Dearest Belles, it’s official. Summer is over. I’ve seen the first woolly scarf on the tube.

Gone are the white summer dresses, the sheer maxis, the flip flops and floppy hats. All hail the slow invasion of trench coats, brollies and winter warmers.

We’ve ditched Havaianas for Ralph Lauren cable knits and our duffle coats are gradually resurfacing from the dark closet corners to which they were temporarily exiled.

But not for me. For the next month, I will be writing to you from sunnier climes, giving my S/S13 wardrobe a life extension. By the time you read this, I’ll already be basking in tropical heat on a Mauritian beach. Booking my holiday at the end of our summer was my wisest decision of the year.

Because I get to enjoy yet another season of sunshine. And I have absolutely no reservations about making you all jealous of it.

The trouble is, I haven’t packed yet. In my habitual way, I’ve left things until the very last minute. I’m flying out tomorrow and I haven’t even dusted off my suitcase, which has been neglected on top of my wardrobe since last year in favour of weekend away cases.

Tonight, like a headless chicken, I will fly around my flat in crisis mode, lamenting the fact that I didn’t organise myself to do several rounds of laundry, buy a new toothbrush and sort out my sandals in time for the trip.

Inevitably this will result in me packing odd pairs of pumps and failing to include something essential like insect repellent.

Consequently, holiday snaps will place me barefooted in public places peppered with mosquito bites the size of lemons. Which will be neither appropriate nor attractive.

In fact, writing this is proving to be rather a helpful exercise in jogging my memory on the million and one things I need to remember to pack. My holiday vitals consist of several maxi dresses, matching strappies, some hardwearing heels, a clutch of chameleon quality that will go with absolutely anything and several beaded strands to adorn ears, wrists and décolletage. All of which will otherwise not see the light of day again until 2014 unless they win the luggage lottery.

As I’ve said before, during a British summer, a woman’s handbag is incomplete without both sunglasses and an umbrella. Not so in Mauritius, where you can afford to be less prepared.

My Givenchy sunnies are making a big comeback, whilst the brolly is being banished. I intend to correct any wardrobe catastrophes with some well-deserved shopping sprees, though no doubt the outcome of my retail tourism will comprise of clothing entirely impractical for use in the UK.

Buy now, regret later, as they say.

But I’m sure I’ll manage to hold back on buying anything arguably unnecessary – after all, if, in my manic packing mode, I make the mistake of omitting the all-important bikini, the waters will surely be invitingly warm enough to encourage a spot of skinny dipping.

What else does one do when equipped with a private pool and a piña colada?