I AM EXTRA tired this week.

This is not an unusual gripe for a 40-something with a couple of different jobs plus motherhood to juggle.

Strangely enough though, that isn’t the real reason for my current state of fatigue. That would be down to my obsession with the new series of Love Island.

I’ve decided to come clean about this “filthy” habit of mine because I sure as heck am not the only person with a guilty pleasure to my name.

Whether it’s eating beans straight out of the tin, being a Jedward fan or actually liking pork scratchings with hair on, we all have our secret joys.

Be honest with yourself before you judge.

I am more than happy to list trash TV as one of my hobbies, although I am proud to say I’ve never seen an episode of Towie.

That one I have been strong enough to swerve, along with the likes of Made In Chelsea and Geordie Shore.

My problem with this style of programming is that I know just one episode would be enough to reel me in for life.

When it comes to the Island though, it didn’t take much persuasion for me to offer myself up and get completely hooked.

I was a late adopter of this highly addictive nonsense and only joined the party last year, when it seemed the world and her cat was talking about it.

In fact, I joined series three halfway through, so made it my mission to catch up on 23 episodes to get me up to speed.

Twenty three episodes. Quite an achievement.

Clearly this is not a show I can watch in the presence of my young son so, while he was at school, I would carry my laptop around the house while doing chores, one episode playing after the next.

For some reason, watching people half my age ripped to within an inch of their lives, falling in and out of like/lust/love with each other every minute of the day helped with the housework somehow. I don’t think it will surprise you to know my husband is utterly horrified with my current choice of televisual entertainment.

Even the slightest hint of it appearing on screen while he is on the sofa is met by the loudest of groans.

He’ll even flounce out of the room just to make sure I know he doesn’t approve, so I usually cave in and switch over.

This brings me back to my original point about being tired.

Rather than deal with the melodrama of a sulky husband, I now stay up an extra hour to watch it on catch up when he goes to bed. That’s also a whole hour past my bedtime. I know, right? What a wife.

As for the programme itself, I can only put my obsession down to pure escapism.

Love Island couldn’t be more removed from my own life and I think that’s where the appeal is.

It is low-brow, silly fun for the most part, although I still haven’t fathomed why the girls need to wear high heels with their bikinis. Imagine turning up at the King Alfred with a pair of four inch stilettos on. I doubt you’d get very far.

For those who refuse to watch it, or pretend they don’t, Love Island is a bunch of young, beautiful women and a bunch of young, beautiful men having a blast in the sunshine.

I’ve often wondered if I would have signed up myself in my twenties and the answer is always the same.

Not on your nelly. I couldn’t think of anything worse, but watching the contestants getting their knickers in a twist about the most trivial of things does make for great entertainment for some reason.

Although the premise of the show, one would assume, is for the participants to find actual love, they mostly seem to just want to find each other’s tonsils.

It really isn’t wall to wall sex, some of them even have morals, but there is a fair amount of kissing.

For a germ-phobic person like me, all that swapping of saliva just wouldn’t do.

We should also talk about the huge issue of body image and how these perfectly toned, semi-naked humans could very well cause anxiety for those feeling inadequate about themselves.

I only hope parents of any teenagers watching the show are having the right conversations with their kids.

After all, perfectly toned bodies are actually very much in the minority in the real world.

Most of us like cake way too much.

Thankfully I am OK with my cakeloving self and have no desire to be as lithe as a dolphin. So, to that end, I am in it for the long haul.

For the rest of the summer I will be unashamedly absorbed by the comings and goings of Wes, Laura, Adam, Rosie et al. Let’s hope my marriage can survive it.