When it's hot and humid, being pelted with water in a festival sounds like a good idea - till you're soaking and shivering on the street

IT should make perfect sense. You're on holiday, kitted out in island gear: skimpy tops, long shorts, slip slops, sunglasses, lashings of SPF 30 and (if you're a solar-phobe like me) an unattractive white floppy hat - worn over a baseball cap for maximum face protection.

You're also hot. It's a blistering 38°C with humidity rumoured to be 100%. So the prospect of being doused over and over again with water should sound like welcome relief - a bit of holiday fun that instantly cools you off and saves on the showering, right?

Well, not exactly. It is fun, at first. Then not so much.

It's delightful to see kids squirting their giant water guns at each other, squealing with delight.

It's less appealing when you see some aged foreign git treating what is essentially a sacred Thai holiday like a wet T-shirt competition. The oglers are bad enough, but those who try to cop a feel are pathetic.

This weird and wonderful festival of Songkran is how Thais usher in the New Year, a celebration and cleansing ritual that lasts for one to six (or more) days. I happened to be in Phuket for Songkran on April 13. I can't say I wasn't warned.

My friend Peter, who lives in Thailand, was specific: stay indoors if you don't want to get wet. And if you do venture out, make sure your wallet, camera, phone and all non-waterproof items are sealed in a plastic zip-lock bag.

Tuesday April 13 dawned. I skipped out of my hotel room, mock-croc handbag under my arm, Crocs on my feet for maximum comfort (I mean, if you're going to go with the floppy hat, you might as well forsake the kitten heels for Crocs. You've drawn the line in the fashion sand!)

The first man smiled before he threw a bowl of freezing water at me. It was shockingly cold and felt like a slap across the face. He was standing next to a 150-litre drum, filled with water and a giant block of ice. It didn't feel like a friendly gesture meant to mark the end of the dry season and the start of monsoon summer. It felt like an assault.

The children next to him let rip with their water guns. Within seconds, I was drenched - and shivering, despite the 38°C temperature. I dashed back to my air-conditioned room to change. Did you know wet Crocs slip on high-gloss tiles? Add twisted ankle to bad temper.

Peter decided we would partake in the festival from the dry safety of his 4x4 twin cab. The streets were packed with water throwers.

Everywhere stood giant drums, baths, and every receptacle imaginable filled with water and huge blocks of ice.

People turned hosepipes on passersby with no compunction. Dishes, mugs, buckets became weapons of mass saturation. White paste made with talcum power was rubbed on faces as a blessing.

A long procession of bakkies loaded with water tanks roved the packed streets, pelting pedestrians. Thousands of moped riders were caught in the stream, again and again, slipping and sliding across the streets of Patong with remarkable good humour, even as they came a cropper.

Local municipal water tankers travelled around, filling up receptacles as they were emptied.

Late that afternoon, Peter returned me - quite dry - to my hotel room, from which I ventured foolishly in search of dried strawberries, assuming that I would be safe inside the shopping centre.

When I saw the revellers had turned the open-aired centre deck into a wetland, I tried to retreat. A man, who by the pitch of his giggling seemed quite drunk, sensed my panic and squirted me with a rather harmless water pistol. As I breathed a sigh of relief, his friend dipped a motorbike helmet into an adjacent fountain and let rip.

Just the day before, I'd seen a young Korean mother let her small son wee in that fountain.