THOSE of a nervous disposition should look away now.

For I am about to reveal the secrets behind one of the cornerstones of a modern woman’s beauty regime: the spray tan.

A fortnight ago I was a spray tan virgin. Yes I’d used the odd tan towel here and there, and I was no stranger to Johnson’s Holiday Skin.

But I’d always considered a full-on spray tan just a bit too serious for my liking. A bit too Footballers’ Wives.

Plus I didn’t much like the idea of having that tell-tale faint whiff of biscuits about me.

But then along came a big night out which, for reasons out of my control, involved wearing a short skirt. I realised my lily-white legs just weren’t going to cut the mustard.

There was only one thing for it. Get sprayed. I felt a bit nervous as I turned up, as instructed, wearing loose-fitting old clothes.

I’d scrubbed my face of all make-up, scraped my hair back off my face and washed off my deodorant (forget this at your peril — your armpits will turn bright green).

The beauty therapist thrust what she called my “disposibles” into my hand and told me to put them on.

Once in the cubicle I discovered my “disposibles” consisted of a shower cap and a pair of paper knickers.

Now there are certain moments in your life when you think: “What on earth am I doing?” Standing naked apart from a mushroom-shaped paper cap and what can only be described as a man’s posing pouch made from the same material as a throw-away duster was one of those moments.

But this was no time for contemplation, the woman was in the room, and she was ready to get down to business.

I stood with my legs apart and arms away from my sides as she hosed me down.

Five minutes later and it was all over. I dried myself with the hairdryer and carefully put my old clothes back on.

I called in at the chippy on the way home (I’d been told strictly no washing-up, so what was I to do?) and the girl behind the counter looked so horrified at this orange-faced monstrosity standing in her shop that she got my order wrong.

I went to bed, sure it would look better in the morning, but woke up looking like I’d been tangoed.

My face was luminous orange, still wet and looked terrifying.

Still, it was better than the dog’s dinner I’d made of our white duvet cover, which now looked like it’d had a run-in with a rather vicious orange.

But you know what? After a shower, when Tizer-coloured water ran off me and swirled down the plughole, I emerged bronzed and shimmering.

For about four days I swanned around feeling cocky with my two-weeks-in-the-Caribbean tan.

And it turns out I even missed a trick — my friend tells me you can even get a six-pack or a cleavage shaded on!

But it’s not all good.

A fortnight later and my limbs look mottled and patchy.

My feet have unattractive bright orange tidemarks and my hands look like I’ve smoked 50 a day for 1,000 years.

A spray tan is not for the faint-hearted. But would I have one again? Like a shot.