When I’m packing for a sun holiday there is only one thing on my mind: comfort, comfort, comfort. We’re talking a breathable linen trouser; we’re talking a floaty dress that can take me from day to night; we’re talking a near orthopaedic sandal that won’t bring on a case of plantar fasciitis. This exotic wardrobe is just one of the many, many reasons I could never go on Love Island. Let’s suspend disbelief for a second and forget that I fit neither the age profile nor the body requirements to make the Love Island roster. Even if I was 22 with the metabolism to match, there isn’t enough prize money in the world that could entice me into the villa, which this year is teeming with Irish talent. Kildare’s Victoria Onanusi only lasted a few days, while Galway GAA player Sean “Fitzy” Fitzgerald and Dublin influencer Charleen Murphy have made a bigger impact. No matter how they end up leaving the villa, they all have to come in the same way, in their swimming togs. Love Island creates an alternative reality in which the contestants arriving for their romance in the sun come in off the street in bikinis and high heels (for the ladies) and shorts and an optional unbuttoned shirt (for the men) and stay in these costumes for eight weeks. Whatever happened to a comfy plane outfit with an elasticated waist for the inevitable mile-high bloat? I simply could not enjoy myself if I had to face into a holiday in a thong and a pair of five-inch wedges. I want neither wedges nor wedgies when I’m lying by the pool, thank you very much. Speaking of the pool, as a water baby I would spend my entire time in the Love Island villa trying to entice my fellow contestants in for a handstand contest. I would be putting in eight-hour shifts lying on lilos, diving for toys, playing horsies on the pool noodles and doing cannonballs into the deep end. The Love Island producers limit the time contestants are allowed spend in the pool because they want to discourage conversations and interactions that might not be picked up by the microphones the islanders usually wear around their necks. I would be turfed out after two days for failing to stick to the pool rules. When not cosplaying as a mermaid, the rest of my time would be spent fretting about the constant threat of sunburn. The entirety of my camera time would be me asking my fellow contestants to make sure I hadn’t missed any spots on my back and slinking around in the shade in a big T-shirt and hat. Love Island contestants are not allowed to bring their phones or any books with them, nor do they have any access to a telly. Ideally, they spend their days flirting and pulling people for “chats” and asking their crushes to apply sunscreen in a sexy way, rather than out of concern for the UV index. It is a special kind of cruelty to ask anyone to sit around in a sun-drenched garden by a pool for 10 hours and not allow them to bring that summer’s essential beach read. I would go absolutely crackers. Plus, without my phone I’d lose my Wordle streak and all of my enemies on Crossplay would think I’d gone soft. Don’t get me started on the emails the Duolingo owl would be sending me. Producers do allow the islanders to have a sort of brick phone that allows them to receive instructional texts and take limited photos. With no pockets in the obligatory micro bikini, I would have the phone lost within hours of arriving. [ Elle on Prime Video: 1990s nostalgists will find lots to admire but are they the target audience?Opens in new window ]I get exhausted even watching the Love Island girls getting ready every day. They get dolled up to put in the hours on the bikini day shift and then have to get glammed again for the evening service which involves, you guessed it, more hanging around in the same garden in high heels. They don’t even have the luxury of lying on the bed in their towel for an hour of phone time in-between. Barbaric. The worst of all, though, is the sleeping arrangements. The Love Island bedroom is like the hostel from hell. A windowless dorm of double beds, complete with undulating duvets and horrific kissing noises, not to mention the hours of farting, sleep talking and snoring that would have to be endured or, even worse, be exposed as a personal “quirk” on national television. I’ll keep my floaty muumuu and sensible flats, thanks very much, and leave the Love Islanding to the Fitzys and Charleens of this world.