So the day eventually came. 6am wakeup and an Uber to Gatwick. Four weeks of travelling with him. £200 flight to Miami with WOW air (I inherently do not recommend this airline). One failed landing at Reykjavík airport because of an extreme snow storm. Three hours delayed. Eight beers on the plane. One missing bag at Miami International Airport. Good start, some would say.

Miami is a funny place. It all seems to be about the cocktails, the drag, the dive bars, the endless sunshine. It was 24 degrees. I wore a bikini for the first time in over six months. The sand was white and the sea his favourite shade of blue. We walked for miles with the sand in-between our toes, suddenly realising that this is what not working meant. This is what time out was. It was just me and him on the start of this mini adventure. At that moment, there was nowhere I would rather be.

There are no beach bars. We found a little hotel playing NFL and drank 3/4 pints. We ate a day’s worth of food in this wonderful little classic American diner, where all the staff emulated Matthew McConaughey’s “Alright, alright, alright”. He was in his element.

We stumbled upon a bar with a live drag show, whose motto was “Don’t Be A Dry Hoe, Be A Greasy B****”. Each of the women made $80 per performance. It was magical, hilarious and so American.

We found old dive bars with dimmed lights and pool tables and 2-for-1 beers. I lost every game and felt myself getting more drunk with every sip of luke warm Corona. We found a pizza bar with epic cocktails, ball machines and the cheesiest slices. We walked around Wyndham Walls, drunk, jet lagged and full. We tumbled into bed ready for our next stop. Bag-less, hungover and happy.

Yes. To those days with you.