It feels like the whole world is split into those that ski, and those that don’t.

Obviously this is a simplification – some people snowboard.

The whitewash of mountain-top photos began to appear on social media, and phones shoved in your face, in the run-up to Christmas.

Read more: Angela asks what you are giving up in January?

And then stay until they melt away with the last stubborn bits of compacted ice around April.

It’s amazing how one activity can seemingly be stretched to last six months.

So, do you ski? No. And I’m thinking of making a T-shirt stating my lack of snowy compliance to avoid being asked the same question. Repeatedly. For months.

Are you an Eddie The Legal Eagle flying down the slopes? A Bridget Fibber Jones who pretends they can when they can’t?

Or someone who thinks winter is something best avoided, preferably by taking refuge under a duvet? I am the latter.

I have nothing against those who enjoy descending hills at high speed. And I love the exuberant joy grown adults show for falling white flakes. How sweet.

I can see the advantages of unisex, bulge covering layers of warm, dry bright clothing – that’s basically walking around in a quilt. I approve.

But, though the mountains are stunning, exercise is good, fresh air even better and I like big pots of melting cheese and warmed alcohol, I just can’t quite bring myself to be a skier.

Because despite all the glorious aspects of skiing, there is something insufferably smug about those mountain snaps.

And I’d rather save my smug for a toes on a sunny beach photo. Far less risk of breaking anything, too.

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