Battered Skates

Crooning on my STEREO: 4 In The Morning by GWEN STEFANI

Figure skating is a bloody good sport; it tones your butt, it doesn't make you sweat like a pig and it puts your friends in awe of you. It is hardly dangerous (except when you FALL and another skater happens to skid through your fingers), it is socially condusive (chances is that you wont meet pervs within the ice area) and it trains you to be empathetic. (ie, feel sorry for the poor souls who stumble around you.)

I was once a figure skater during medieval times. Before you choke on your coffee, I am reminiscing approximately 7 years ago when I used to camp around different ice rinks and lugged my 5kg ice skates to various countries abroad. To prove it:- here's a stale photo I took on the frozen lake in front of Hampton Palace.

My supremity on the ice meant that I ended up giving free twirling lessons to fellow stumbling skaters. The kids worshipped me and the chavs fancied me. Glory.

I admit, if I had lived in the United States and began ice training when I was three, I would've made it to Salt Lake by last year. I would have participated in the Winter Olympics. I would have a hotter bod.

But of course, my existence was destined for another mundane purpose. Oh well...

I was at a competitve stage before I retired from this sport. 7 years ago, I was training religiously at the Nottingham Ice Arena. I was preparing for an exam where I have to compete against 12 year old pre-teen rival. (yes, I know: skaters are getting younger.) I had come to a level where I could jump effortlessly and spin without throwing up gas.

One fine day, I discovered binge drinking. I discovered clubbing. I found greater solace in getting myself highly intoxicated at parties than locking myself up in a refrigerator. Thats when I stopped turning up at ice trainings. And I did not renew my lessons. And I got fat, which obviously had its lasting impression on me.

My ice skates lay battered til today. I had ferried them from London, Spain and now, back home. And I hadn't put them on since Nottingham. If I were to stick my feet back in, I wouldn't remember the professional basics of lacing them up properly.


I used to think that my ice skates were so pretty. I even had my name engraved on them, and I even personalised my ice shields with different colours.

But why had I abandoned them so suddenly? Why can't the same kind of love be rekindled after its loss? I don't know if I will bring them with me when I move abroad next year.

My life is a slippery skating vacation; I have been so lucky not to have my fingers sliced up by the oncoming skaters.