Needless to say, I was anything but inconspicuous as I parked the rented Peugeot and squeezed into my almost retro-style ‘80s purple ski gear. Alongside the beauty queens elegantly strutting about, I felt like a giant Cadbury’s chocolate on skis. To top it all off, a pair of unforgiving boots saw me making my way towards the 8am ski school in a penguin-like manner which Charlie Chaplin would have been proud of.

Much to my surprise, my ski instructor was no hunk and wore a red suit that reminded me of Father Christmas. But, that image was soon wiped away. No “ho-ho-ho” here — he took on the persona of a headmaster, ordering me around by pointing his ski pole and telling me to do exercise five for the upteenth time.By the end of the week I had started to hate the word ‘encore’ and yet, again and again, I practised all my positions before taking to the ski runs and enjoying the beauty of the surrounding area.

Chamonix, hidden in the middle of huge glaciers and the ice-cold river Arne, is simply stunning. The highlight is, naturally, the presence of Mont Blanc — the toughest and highest slope in Europe. Dare-devils can, of course, try the unmarked and unpatrolled stretch of Vallee Blanche for some Bond-style action and, if that’s not enough, you can try hiking up the huge Mer de Glace glacier.

For me, fuelled by steaming cups of hot chocolate and courage-inspiring swigs of whisky, the beginners’ runs were more than enough.My daily morning lessons not only improved my skiing, but helped me discover muscles I did not know existed. Luckily, the rest of the group were no better than I, as they shared the humbling experience of numerous face-plants and embarrassing butt-bruising spills.

Despite his obvious disappointment at having to deal with beginners, our instructor was determined to enter us in the weekly race. The winner would score a week’s free skiing, a ski pass and a new, top-of-the-range outfit.

Drunk on misplaced ambition — not to mention the whisky — I was convinced I stood a chance. Sadly, I failed to consider that most of the entrants had been skiing almost as long as they had been walking.

The day of the race arrived and, as I joined my fellow competitors at the top of the slopes, I wondered at the wisdom of my decision. My instructor, however, wished me luck and cracked his first smile in eight days.

The whistle went and we were off. The actual race was a complete blur as I concentrated incredibly hard on the finish line. As I reached the end I heard my name being called out on the PA system and, for a fleeting moment, I thought I must have defied all the odds and won. The harsh reality, however, was that I had finished dead last — a position, I soon discovered, which carried the penalty of having to yodel for the other racers at the competition party that evening.

To make matters worse, I had to wear my purple, sweaty ski gear and goggles. The humiliation was compounded by my friends, Dan and Kelly, deciding to video it for prosperity.

“You might become famous one day and this will be the perfect retrospective,” Dan, the bloke formerly known as my friend, said. To this day, I have not been able to get my hands on the bloody tape.

I have been skiing heaps since. After all, there is nothing better than heading off in February for a bit of French cuisine and fresh alpine air. It’s the perfect way to spend Valentine’s Day — particularly if you are single — because there are always plenty of men around at the aprés-ski parties. Not to mention the lecherous ski instructors and sexy French waiters.

It’s also a lot cheaper than at Christmas and is a great excuse to escape the office paperwork left over from the festive season.

Not surprisingly, I have not entered any other competitions and my Cadbury’s chocolate ski-suit was donated to Oxfam a long time ago, replaced by a very sexy, figure-hugging black lycra number, which is tres chic , even I do say so myself.