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And so I think back to York, my home town, and how I used to lean on the edge of the barrier at the ice rink and watch the couples, the families and the friends swing round and round in such a confusing but joyful chaos.

I, being me, begin to categorise the people. Begin to see the pattern of skill and lifestyle out there on the rink. First there are the children, and those that act like children. They cling to the edge of the maelstrom and slip and skid on the ice, but they are safe, they struggle to understand but they are happy to try and fail with no risk. Then there are those that hold their hand tempting them out into the dangerous open spaces where the far more confident couples, they are always couples, glide past so carefree and proud.

Eventually they catch on and slowly but steadily they are released form their guiding hand, they slip and flail a little until someone puts them on their feet. It hurt.

Others do the same; they slip and look around bewildered as their partner slides off with another. They get up and soldier on. It hurt but they keep going for the joy of it, for the rush and the inward glow they feel when they skate together. But it still hurts and people have been crippled on ice rinks.

The experienced skaters move far more smoothly and gracefully than the others, they have fallen so many times before and they bide their time before they meet another. It is not like they have any problems doing so.

And there are those couples that totter along so slowly but so happily that people would see them as far wiser and experienced for being careful if it were not for the daredevils flying backwards on one foot to impress the crowd. They look on in awe. I look on with angry green snakes in my gut.

I cannot skate. I’m not even on the ice.

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