As a 'coastie', being from an Australian town with a yearly average temperature of just over 25 degrees celcius, it shouldn't come as a surprise that I'm not terribly experienced at winter sports. While lugging skis up a hill or falling on my arse off a snowboard do not interest me whatsoever, ice-skating has always held a certain romance for me. I always fancied it might be my hidden talent and that as soon as I stepped on the ice I would realise my previously unknown potential and go on to Olympic glory. Or something like that. I hope I am not the only person who has these kind of fantasies?
So, my third London winter in, I finally got up the courage to head along to Somerset House and have a go. As luck would have it, I have been twice in the past couple of weeks with different groups of friends. I am not brilliant. But it is so much fun! Here's hoping that somebody remembers to buy me a course of Skate School next year.
This post must, however, be underpinned by a tinge of guilt and a dose of sympathy as Wes did not have quite as good a time and broke his watch as well as possibly some other bits in a nasty fall. He is still a bit swollen and bruised, and I am still catching up on all the sleep I lost playing nurse.
Plus, I got my first ever gift from Tiffany&Co! A cupcake, and it was free! (And had way too much icing, I couldn't even finish it, and I am the icing queen).
