The month of May has a distinctive smell to it. Not the scent of flowers, or the explosion of new summer fragrances, or the lazy odour of suntan lotion; but the unmistakable, overpowering, cloying whiff of self-tan.

I have always been rather stubborn about self-tanners. I once had a humiliating experience in a tanning booth, and ever since then I have avoided them like the plague. Even last year, when Johnson’s Holiday Skin topped all the sales charts, I was too chicken to try it on myself, just in case I ended up stinky and streaky.

This year, however, assailed by early sunshine and buoyed by the fact that for the first time in years I am, if not exactly slim, then not covered in a thick layer of blubber, I decided to give it a go. I opted for St Tropez Everyday (£12.95, 0115-983 6363), purely on the basis that seasoned self-tanning friends all recommended it: not too strong, not too smelly and with slow, manageable results.

I began by exfoliating, at length, twice. This may seem paranoid, and indeed I was. If there is one thing self-tanner is fatally attracted to, it’s rough skin. So I scrubbed and scrubbed, paying particular attention to elbows, knees and ankles. I then applied the thick, white St Tropez lotion from my feet up, working in sweeping, circular movements. Since there is rather a lot of me, this took some time – but was easier than I had anticipated thanks to the texture of the cream, which is rich and very spreadable.

It absorbed surprisingly fast, so I was able to get dressed after just a few minutes. Before, though, I grabbed a packet of baby wipes and went around the front of the ankles, my toes, knees, elbows, underarms and wrists. Then I got dressed as normal.

To begin with, I noticed nothing. Around 4pm, a very faint whiff of self-tan began to emerge – but it was easily contained with a quick spritz of cologne. That night, however, I realised my schoolgirl error: the cream had accumulated around the inside of my shoes, leaving me with a unpleasant orangey rim on lily white feet: more vigorous exfoliation.

The next day I repeated the process, this time wearing my old Birkenstocks. At school, one of the mums commented on how well I looked. By day three I was starting to feel – and look – distinctly St Tropez. I even dug out an ancient pair of gold sandals and wore them, rather racily and inappropriately, to work. I had forgotten what a tan could do to the old confidence.

I have now settled into a pattern of using it three times a week in place of my normal body cream, which seems to give the perfect subtle glow. The smell is still a problem, but faint enough to mask with perfume or scented moisturiser. Otherwise, I’d say I was a complete convert.

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