I hate winter. Always have. I envy other creatures who get fat during autumn harvest, then sleep their way through the bleak months, emerging when the world comes right again.

I’ve tried to find an upside to this brutal season. Living in Queenstown for a couple of years, I had a crack at snow skiing as a diversion. I’d been relatively adept at the water version on summer rivers behind a boat so, in theory, there was a chance I would take to it. But, I never got over the clumsiness of the snow suit, the boots made my feet claustrophobic and the whole thing hurt my knees.

But, on a recent visit to the Queenstown Gardens, my husband – a Canadian with ice hockey in his DNA – slipped out onto an ice rink. Charmed initially just by the tiny white boots and shiny blades, I slipped out behind him.

And it has been a revelation, this dancing on the ice. Though 'dancing' may be too elaborate a description. What I can manage owes less to the ballroom than it does to the school hall – hesitant and stumbly round the legs, pained concentration on the face, like a 12-year-old counting out a waltz. But, there are fleeting moments of grace and joy, and a constant feeling of surprise.

I’ve been back several times, both there and to the outdoor rink they put down seasonally in Christchurch’s Hagley Park. You take off your coat and eventually discard your hat, and pretend inside your head that you are Torvill to an imaginary Dean. You aren’t, but you discover the less you worry and the more you pretend, the longer those moments of grace and joy last. Like life, really.

Also, it makes you warm. And there’s often a bar nearby with mulled wine. And my husband has promised me a winter lake holiday one day in Canada, so I need the practice.