'I do understand, however, that some people like skiing. Weirdos, if you ask me, but each to their own': A snob's guide to skiing

The trouble is, I first went skiing when I was 13, already too tall and round with puppy fat. After wobbling to the top of the nursery slope in Val D’Isere (is there a more hateful invention than the button lift?), I managed to get off, but immediately toppled sideways on my grandmother, flattening her on the snow. My grandmother was an immensely chic woman who’d lived in Paris for much of her life, and skied like an Olympian. But she damaged her hip in that fall and never skied again.

It was an inauspicious start, and I soon learned that I hated the activity. I hated ski school. I hated falling over, I hated the noise my skis made when they skittered over a patch of ice, I hated the churning of my stomach as the funicular climbed and the Frenchmen around me rushed towards the doors when they opened. I hated the three-year-olds who zipped past my legs, I hated the temperature, I hated taking half an hour to get undressed for a pee, and another half an hour to put all those layers back on again. I really, really hated anyone who suggested ‘One more run before lunch?’

I do understand, however, that some people like skiing. Weirdos, if you ask me, but each to their own. And it’s that time of year again. ‘We’re off to Courchevel for a week,’ says someone. ‘Oh lovely, we’re going to Klosters, this year.’ Real diehards may talk of going to Japan. ‘Incredible powder in Japan,’ a man once said to me at a drinks party, wildly misjudging his audience.

Or there’s America. Vail or Whistler, for instance. It’s just less convenient than nipping to Les Trois Vallées. And also, there remains a certain sort of English chap who refuses to wear a helmet while skiing, and he’d be safer off on the slopes of Europe. Less litigious.

These sorts, the sorts who are really good at skiing (show offs) probably started when they were small children. They were first taken aged three, put into ski school, and have now become adults who view a mogul field as ‘fun’. They like going off-piste. Their idea of a thrill is being dropped to a glacier from a helicopter. They can have a long lunch at La Fruitière and merrily manage a couple of runs afterwards.

Some will stay in hotels. L’Apogee in Courchevel if they’re really swanky. Or the W in Verbier if it’s a girl’s weekend. Others will have chalets. But be careful if a friend invites you to come and stay in their chalet. We’re not necessarily talking luxury, here. Not necessarily open fires and a hot tub on the balcony. It could be bunk beds, electric showers and a very slow bus to the slopes every morning, your nose pressed up against an Italian.

My parents made a terrible mistake, opting to go skiing for their honeymoon, but staying in a cheap and cheerful chalet with various other guests and a strict seating plan for breakfast and dinner. Well, it was the 1970s. On day two, Mum dislocated her knee and hobbled down to breakfast the following morning, only to see the more mature couple on their shared table share knowing looks. ‘Typical honeymooning couple, at it all night!’ Fred and Edna must have muttered to one another afterwards.

Because of course that’s the other thing about skiing. It’s terrifically dangerous. So you'll not only exclaim at the cost every time you buy a hot chocolate, and come back both bankrupt and a stone heavier because even though you tottered down a few slopes you are — after a week away — 90% cheese fondue, but you'll also risk death or very serious injury each morning you set off.

Still, it’s lovely, a week’s skiing, isn’t it?