The risk of amputation is part of the fun of ice-skating, surely?
I relish the possibility of amputation. It makes me feel I'm living on a knife-edge – or rather, a skate edge. One of the great things about this time of year is the temporary skating rinks. Pristine at morn, covered in a light dusting of litter by noon, colonised by sideways-braking yobs in the afternoon and pastel pink with thin slashes of blood by dusk. It's just like Doctor Zhivago. Last year's rink at Somerset House in London was sponsored by Tiffany, and had its own trinket shop fashioned like an enormous white-ribboned Tiffany box.
I began ice skating at Ally Pally when I was 13. There, I was unquestioningly sold pints of cider at the bar and mingled with girls from many diverse backgrounds. Yes, they weren't just from Haberdashers', where I went to school. They were also from North London Collegiate, Camden Girls, Latymer and King Alfred's in Hampstead.
Now a group called the Royal Society for the Prevention of Accidents has issued a warning about ice skating. I know they sound like a fictional creation from a Mr Men story, but they're real, and they're cautious. Hark – is that the joyful clarion of the new year I hear, or the dribble of cold water being poured on strangers' enthusiasm? Part of the fun is the risk: downing a beaker of mulled wine, renting some ill-fitting boots with blades attached to the soles and sliding on a thin layer of slimy ice, emerging breathless but hopefully not fingerless.
Speaking of faintly unattractive societies, the weirdest I encountered was during a marathon. Running in front of me were activists raising awareness about Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Their motto? "Just Because We Look Fine From The Outside, Doesn't Mean There's Nothing Wrong." Chippy!
