Watching Olympic snowboarders hurl themselves off huge snowy peaks, somersaulting through the air like dolphins leaping from the sea, I caught my reflection in the TV screen and my jaw had actually dropped.

I was left with that same feeling I get whenever Dynamo is on TV. The strength, skill, grace, technique and bravery of these people is so jaw-droppingly awesome that there is only one explanation – they must be supernatural, other-worldy beings.

The Sochi Olympics opened beneath circling clouds of gay rights protests and terrorism threats. Without the jingoistic hysteria of the 2012 London Olympics, there’s been a niggling sense that we’re not particularly bothered about the Winter Games. And wincing at the likes of Sinitta and someone from TOWIE trying to stand up on a pair of skis on Channel 4’s appalling pre-Games show The Jump did nothing to whet our appetities.

But for me, there’s something mesmerising about the Winter Olympics. It all looks so beautiful – a crisp winter wonderland we can only dream of in rain-soaked Britain, and the daredevil events are endearingly eccentric.

I know it’s generally rich kids who become ski or bobsleigh champions because, let’s face it, they’re the ones whose families can afford winter sports trips and tuition, but I still love to watch them hurtling down mountains and ice tracks. Crazy sports like ski cross, snowboarding, speed skating, bobsled, luge and skeleton offer a compelling blend of slapstick, speed and danger – it’s like watching Buster Keaton getting into alpine scrapes in a silent movie.

Whenever I watch skiers effortlessly navigate their way down a sky-high course or skaters glide like swans across the ice, part of me wants to be them.

It stems from becoming a bit obsessed with Torvill and Dean’s Olympic gold-winning Bolero at the 1984 Sarajevo Olympics, when I used to go through the entire routine in my head and imagine I was twirling around a rink in that floaty purple dress.

Sadly, I have no chance of becoming a Winter Olympian. I once took a group of children ice-skating and started leading them the wrong way around the rink – I did wonder why people were skidding towards us looking annoyed.

And the one skiing holiday I went on cost a small fortune and left me with a gigantic purple bruise covering my thigh. I learned the basics, but fell over a lot, and I can still hear my French ski instructor barking “Poot your weyt on ze downheel skee, Emma!” as he leaned on his poles chain-smoking, waiting for me to get back on two feet.

Think I’ll stick to watching it on the telly.