I went ice-skating (outdoor - novelty!) the other night with the girls from work. I can't believe it has been so long since I got a pair of skates on. I used to rollerblade quite regularly in Melbourne - who wouldn't, what with that long, gorgeous bike path snaking along St Kilda beach? - but have never been skating in London. This is partly because my new life here is lived 99.9% indoors, and partly because I have no one to go with.
So it was a pleasure to experience that lovely, effortless gliding motion once again, especially in the biting cold London night; especially in the shadow of the quite impressive Tower of London; and especially after crossing the tourist-tastic Tower Bridge on foot.
There were lots of kids having spectacular stacks (Australian for "crashes") in the middle of the rink, and after one particularly bad tumble, I skated past a little boy being led to the edge by his Dad. As I glided past, I overheard him saying quite hysterically to his Dad, "Am I dead or what?".
If I were his parent, I would have been tempted to answer, "Yes, Brandon/Callum/Maddox, and heaven is a giant ice-skating rink in the sky, where your boots never dig into your ankles, and you can skate in any direction you like, and the music that plays is less Generic R n' B and more Electric Boogaloo."