By the time we’ve reached the series’ mid-point, tentative order has descended into all-out debauchery with the Full Moon party; a legendary monthly rave on the Thai island of Koh Samui that I attended in my late teens and appears, based on the show’s portrayal, to have not changed at all since. In a diary I found, I wrote at the time (and I honestly don’t think I was trying to be satirical) that my friends and I had worn body paint and “clothes befitting of Asian tradition to show oneness with the locals”, and witnessed a beach “littered with the bodies of overdosers”.

As for our White Lotus characters, everyone, including Valentin – the hotel’s poster boy for clean living – gets hammered, illicit drugs are consumed, incest is alluded to, the concept of “health is wealth” has left the building, and we’re inching ever-closer to the revelation of our murder victim.

I’m a 38-year-old white woman with a double-barrelled surname. Many assume I would love nothing more than a visit to somewhere like season three’s iteration of The White Lotus. Yet I have reached a point in my career where I am well-known within the industry to despise any trip with so much as a sniff of “Eat, Pray, Love” to it. “What is the one angle you would never pitch to me?” I just asked my long-time associate Li Boatwright, head of luxury travel PR agency Storrington Collective, as a test. “A wellness resort,” she responded, despite representing several of them.

As far as I’m concerned they are, at best, dull, smug and vacuous; and at worst, a cesspit of insufferable pilgrims – I find Southeast Asia particularly rife for these sorts of places, which is why it’s off the travel map for me – convinced they are practising “self-care” when actually they are bathing in self-centredness. Mike White, the show’s creator, has captured their essence with such a keen eye, I have no doubt he’s endured about as many of them as I have.

The final episode of The White Lotus will air on Sky/Now on Monday April 7