“I didn’t get it from Vinted!” Aaron exclaims, mere moments after sliding my newest piece of jewellery onto the fourth finger of my left hand.

“I didn’t think you did,” I reassure him, “Or I didn’t until you just said that.”

The sun has officially set on day five of our holiday in Santorini and I’ve just finished a margarita that boasted the exact right blend of saltiness to citrus. Oh, and I’ve just got engaged. But we’ll put a pin in that for now; the margarita deserves its own special moment.

A good margarita is hard to come by on holiday. Or, at least, they have been in the holiday destinations I’ve visited over the last few years. They’re so rare, I’ve been known to give a standing ovation when the bar person’s delivered a good’n. And, if I’m being honest, the specific cocktail I applauded was, in reality, pretty mediocre. But it didn’t taste like washing up liquid, at least. And that called for a celebration.

Anyway, as I was saying: I’ve just polished off a very good version of my very favourite drink after a glorious display of colours painted the sky to wish Santorini “goodnight”.

We’re on a balcony in Fira, the capital of Santorini, and, in the last 48 hours, Aaron has spoken non-stop about sunsets. Verging on obsessive, even. “These sunsets are amazing,” he’d say. “We should watch the sunset tonight,” he’d propose.

Now, I’m the first to take a snap of a breathtaking sunset. Heck, I’d take a picture of one that barely passes as decent. And, as someone who sits awkwardly on the cusp of being a millennial and a Gen Z, I barely think twice before uploading my absolutely average photo straight onto Instagram. But I’m not sure I’d ever noticed Aaron take more than a cursory glance at a sunset (probably to confirm it’s nearly over and that we can go back to the car soon) prior to this holiday. So, his sudden interest in seeing the sky turn from blue to pink, purple and orange did strike me as odd, although not quite suspicious.

Until now.

As two couples nearby clock on to what’s happened and quietly give us their “congratulations”, I whisper our thanks and say, “Do you like sunsets as much as you’ve been saying or was this all a massive ploy?”

Aaron gives me an “I got you” kind of look.

Back at our base destination, Kamari, after a short bus ride and a few plates of mezze, we do what every Brit does when looking to soak up the culture of their European summer holiday destination… We find the nearest bar full to the brim of sunburnt faces, all screaming the words of Britain’s most favourite hits (Bohemian Rhapsody, Mr Brightside, Don’t Look Back in Anger) back to a man on a stage with a guitar.

As my Aperol Spritz arrives, mine and Aaron’s increasingly tipsy eyes widen as the familiar opening chords of the next song vibrate knowingly through the bar.

I overhear someone say, “This is basically our national anthem now.”

I reach my hand forward, making a show of its new sparkles to Aaron, who’s not yet bored of my shameful attempts to introduce my ring into any situation, moment or photo.

In a day’s time, I become a woman obssessed, seeing opportunities all around to take an inspired new shot of my hand:
– A photo of my hand with the sea as its backdrop? Tick.
– A photo of my hand as I oh-so-casually pick up my Mythos? Tick.
– A photo of my hand as I stroke a local dog we’ve affectionately named Paul? Big, fat, sparkly tick.

By day three of being engaged, I’d probably take a photo of my hand with a toilet glistening in the background if the lighting was right.

“Hands, touchin’ handssssss!” We shout, the volume in the bar reaching a new, glorious, drunken high. “Reachin’ ouuut!” We hit our hands against the table one after another. “Touching meeee, touching youuuuuu!”

I take a quick sip of the bright orange liquid in front of me in an attempt to moisten my throat ahead of a big, important chorus.

Good times, in fact, never seemed so good.