And so the sun goes down on my villa by the Mediterranean Slam! That's the sound of doors banging shut on my fantasies. I'd long dreamt of spending what I refer to euphemistically as "the next phase of my life" in a sun-splashed Mediterranean villa, feasting on a diet of olive oil, pasta and Campari, sending postcards to envious oldies stuck here. In this Somerset-Maugham-meets-The-Best-Exotic-Marigold-Hotel scenario, I would be tanned and lithe from swimming and tennis; and blissfully laid-back, my only concern the Vespas roaring beneath my balcony. I nursed this dream so lovingly that the only question in my mind was whether I would plump for the Costa or Cortona. No more. First Spain, now Cyprus, have sunk into desperate straits; Italy looks as if it could go the way of its neighbours. The derailing of the southern economies has cheated tens of thousands of Britons of their investments, and millions of our dreams. Britain has the largest number of expats in Europe. A look out of the window tells me why: as snow covers Britain and the cold bites, the prospect of spending Easter layering on the factor 20 rather than the thermals is irresistible. My GP found I had a Vitamin D deficiency; it's an increasingly common problem among his sun-starved patients. They are keeping a huge industry in business: sun lamps, sun beds, not to mention sun cruises, all cater for those who fear the blues and rickets... or just long to sleep without an electric blanket in March. No wonder 5.5 million Britons move abroad permanently - mainly to the Med. It helped that living the dream was feasible even for those of modest means. When a town house in the south of Spain cost a fraction of a bedsit in Slough, relocation, relocation, relocation became a common aspiration rather than the preserve of the elite. Property prices were one thing; expats also knew they could live, if not like kings, a lot better than they could hope to here. Good food, wine and care were a lot cheaper in southern countries. So were leather handbags, both counterfeit and the real thing, which can be a deal-clincher for some women. For those fond of irony, this state of affairs provided an amusing twist in the geopolitical tale: northerners from Oslo to Oxford could boast a better work ethic, more transparent government, more streamlined bureaucracies and generally superior economic indicators. But guess where everyone wanted to retire? Not on the banks of a Norwegian fjord or in a valley in Herefordshire. When my father decided he might return to his native Italy in his dotage, he was taken aback by the property agents he was dealing with: not only could they speak English, they were English. Evangelists spreading a gospel of long siestas and cheap Chianti, the middle-aged men and women drove from derelict farmhouse ("A jewel, once you do it up") to crumbling mill ("The view alone is worth a million euros!"), enthusing as only converts will about their adopted land. Look at me, they seemed to say, I've cracked the ageing thing. Amen, my father thought, and moved. He's still happy with his decision, but cautionary tales are reaching us from the south: retirees who invested their life savings in their dream home face bankruptcy with the collapse of the Spanish housing market. In Cyprus, British OAPs who thought they'd found a low-tax haven are seeing their bank account pillaged. The Med dream has turned into a nightmare. Visiting an older relative recently, I noticed the prospectus for a new retirement home in Oxfordshire. Only a year ago, I wouldn't have picked it up: my plans lay elsewhere. Last week, instead, I skimmed the glossy pages with their photos of the communal swimming pool and their schedule of theatre outings and bridge evenings. Not a Campari or Vespa in sight. But it may have to do.