Kayt Turner: 'The ladies of the night were all fabulously turned out and drop dead gorgeous'

I'M PREPARED to accept that I'm getting older – just. And I know that da kidz today do things differently (obviously that means that they do things incorrectly – but I'm trying to start off on a conciliatory note).

Standards have changed over the years (I prefer slipped, but sticking with the nice version... for now). I know that men no longer tip their hat to a lady in the street. They are more likely to grunt and pull their beanie further down over their eyes. I know that you are unlikely to find a gentleman at home on a Sunday afternoon in a collar, tie and hand-knitted tank top. although, in fairness, I don't know if you would ever have found someone like that outwith the pages of a knitting pattern.

I was thinking about all of this when we were on holiday. Given that we were child-free for the first time in years, we were making the most of it by – gasp! – going out at night. The time difference even meant that I was still awake past 9pm, so we were, by our standards, living it large.

There's always one really posh place in the vicinity when you go away. Usually I watch the great and the good swish past me in dresses and high heels, while I stand to the side in my beach shorts and a T-shirt with indeterminate staining (could be suntan lotion, could be that lunchtime humus – hard to tell). So this time I was determined to go somewhere flash – even if it was only for one or two cocktails. And with the glamorous and glitzy world of Formula One racing in town, I thought I couldn't go wrong. Money would be out in force and so there would be no question of some serious dressing up. Or so I thought.

That the hotel had a dress code, we knew. Mr Turner had been savvy enough to check up online before we even left Blighty's shores, and had packed the requisite slacks, collar and shoes. The overwhelming heat did mean that our trip to the Posh Place was delayed for a few days as there was no way that any of us could contemplate being dressed in anything other than voluminous kaftans when the night-time mercury was topping 85°F.

Eventually we acclimatised – well, as much as wee, pale Scots are ever going to – and headed for the bright lights. Seated on the balcony and with cocktails in hand, we prepared to drink in the heady glamour that would surely surround us. As if. I've seen more glamour on the number 26 bus on a Sunday afternoon.

I'm not being entirely fair. Yes, the women were glamorous. Sparkly frocks, sparkly jewellery and enough Elnett to suffocate a small nation. But the blokes! Young and old alike basically pitched up wearing my beach shorts and stained T-shirt. And seemed quite proud of the effort that they had made.

It was the same story at our favoured bar. The ladies of the night who hung around there were all fabulously turned out and drop dead gorgeous. Their 'dates', however, left a lot to be desired. I know, I know, it was hardly their looks or savoir faire the girls were after. But each and every one of these badly dressed, sweaty oafs behaved like these girls were lucky to have the pleasure of their company. From the way they behaved, you'd have thought they expected the girls to pay them. I may be naive, but I like to think that it would have been much cheaper if the boys had actually scrubbed up first.