Things have changed since Scott and Zelda fox trotted to a hot jazz combo and dined beneath indoor palms with Wallis and Windsor. Ralph Lauren photo sets they may be, but surely this is preferable to your last American vacation playground.

There is more skin in Florida than anywhere in the world. Most of it sags out of unashamed bikinis and can be up to 72% larger than the person wearing it. I’m not talking about the Spring break crowds who booze and bare it all to Jimmy Buffett; I’m talking about the octogenarians. Too scared to leave their valuables in the hotel room, they sit around the pool all day in diamonds and white mink stoles. All with skin like a Wells Fargo rider’s saddlebags.

My dear, you may dream of the strings and vertiginous cleavages of St. Tropez, but while at your Chatham clam bake, just think back a few years to the entrance the Bouvier sisters would make as they turned up in peddle pushers, flats, pearls and pink cashmere twin sets.

I really can’t imagine Zelda and Wallis topping up their tans in thongs while the boys played shuffleboard in white flannels. But this is, after all, Massachusetts where the Pilgrim Fathers landed, shot a few Indians and turkeys and put in place a sense of self-righteous prudishness that has lasted 500 years. But that’s America.