Don't get me wrong: I actually like skiing. Nevertheless, I have to admit that sport is not my strong point, be it the summer or the winter variety. When, as a child, I suddenly found myself unable to take part in gym class due to a bout of rheumatic fever that prevented me from doing anything more strenuous than reading, drawing, writing or listening to music, I thanked the Lord that I was no longer forced to do all those exercises twice a week, where my efforts involving apparatus like the pommel horse were beyond clumsy.

The disaster that was my first attempt at skiing was not, therefore, something to be admired. I was almost twenty, which while not too late to learn how to play Scrabble, complicates matters when it comes to skiing.

Since all my friends were going, I went too, in the belief that it couldn't be any harder than skipping. The results were disastrous: after three days of crying, whining, panic about getting on moving chairlifts and endless stumbling on and off skilifts, I managed to make my first fearful descent of a green run. Only, while everyone else went down in two minutes, I took nigh on forty. And it was only once I had made it to the bottom, overwhelmed by how cold my feet were, that I realised I had forgotten to fasten my boots. Quite an achievement, I'm sure you'll agree.

The moral of this sad story is that I quickly became a massive fan of... après-ski. Those big, comfy boots made me feel like Neil Armstrong taking his first pioneering steps on the surface of the moon. With them on my feet, I went for long strolls, always taking a paperback and a notebook to jot things down as I whiled away the hours drinking hot chocolate on the terrace. (...)

When I returned home, I publicly announced that never again would I be seen with skis on my feet. But as the years went by, the longing I felt for the mountains and the snow grew stronger and stronger and I ended up going back again, and again, until it became a regular event.

These days, I'm a terrible skier, but I do at least have fun. And after all, it's the real challenges we face that make life interesting.

Don’t get me wrong. I really do like to go skiing. But I have to admit I wasn’t born for sports, of either the summer or the winter variety. When I was a little girl, I suddenly found myself unable to do gymnastics thanks to a rheumatic fever that prevented any movement more abrupt than reading, drawing, writing and listening to music. I thanked God I didn’t have to do all those exercises twice a week, some with equipment like a vaulting horse, at which I was more than inadequate.

So it’s not surprising how catastrophic my first ski attempt was. I was almost twenty years old, which is not too late to learn to play Scrabble, but a bit problematic to start skiing.

And since all my friends were going, I went too, convinced that this would be as easy as jumping rope. The result was a disaster: after three days of tears, drama, panic over entering moving chairlifts, numerous falls upon entering and exiting gondolas, I managed in great terror to descend my first green slope. The only difference being, while everyone else did it in two minutes, it took me about forty. Only when I reached the bottom and noticed that my feet were cold did I discover I had forgotten to tighten my boots. Isn’t that unbelievable?

The moral of this sad story is that I quickly became a fan of . . . après ski. Those comfortable moon boots made me feel like Neil Armstrong stepping out, pilgrim-like, on the lunar surface. I did a lot of walking with them, always with a little book and a little notebook for scribbling, while I drank hot chocolate in the esplanade to kill time. (…)

When I returned home, I made it clear that never again would anyone see me with skis on my feet. But a few years later nostalgia for the mountain and the snow started to wear down my existence and I wound up returning again, and again, until I got used to it.

Today, I’m a lousy skier, but at least I have a good time. And besides, everything that’s really difficult adds zest to life.

Don't get me wrong. I do like skiing - I just have to admit I'm not a natural when it comes to sports. Of the summer or winter variety. When I was a child, and had to suddenly stop doing gym thanks to a bout of rheumatic fever which ruled out anything more vigorous than reading, drawing, writing and listening to music, I thanked God that I didn't have to all those exercises twice a week, some on pommel horses and other contraptions, which I was useless at to say the least.

So it's not really surprising that my first ski trip turned out to be a catastrophe. I was not yet twenty - a reasonable enough age to learn to play scrabble, but less so to take up skiing.

But all my friends were going, so off I went. How hard could it be? The result was disastrous. After three days of tears, drama and panic attacks about getting into those moving seats and countless falls getting on and off the button lifts, I managed with great trepidation to go down my first green run. Except that while everyone else did it in two minutes, it took me around forty. And it was only when I got to the bottom and wondered why my feet were so cold that I realised I'd forgotten to do up my boots. Great, huh?

The moral of this sad story is that I quickly became a great enthusiast of... aprés-ski. Those great big comfy boots made me feel like Neil Armstrong, taking the first pioneering steps on the moon. I'd wear them on long walks, constantly armed with a book and a pad to scribble in while sipping a hot chocolate in the café to kill time.(...)

When I got home, I publicly declared that I would never be seen wearing skis ever again. But as the years went by I began to feel a great yearning for the mountains and the snow, and I ended up going back time and again, until I finally got used to it.

Today, I'm a terrible skier, but at least I have fun. And like anything that's truly difficult, it does add a little spice to life.

Don’t get me wrong. I actually do like skiing. But I have to accept that I’m not a natural at any kind of sport, summer or winter. When I was little, and found myself unexpectedly forbidden to do P.E. because of an attack of rheumatic fever that stopped me doing anything more active than reading, drawing, writing or listening to music, I thanked God I didn’t have to do all those twice-weekly physical jerks that I was less than graceful at, and sometimes on equipment like the vaulting horse.

It’s no wonder, therefore, that my first outing on the ski slopes turned out to be such a disaster. I wasn’t yet twenty, which isn't late to learn Scrabble, but to start skiing? - well, it was already a bit of a problem.

As all my friends were going, I went too, convinced that it would be as easy as falling off a log. The result was disastrous. After three days of wailing, histrionics and panic when getting on the moving ski-lifts, and endless falls getting on and off the ski-tows, I finally managed, with great trepidation, to go down my first nursery slope. The only difference was that while everyone else got down in two minutes, it took me nearly forty. It was only when I got to the bottom and wondered why my feet were so cold, that I realised I had forgotten to fasten my boots. Would you believe it!

The moral of this sad story is that I quickly became an ardent fan of… après-ski. Those comfortable old boots made me feel like Neil Armstrong setting foot on the moon for the first time. I went for long walks in them, book and notepad in hand for scribbling notes, whilst quaffing a hot chocolate in the café to while away the time…

When I came home, I publicly declared that no-one would ever see me wearing skis again. However, as the years went by, I began to long for the mountain and the snow. This longing began to niggle away at me and I ended up going back again and again, until I got the hang of it.

Today, I’m a terrible skier, but at least I have fun. After all, anything that truly challenges you, lends spice to life.

Don’t get me wrong, I really like skiing. But I must admit that I have no knack for sports, not in the summertime or wintertime. When I was little and was suddenly excused from gym class, thanks to a bout of rheumatic fever which restricted any activities more strenuous than reading, drawing, writing or listening to music, I thanked God that I was dismissed from all those exercises twice a week, some with equipment like the vaulting horse, which I was particularly inept at.

And so, the inevitable catastrophe of my first attempt at skiing is no surprise. I hadn’t turned twenty yet, which to learn how to play Scrabble is not that old, but to start skiing, proved to be a challenge.

Since all my friends were going, I went along convinced that it would be as easy as skipping. In the end it was a fiasco: after three days of crying, faking, panic attacks getting on the moving chair lifts, falling repeatedly getting on and off the T-bar lifts, I was scared to death, but ready to go down my first green run. The only difference was that while everyone else went down the hill in two minutes, I took almost forty. And, when I arrived at the bottom and felt how cold my feet were, I realized that I had forgotten to do up my boots. Isn’t that amazing?

The moral of this sad story, is that I quickly became a huge fan of … après-ski. Those comfortable moon boots made me feel like Neil Armstrong walking on the moon. I took long walks in those boots, invariably with a book and notebook to jot things down, while I drank hot chocolate in the park to kill time. (…)

When I returned home, I publicly declared that no one would ever see a pair of skis on my feet again. But over the years, an ache for the enchantment of the mountain and snow began to swell within me and I ended up returning, again and again, until I got the hang of it.

Today, I am a terrible skier, but at least I have fun. And in the end, challenges are what add a little spice to your life.

Don’t get me wrong. I actually like to go skiing. But I have to admit that I was not born to play sports. Not summer sports or winter sports. When I was small and I found myself suddenly unable to do gymnastics thanks to a rheumatic fever that kept me from making any movements more strenuous than reading, drawing, writing, and listening to music, I thanked God I didn’t have to do all of those exercises twice a week, some of them on equipment like the vault, where I was less than clumsy.

Needless to say, there was nothing pretty in the way my first ski trip ended up a catastrophe. I wasn’t yet twenty years old, which is not too late to learn how to play Scrabble, but to learn to ski is clearly a problem.

And since all my friends were going, I went along, convinced that it should be as easy as jumping rope. The result was a disaster: at the end of three days of tears, tantrums, panic at getting on the chairlift, and endless wipe-outs getting on and off the Poma lift, I was finally able to make it, terrified, down my first green slope. The difference was, while everyone else made it down in two minutes, I took about forty. Only when I reached the bottom and noticed how cold my feet were did I realize I had forgotten to buckle my boots. Can you believe it?

The moral of this sad tale is that I quickly became a tremendous fan of après-ski. Those comfortable snow boots made me feel like Neil Armstrong stepping, as if on a pilgrimage, onto the surface of the moon. I took long strolls in them, always with a book in hand and a notepad to write in, while drinking a cup of hot chocolate on the deck to kill time.(...)

When I got home, I publicly announced that never again would anyone see me with skis on my feet. But as the years went by, a longing for the mountains and the snow began to weigh on my existence, and I ended up going back over and over until it became a regular habit.

Today, I am an awful skier, but at least I have fun. And in the end, everything that is truly difficult gives new spice to life.