The family

After 1814, when the last frost fair was held on the Thames, there followed almost two centuries during which not being able to skate passed for a relatively minor affliction. Once you had weathered Noel Streatfeild's White Boots, and the, to my mind, more stimulating scenes in Hans Brinker, the spectacle of professional ice-dancing merely added, each Olympics, to the conviction that, of life's missed sporting opportunities, not learning to skate was only marginally more to be regretted than not learning to unicycle, or never having played a chukka.

Then, in winter 2000, the opening of the Somerset House outdoor rink returned skating to the Thames, or at least, very near it, along with flaming torches, hot mulled wine, and a giant Christmas tree. It was painful, if you went along to admire the enchanting wintriness, to be confronted by a pink-cheeked throng of inexplicably competent skaters and, in particular, by all the hearty, skating parents, clearly far superior to oneself, busy clipping tiny skates on their toddlers. If they are not actually professionals by now, these fortunate children are, at least, able to enjoy the 10 or so outdoor rinks that have become regular fixtures in (and this makes our incompetence particularly hard to bear ) some of the most beautiful places in London.

The sense of exclusion has been all the keener since we did, a few years ago, actually attempt to catch up with the toddlers, with an outdoor lesson in the city. It ended, abruptly, after the teacher demonstrated a technique that involves spinning the pupil like a top. I cannot have been the first such victim to fly through the air backwards, landing on the back of my skull with a reduced vocabulary and an ice-whacking crunch that seemed likely, at the time, to be the last sound I ever heard.

The training

But here we are, with the skating near-death experience just a faint, though still nausea-inducing memory, at the Sobell Centre in London, a very indoorsy institution where Karen Coombes runs group lessons for novices of all ages. A smallish rink is made even smaller by the line of runny melt down one side, where something or other isn't working. Our terror, each time we attempt to avoid, or ford this rivulet, is compounded by borrowed skates which, as well as being uncomfortable, with damp, fraying laces, are probably the most challenging things we have ever put on our feet. I cannot stop thinking of Little Keith, in Martin Amis's Dead Babies, forcing his shin stumps into a pair of reeking old platforms which have, as Amis puts it, "gone critical": "emptying lecture halls, toppling freshmen, razing flower-boxes and asphyxiating char-ladies".

Our skates, if not yet critical, are possibly less fit for purpose. At least, you gather, Keith's shoes could be walked in. As the weeks go by, it becomes evident that a curious variation in our skating skills, from lesson to lesson, is probably unrelated to the state of one's legs and confidence on the day, but depends entirely upon which pair of deformed, blunted or otherwise doomed skates has emerged from the shadowy cubbyholes behind the counter.

Each lesson begins with a blast of musical medley whose beat drives a semi-aerobic ice workout, in which reassuringly hopeless pupils of all ages stomp, twist, and do little, confidence-building jumps. Once we're sorted into three largish classes (with children in their own group), Karen and two assistants briskly introduce the series of basic moves that will set us on the long road to figure-skating proficiency, from falling and stopping, to turning, jumping, crouching, lifting up one leg and, yet more farcically, striking artistic poses while moving across the ice.

The formidable Karen, teaching the Skate UK programme, requires only one session to take around 30 beginners from neurotic attachment to the side-rail, to a wary circling of the Sobell's scarred-looking ice (up to the slushy bit). And we can no sooner move forwards, then we have to start going backwards. Why? As well as asking for trouble, I point out to Karen, it's unnatural. No more so, she swiftly points out, than strapping metal blades to your feet, and getting on the ice. And when you look at the Sobell blades, she does have a point.

In Frances's younger, bouncier class the pupils seem much keener to learn to reverse, crouch, and jump, sink to their knees going "ta-da!", and various other fancy ice-skills from the world of the flesh-coloured tight. Then again, they have no fear of the hip replacement. My own ambition is modest: to skate forward, in circles of varying sizes. Possibly with enough velocity to lift a scarf. (Secretly, I have it in mind to emulate the style of Reverend Robert Walker in the well-loved painting by Sir Henry Raeburn, minus, naturally, his insufferable smugness).

Going solo

After six short lessons, we are tested. Something must have come of all the aerobics, for both Frances and I receive a "skills accomplishment chart", with ticks up to level two - even including "moving backward", and "two-foot glide on a curve". This miraculous achievement on Karen's part presents us with a fresh challenge. Should we go for level three (and "forward and backward sculling")? No, actually, not in those boots. On the other hand, we are now ready to try Somerset House.

We go. We leave the rail. For the first time, on an outdoor rink, I find I can circle, instead of cower. More importantly, I have just enough agility to dodge the clutching hands of giant, windmilling drunks. I may not be as good as the Reverend Robert Walker, but I'm afraid, after a whole session in which I do not fall over or die, I am probably just as smug. Your turn

· We went to the Sobell Leisure Centre, Hornsey Road, London, N7 7NY, 020-7609 2166. For other rinks, contact the National Ice Skating Association (NISA), at National Ice Centre, Lower Parliament Street, Nottingham, NG1 1LA, 0115-988 8060, www.iceskating.org.uk