At the end of June, I'm going on a girly holiday.

The last time I embarked on a girly holiday was in July 2005, the week of the London Underground terrorist attacks. Instead of being on a circle line train bound for Liverpool Street, I was in Spain with three old school friends; relaxing, drinking far too much Sangria, reading books. All was going well.

Until it wasn't.

Thighs chafed under sarongs, hindering walks of any length. Skin burnt. Tempers frayed. Between the bliss, we argued over where to eat, where to drink and "why is she on her own by that tree". We arrived home a week later with two of us barely talking, and I swore never to go girly again.

Let's face facts: holidays and girls aren't always a great combination.

Firstly, both require bikinis. Which would be fine, if girls didn't bring their body hang-ups to the beach.

Bikinis mean girls are destined to spend the weeks before and during the holiday pinching their sides and exclaiming loudly, to anyone who will listen, about the state of their wobbly bits (real or imaginary). And if by some miraculous fate you don't have any fat-related issues worth shouting about, you can be sure that there'll be a lot of "Oh my god! You / they / she's so skinny!"'s coming your way. Put a bikini on and weight, or lack of it, is always on the table. Usually next to a shed load of readily-consumed cheese and wine.

Next, you've got the pale brigade; those who insist on trying to forge a tan out of a wish and a prayer.

Having never gone anything than a blotchy shade of rouge the minute the intense sunshine touches my their chest, they struggle on through the midday sun, lamenting the heat and sweating off optimistic layers of Factor 15. Either that, or they're in the bathroom repairing their patchy sand-exfoliated elbows. That biscuity smell ain't poolside Digestives, ladies, it's Aftersun mixed with half a bottle of St Tropez.

None of this would matter if groups of girls actually got on with each other. But by our very nature, girls + heat + close quarters = bitch-a-rama. Holidays in the sun have been making and breaking relationships before planes could even fly to get us there.

If this all sounds a bit Victor Meldrew on Tour, let me just clarify that I have had some amazing times abroad. Err, mostly on my own. But some with people I didn't know all that well beforehand. Or with just one close friend. Or me and a boyfriend.

Even the tumultuous girly trip of 2005 had moments that we'd look back and laugh at once we got home.

Until we stopped speaking altogether.

But that, as they say, is another story.