As I got into the lift, my rival asked me why I was looking so smug. "I'm off to the Maldives tonight," I replied. "You'll hate it," he said, "Paradise Syndrome..."
Now I've read a lot of guff about Paradise Syndrome, mainly from rich, successful celebrities who claim to suffer from depression induced by having everything they want.
The term, I believe, was coined by Dave Stewart who, after a lifetime of amassing vast quantities of cash with Annie Lennox and achieving everything he desired artistically, stated publicly that it made him miserable.
The Maldives is just a series of dots on the world map: 1 200 islands, 90 of which are occupied by resorts. From above it looks like a just-dropped wine glass that has shattered into hundreds of pieces. They scarcely make it above sea level: the highest point of land in the archipelago is just over two metres. In fact, if there was anywhere that was going to encourage me to take up road cycling, this was going to be it.
As we arrived at Male International Airport, a giant storm was lashing the islands; our 30-minute boat transfer to the resort ended up taking more than two hours.
The Maldivian president, Mohamed Nasheed, said this year that he plans to make the Maldives carbon-neutral within a decade by moving to wind power. He'll be able to power most of southern India as well if these storms are anything to go by. To experience Paradise Syndrome, I assume you first have to encounter Paradise: 120 minutes of nausea in a wind-whipped boat doesn't quite cut it for me.
Things, however, were about to change. Reethi Rah means "Beautiful Island" in Dhivehi, and I'm happy to report that nothing has been lost in translation. It looks like the location used in Castaway, but without Tom Hanks with a silly beard and a basketball for a friend. It is also one of the largest islands in the Maldives, with nearly 6km of coastline.
It needs to be big in order to contain what are, quite frankly, the largest villas I have ever seen. And if you can't be bothered to walk 5m across your own section of beach to the cobalt-blue Indian Ocean, many of the beach villas have their own pools as well. Other facilities on the island include a water-sports centre, a gym and an Espa Spa.
There's also a kids' club which, I'm not embarrassed to say, I enjoyed playing in almost as much as my son did. Who needs to go scuba diving with manta rays when you can spend the afternoon face-painting on a pirate ship or swimming under a giant frog waterfall?
Reethi Rah has plenty of golf buggies and bikes to ferry you from one beach to another. And, if you like, to dinner. The Japanese restaurant Tapasake looks out over the Indian Ocean. It's a stunning setting and the food isn't bad, either.
I tried Japanese-style tapas to start, including chicken yakitori and a wonderful magret duck breast in miso sauce, followed by sukiyaki of wagyu beef. The beautifully marbled beef was of the Kobe persuasion - clearly reared on a diet of beer, massaged daily and shown DVDs of Fiona Bruce on holiday in her swimmers. It was a spectacular experience. I was relaxed, well fed, and my family were having the time of their lives. This Paradise Syndrome business was really getting me down.
One hour away from Reethi Rah by dhoni (a sort of multi-purpose sailing boat) lies the tiny, exclusive island of Huvafen Fushi, which boasts crystal-clear water. On arrival, our thakaru (or butler) whisked us off to our room: an "Ocean Pavilion" set above the water on stilts. It was reminiscent of Blofeld's lounge in You Only Live Twice. Multiple sun decks, a monster plasma television, iPod docks, a Jacuzzi, an infinity pool that comes into the living room, remote-control blinds, white Persian cat...
I told our thakaru it was one of the most extraordinary rooms I'd ever seen - partly because it was true. It took at least half an hour to go through the operational procedure of the gadgets in the room. The only one I think mastered was the loo. But, while the Ocean Pavilions are spectacular to look at, they are spectacularly hopeless for a family with a very young child.
Every piece of fancy decking represented a hazard - and I didn't fancy the thought of my son crawling over the edge. So, after a quick chat with the general manager, we were rehoused in the far more family-friendly Beach Pavilion, which was equally impressive, but more land-based.
You can't fault the ambition of Huvafen Fushi. It has an underwater spa where you can watch angel fish and turtles glide by as you have your massage. Designed by the British architect Richard Hywel Evans, it's like having a rub-down in Dr No's office. Here I was told that, if I wanted, the resident naturopath could provide a "haemaview live blood analysis and iridology". This sounded like the kind of thing Keith Richards does when he's not falling out of coconut trees, so I made my excuses and left.
Too much of doing nothing can make a man hungry. Luckily, Huvafen Fushi has plenty of places where you can solve that problem. There are four restaurants to choose from, called things such as Celsius and Raw. There's also a wine cellar called Vinum buried deep beneath the island. It's an astonishing place, heaving with more than 6 000 bottles from the likes of Latour, Haut-Brion and Le Pin. There's a cheeky 1999 Romanee-Conti in there which cost exactly half of what I paid for my first London flat. The restaurant called Salt was fantastic. My main course was a pan-seared barramundi on buttered celeriac, which was gorgeous, although I still have no idea what a barramundi is.
One criticism often levelled at the Maldives is that there's nothing to do. This is where people will tell you, Paradise Syndrome is likely to take over. But the thing is, doing nothing is entirely the point. If you like climbing or hiking or goat-herding, the Maldives is not for you. If, however, like me you are bone idle, then the thought of spending an entire day doing nothing fills you with rare joy. I cannot recommend it highly enough.
But maybe, just maybe... The following morning, I got up and attempted to turn on my coffee machine, but instead managed to get CNN on my massive plasma screen. I was forced, therefore, to have breakfast with Larry King, because the remote control only seemed to turn on the shower and the LED lights in the plunge pool. It made me just a tiny bit cross.
Perhaps there is such a thing as Paradise Syndrome after all. But it has nothing to do with Dave Stewart. It just means I can't work my telly.