Miami Beach, FL

It's a beautiful feeling, that blast of warm air which hits your skin as the air-conditioned doors open and you walk out of the British winter and into the humid heat wafting up from the Caribbean. After the sluggish gluttony of Christmas and a bout of laryngitis what could be better for the soul than a trip to the land of the body beautiful, that glamorous, decadent, tropical destination at the southern tip of the USA - Miami.

Our flight across the Atlantic had started with a couple of glasses of champagne, as is only proper. Fiona, our charming stewardess from a ferociously incomprehensible part of Northern Ireland, had been dishing it out like water, encouraged in part by Coman's ramped up Irish accent which took his normal soft Dublin brogue into the realms of wildest Londonderry. After all, it was just gone 10am on a Sunday so the perfect time to pop a cork and celebrate a week off the sauce.

To be honest, the fact that Coman had spent 20 minutes in duty free trying out every scent available meant that anyone within a few feet of us would have been overwhelmed by the perfume of about ten different aftershaves. So poor Fiona was probably high as kite on eau de cologne and had no idea she'd bequeathed the pair of us almost an entire bottle before take off. We smiled sweetly and said nothing, other than an occasional guilty hiccup.

After nine hours of movies, dozing, drinking and eating, we finally started to descend . Below us the coastline came into view and there it was; Miami, huge and sprawling, laid out along the shore with skyscraping majesty and extending deep inland, perfect and gridlike.

As we circled the city we flew out over the Everglades, a brown and barren swamp from the air, all muddy rust and dirty grass with the occasional waterway snaking through. And then touchdown. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Miami. The temperature outside is 25 degrees and the sun is shining. Have a beautiful stay".

It's a marked contrast to our landing here five years ago, when the skies were turbulent with rain that lashed the tarmac and our hearts had sunk with the expectation of a ruined vacation. Fortunately that ominous arrival had been at the end of a three day storm and by the evening a beautiful sunset had set the tone for four days of sweltering pleasure. Fingers crossed this visit would be similarly blessed.

We hadn't figured upon US immigration raining upon our parade though - albeit a momentary shower rather than a tropical storm. As we queued up to be biometrically assessed, stamped and questioned we were ushered forward together. "Are you a family party," barked the lady behind the glass. Yes, we replied. "You can only be family if you're next of kin or married," she countered. Well, we are legal next of kin and we are married, we vouched. "You're not married in America!" she exclaimed. "Get back behind the line!"

Fortunately our obvious moral depravity proved no barrier to entering the Land of the Free. I mean, we're headed to Key West for God's sake. You may as well drape yourself in a rainbow flag and wear glittery hot pants the minute you enter the country if that's your destination!

Once through customs we were greeted by our driver Felipe holding a sign marked Philip Luff, my father's name, causing Coman to question whether I'd invited my parents along for the ride, and then those doors opened and we felt the warm, warm air upon us, that waft of the Caribbean tantalisingly close by, heating up the Atlantic breeze that tickled our faces. A brief blast and then we entered the air-conditioned confines of a stretch hummer which had been sent to collect us. God knows how many bags they thought we were bringing with us....

So here we now are in the back of a stretch hummer gliding along palm-fringed freeways towards South Beach. The sun is starting to set bathing the skyline in a warm glow, adding oranges and reds to the white and pristine cityscape before us. The freeway rides over interlocking islands with names like Hibiscus and Tropical, where waterfront properties have gardens ending in jetties and high-rise condos come with marinas attached where luxury yachts bob calmly, alongside larger docks with giant cruise-liners.

After 30 minutes we pull up at our hotel, the Park Central on Ocean Drive. One of the Historic Hotels of America it's also known as The Blue Jewel, its pastel-hued Art Deco facade one of the most famous of Miami landmarks. Designed by Henry Hohauser and built in 1937 its website boasts that the Park Central "whisks you back to a time where glamour trumps glitz, service reigns supreme and the 'Golden Era' energy that made Miami the famed city it is today, is very much alive and buzzing".

Outside an iconic 1947 Buick is parked and inside the walls are adorned with black and white prints conjuring up the beachfront history, but once Rick, the bellhop boy, shows us our room it's obvious why this boutique hotel is significantly cheaper than places like the Shore Club and the Raleigh which we visited last time we stayed in the city. All that 'glamour' has faded and what was once elegant and swish is now tired and a little basic. But seeing as we are looking for a place to sleep for two nights rather than somewhere to hang out, this is the perfect location. And that huge bed looks massively inviting. It's 6pm and we left our house sixteen hours ago. Just a little siesta then...

By eight o'clock we're refreshed and ready for dinner so head out for a walk along Ocean Drive, soaking up the atmosphere. After a few blocks we realise we're ravenous and decide to skip any attempt at a gentle promenade in favour of immediate sustenance, so grab a table at Caffe Milano which is right in front of us. We order food and settle back into our chairs but within moments Coman lets out a mighty yelp and leaps up. Right behind us is a scruffy old man with an enormous white python draped round his shoulders, hassling tourists to get their photos taken.

At that moment our bottle of shiraz arrives, along with ice-cold glasses, so a huge gulp is taken and Coman resumes his seat, keeping a wary eye upon the rogue reptile and its wily owner. As we eat dinner, serenaded it seems by the greatest hits of Julio Iglesias, we watch the parade of people file past.

Tourists, locals, black and white; Hispanic families in glitzy sparkles, loud fratboys and dressed up babes; gay, straight and undecided; ten shades of crazy alongside timid Japanese; sophisticated diners and three-pint swilling beer monsters, flashy, brashy, Eurotrashy; it's a non-stop cavalcade of weirdness.

Cars cruise slowly by while motorbikes roar on past, rollerbladers weave in and out of the sidewalk avoiding people shouting into their cell phones, drunk troubadours in bandanas with guitars compete with sleight-of-hand magicians for tips from the tables around us. It's a total barrage of noise assailing us as we eat our pasta and drink red wine from Francis Ford Coppola's vineyard. A non-stop assault on our jet lagged senses.

Then three women with hair extensions like garden hoses and the biggest booties known to man walk past. We've never seen anything like it. Implants, padding, who knows?!? But if that silicon comes from France then they're in line for a gargantuan disaster, an ass apocalypse.

Deciding we've had enough excitement Miami style, and avoiding what seems to be a Maroon 5 tribute band playing in a beachfront bar, we wander back towards the Park Central. Cabs advertising Club Madonna where apparently it's "All Nude!" toot their horns at us touting for business but we saunter through the doors into the lobby and take the lift to the 4th Floor. It's 10.30 and I can hardly keep my eyes open. Darkness descends and dreams take over.