six minutes,” he said, laughing. “I thought you could manage six minutes unsupervised.” He turned to the group. “Can you see why we have the hats?”

Like my knight in shining armour, he took me home. In fact, he carried me for part of the way.

On the walk back, we passed the playrooms—a designated space for late-night action. We definitely weren’t going in there. I was far too intoxicated to consent to anything.

But right beside them was a pizza and burger hut, and the munchies had just kicked in. I needed a burger.

I’d forgotten how good a burger tastes when you’re stoned. That one tasted like heaven.

After our burger stop, we carried on to Room 68. I was asleep before the lights were out.

And that was only day one.