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Back in the day, the kids persuaded me to give the main ski run at New Zealand’s Coronet a burl. They’d decided my morning sliding down nursery slopes qualified me for, oh, I don’t know, the triple diamond black looming above us like the Eiger.

“Yes, you can do it. No, not scary. Yes, we’ve got you.”

You can take your bucket list, my days of skiing are over.

At the top, it was white, quiet, really high up. We had a little “see, this is not so bad” chat. Then the kids all skied off. “Go, Mum! See you at the bottom.” That last was a bit echoey and faint because whoever said it was by then about two kilometres away, on a vertical descent.

Well, this was a fun twist. I set off down the run. The goal was just to keep the brakes on as much as possible and make the bottom before the year was out. Gravity had other ideas. About 10 metres in, a slow half cartwheel. I lost my skis, which then slid away when I tried to snap them back on.

These monkeyshines went on until I activated Plan B. Skis under the arm, walk down. Even that was perilous and I owned myself again. Was having a little lie down in the snow to regroup when a shadow blocked out the sun.

A man, bearded, sun-kissed face. Backlit by the gorgeous light on top of the world, he looked like those depictions of hot groovy Jesus that had a moment in the 1970s when churches were built in new suburbs.

“Are you Jesus?” I asked.

He barked a short laugh. “No. But I am the head ski instructor. My day off.”

Fake Jesus/Ski Boss physically propped his body in front of mine so I couldn’t slide. Shoved my skis on, told me to follow his line. And got me down the mountain. For saving my life, I offered my feckless children, but he waved away that offer: “Just, tomorrow, take a lesson.”

I took days of them. Learnt how to ski incredibly slowly but with technical proficiency. Which is an achievement, but wasteful because I’ll never ski again ever.

Brooke Shields said last month that at 58 she’s in her “f— it era” and is giving up Botox and diets because she’ll never chase youth again. Then Linda Evangelista said she’ll never date again because she can’t bear to hear anyone’s breathing.

When comedian Griff Rhys Jones, 70, said this week that instead of a Bucket List he prefers a “F— It List” with experiences and events he’ll avoid forever – firework displays, climbing volcanoes and whale watching – it was light bulb territory.

Being honest about never wanting to do stuff again feels like such a good use of time. Here goes: doing yoga, pretending to like jazz, buying tickets to a musical (Hamilton was a bridge too far) and writing a gratitude journal. Going to Bali or a Boxing Day sale.

I’ll never again tell anyone there are so many torii gates at the Insta famous Fushimi Inari shrine in Kyoto because they’re sponsored by businesses as a corporate PR good luck exercise, not installed by spiritual monks. Too much like killing Bambi.

What I’ll never do even once: have a coffee, agree the second White Lotus was better than the first, read Eat, Pray, Love. Regrettably, duet with Jason Donovan on a cross-over album.

Friends responded fast to texts asking for their Never Will I Ever Again.

Wear a strapless bra. Wear heels unless being dropped at the door. Kayak. Take the kids to The Wiggles. Bungee jump. Go to a theatre restaurant. Wear stockings. Do a Tough Mudder.

My friend Sam: “Watch Love, Actually, drink Southern Comfort and ride in a Zorb ball.”

While skiing heads up my list – too much discomfort, those boots belong in Madame Tussaud’s torture section, for too little reward – I hope Ski Jesus doesn’t have his own list. One where he never again guides a lost sheep rookie towards salvation.

Kate Halfpenny is the founder of Bad Mother Media.

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