It’s a warm and muggy Saturday night in Southern Spain, which is pretty much the only kind of Saturday night there ever is in Southern Spain.

Stomachs full of Tapas and red wine we stroll the streets, avoiding eye contact with other British holidaymakers (acknowledge each other and any continental authenticity to the scene is shattered).

Everybody’s out tonight so we get to admire the local octogenarians with their hunched shuffles, flaking cigars and twinkling eyes as well as the slicked-back hair twenty-somethings with their buzzing scooters and curvaceous, pillion-riding girlfriends.

A gaggle of teenage girls round the corner ahead of us. They’re decked out in full señorita dress, tight, hugging floral material giving way to a waterfall of skirt ruffles at the waistline. Red flowers in permed hair, they’re quintessentially Spanish, as if popped from the pages of a tourist guide, enjoying every lingering glance of attention they draw.

But they’re seventeen and something doesn’t quite sit right with the scene. After all, this is downtown Costa del Sol, not a remote farming village high in the mountain-tops. These girls are on their way to the discotheque, not an evening’s Flamenco in the cow shed, right?

“Um. Do you think they’re being ironic?,” I ask Mrs Chewing Pixels.

“Probably,” she answers. “Just like when the kids back home dress up like Beefeaters before a night out.”

“…”