I’M A bit of a swot. I love book learning like a plastic surgeon loves the insecure rich. It’s a passion that even a five-year stint of bullying by the cool kids couldn’t dampen – although the sour milk down my shirt every Tuesday was a reasonable attempt.

It’s all in the theory for this girl though; ask me to change a light bulb and I’ll tell you about the three methods of heat transfer, but you’ll be no closer to illuminating the situation. And this week, life shone a light on my practical shortcomings once again, as I headed for the hills – of Renfrew.

Snow Factor, housed within the Soar facility at Intu Braehead, is a 364-day-a-year winter resort, for when Scotland’s weather just isn’t playing the game. Forget the autumn drizzle or the spring drizzle, zip up your couture shell suit, and make your way to the country’s only indoor slopes with real snow to ball. For the other day a year, you can just, you know, open presents or whatever.

With a 180-metre main slope, the angle of which would give Pythagoras pause, and a training slope, which you can call the ‘kindergarten slope’ if you’re cosmopolitan like that, Snow Factor caters for all levels of proficiency – and none, since you don’t need to don skis to enjoy the restaurant’s delicacies. Whether you’re a beginner looking for a snowboarding lesson or an expert ready to scramble up the 12-metre ice climbing wall, for an active family day out you would struggle to find somewhere more equipped; except Jurassic Park, because that place has raptors.

As someone for whom snow provides only chilblains and the opportunity to complain about them, I turned up at the expansive clothing hire desk in a bardot top and A-line, with little more than no idea what I was there to retrieve. Ski jacket, gloves, and something called salopettes, which sound more like designer dogs than the sturdy trousers they appear to be, and it was time to be measured up for the hardwear. By the time I’d sat down at the meeting point, I was laden with some serious boots, a set of skis matched to my diminutive stature, and a Goldilocks helmet that I was advised by the on-hand staff must be not too big, not too small. Feeling a little over-dressed and a lot under-prepared, I joined fellow beginner, Marc, on the benches to start our first Fast Track lesson in skiing.

The Fast Track programme is, just as it sounds, a quick way to bump your skiing skills from pitiful to plentiful in just two four-hour sessions. Starting on the training slope with the very basics, learners progress through the main five ski levels, and graduate to the big boy slope with the honour of being officially ski resort ready. And, I imagine, a bit knackered. Skiing isn’t just all about the downhill, you know.

The first thing I noticed though, with great relief, was the comforting sight of the ski lifts, since clambering back uphill on what amounted to Subbuteo footwear seemed like a shuffle too far for this learner. Like Jason Bourne counting exits without a head turn, I had clocked the multiple rope and pulley devices by the time my first size four had left a footprint. I hadn’t, of course, at that time been made aware of the three things that all good skiers need: agility, balance, and a teacher who recognises that making you walk back up the slope every time will very quickly take care of the first two.

Marcus Stone, one of Snow Factor’s skilled instructors, is less igneous than his name might suggest, but isn’t about to give up blood easily. With decades of experience of dodging between those strange self-righting poles, Marcus now passes on his knowledge to those of us for whom a day on the piste is a slightly less sobering endeavour. And, for him, that all starts with learning to feel comfortable with planks of neon stuck to our leg-ends, which meant, for us, lifts were out of bounds until rightfully earned. I’ll tell you how that goes once I’ve rightfully earned it.

The first lesson of the evening began with some unilateral movement – basically, it was all about the one ski shuffle. Sliding ourselves along the base of the slope, using the single ski like an incredibly clingy skateboard, as we pushed off with our free foot. The movement was awkward and felt vaguely ridiculous but, by the return leg, there was a definite improvement, even if it was so slight its ribs were showing. Switching to the other side proved difficult, since separating ski from boot required the poise and flexibility of a yoga master. Then, of course, came more clumsy shambling, until I was deemed ready to add some incline into my game.

By this point, Marc was already setting himself apart as the star pupil. Granted this is never a difficult crown to keep when I’m the only heir, but his natural talent for the activity was undeniable. Marcus demonstrated how to side-step our way up the slope a short distance, digging the edge of the ski into the snow to maintain our position as we crept ever upwards. Truthfully, even the first ascent, when my muscles were still in a fairly fresh state, was exhausting. I really don’t know how crabs do it.

Taking it in turns, to give the other time to scale our Everest and, in my case, pick myself back off the snow first, we skated on one ski again, only this time it was all downhill. Leaning forwards, arms stretched in front with hands clasped, all I had to do was keep looking up, hold my weight over the ski and make my way gently to the bottom, where a reassuring net awaited my arrival. What I actually did was lose my posture, lean backwards, flap my arms and bobble down the slope on my backside. Marcus was there to help me up and, like a hunter stalking deer, point out precisely where I’d gone wrong using my tracks in the snow. I knew, of course, that I only had to take his advice and I’d be golden, but there was my impractical brain again, unable to convert the information, and it took many more attempts before I could stay the course upright.

Finally, the time came to double up the trouble and add a second ski into the mix. Marc, by then, was flying, and I was, well, I was doing my own thing. Following Marcus’s lead, we fashioned our skis into the shape of a pizza slice, tilted down towards that beckoning net and, yes, for the most part, we skied. For my part, it wasn’t perfect, and neither was it pretty, but by the night’s end I was happy to call myself a skier, even if no-one else would.

It was hard to believe that barely days later, the facility in which I was making such a mockery of the sport would host the elite, as the ski and snowboard cross trials for the Winter Olympics came to Snow Factor. I’m not sure I’ll be ready for the competition there on July 10 but there’s no harm in trying – in theory anyway.