It was several months ago, while on a package holiday in Malta, that I finally realised how the new generation of older people might want to live. I'd booked myself and my glamorous holiday companion into a random hotel I'd found on the internet. But arriving downstairs on the first morning, we were in for a shock. Apart from us, the youngest hotel guest was about 70 years old. Zimmer frames and motorised buggies hogged the way to the swimming pool.

To add insult to injury, the vast majority of these septuagenarians hailed from England. Many of them knew one another from back home. All were paying substantially less than us for the privilege of being there. They were there for the long haul and had, they told us proudly, struck a cut-price deal with the hotel to spend their winters in relative warmth and comfort. In the evening, cowering over our piña coladas in the corner of the bar, it was all we could do to keep time with our fellow guests as they jived and swayed to endless karaoke renditions of "Rhinestone Cowboy".