38. Running On Ice

21st January 2014, Canary Wharf Ice Rink, Canary Wharf, London

I have not been on a pair of ice skates for 20 years. Not exaggerating. The reason for this is my baby brother who looked all sweet and innocent but I swear was pure evil as a child (it's alright, he's been exorcised now).
As soon as our parents' had their back turned, he would effectively try to kill me; There was the throwing a plastic chair on my head causing a blood bath. There was also the pushing me out of a bunk bed head first - there's a month worth of photos of me aged 5 with a black eye every colour of the rainbow. And then there was the ice skating incident... Without going into to much details on the trauma that was to follow - I got off the ice and have refused to get back on there ever since.

I had now decided it was time to deal with my demons.

As stomping around like Bambi in the midst of the Canary Wharf bankers on my own was not something I was all that keen on, I brought one of my trusted girls from the office with me for a lunch skating session. I think she regretted agreeing to that the minute I got my ice skates on.

That sort of flick-ey, swooshing movement you need to make to move forward... I do not have it. I instead try to run on the ice. Which generally results in falling on ones' ass. A lot. We lost count at five.

After contemplating getting me a polar bear training gadget to hold on to, my ice skating buddy instead took it on herself to teach me. After 10 minutes about me stomping about the ice, the calm,clear and collected instructions are swapped for 'NO! NO, THAT'S NOT HOW YOU DO IT! IT'S NOT WHAT I TOLD YOU!'. You haven't been yelled at until you've been yelled at in Irish.

About 30 minutes in, all spent in the kiddie corner - I actually started to get the hang of it.

And stubborn as I am, I have every intention of learning now, so I will be back to fall on my ass until I am a master skater.