Recently, on a particularly dreary day, I found myself flicking wistfully through the  travel section of a broadsheet newspaper. As I sat on the sofa, slumped in my none-too-glam trackie bottoms and fleece-lined Crocs I tortured myself with page after page of unobtainable 'bourgeois' - which I believe is Russian for 'jealous-making' - holiday destinations. I ogled double-page spread after double-page spread of nut-brown bodies frolicking on pristine, deserted beaches, drooled over photos of towel-clad bodies being pummeled by tiny ladies with big muscles, and scanned ads promising, variously, views of the Northern lights, 'big game' and Alpine meadows in bloom.