The scene of tropical holiday bliss is picture-perfect and, incredibly, it's real, writes Graham Reid.
Every now and again - if we are really lucky - we realise we are in that postcard-perfect world we have lingered over in the pages of glossy magazines, images which we persuade ourselves only the combination of weather, a talented photographer and PhotoShop could allow to exist.
But then, suddenly, there we are. We are the person just beyond the frame of perfection frozen in the lens.
It was at the Pacific Resort, Rarotonga, on a slow mid-morning that I saw it: in the foreground were my pink and succulent raw fish rolls; in the mid-ground was a glass of gleaming chardonnay with beads of moisture on the side catching sparks of sunlight; and beyond that the white sand, the still lagoon and a palm tree-speckled island lying just where the white waves broke on the reef.
It was a strange kind of cliche, but made resonant by the absence of swimsuit models or cuisine writers who usually clutter up such a captured moment in a magazine.