Skating on thin ice in the UK

I like that headline. It makes this post sound interesting, like I'm going to blast a politician or public figure, or bemoan the economic gong show that's been in the media for months.

I'm not. I'm going to talk about ice skating!

Yes, London, the throbbing heart of ice skating worldwide. Sense sarcasm?

Type "ice skating London" into your favourite search engine and you may just be surprised. The English like their ice skating. They even have public rinks that are open year round (indoors, of course.)

When Brian suggested we go ice skating on a Sunday afternoon, I was all for it. Like many rural Canadians, I grew up skating on homemade rinks in the yard, or hanging out on weekends at the local outdoor rink. Remember standing around the converted oil barrel stove, throwing snowballs on it, steaming our mittens, eating greasy rink shack food? That's what skating brings to mind for me.

The British, however, like to do things their way. Ice surfaces are smaller, so they schedule hourly times in order to accommodate the crowds. You purchase your ticket online for a certain time, go and pick it up at the box office when you arrive. After waiting in an orderly queue, of course.

While waiting for your turn, you can watch others stumble precariously around and sip fancy Italian coffee, or the ever-present beer.

We chose the ice rink at the Natural History Museum for our Sunday icecapades. The international photography exhibit had opened, so we were going to make it a double header. The mild November weather was lovely, and the square in front of the museum was dotted with golden maples leaves.

So was the ice surface, incidentally. Luckily, the previous day's rain and mild temperatures had left several inches of water atop the ice so the leaves weren't quite embedded. Two of the skating wardens were darting around fishing shredded leaves from the sludge. If you've ever skated into a leaf, or gravel, or snow, you know how hazardous such things can be to a novice skater.

We sipped our fancy coffees and watched the masses circle in their rented blue plastic skates. I quickly realized Brian wasn't joking when he had said we would be the best skaters there. Woe to the beginner that day, because an unexpected tumble also meant a chilly bath.

The Zamboni driver attempted to clean the ice between groups, but only succeeded in creating a giant pile of leafy, icy slush. The wardens came out with scrapers, gave up, and switched to giant squeegees. Hilarious.

Brian, Kate, and I retrieved our rental skates (ugh, toe picks-where are my hockey skates? Apparently Somerset House has hockey skates at their rink.) and set out on the ice. We then started two new games. The first was dodging and weaving among the skaters without checking anyone. I made it through the entire hour without hip checking anyone, or even spraying water into the crowd with a sudden stop. I was sorely tempted, though. The second game was "spot the Canadians (or other people from countries with ice)."

What are the odds that, out of the dozens of ice rinks in the London area, with their hourly schedules, you would end up with several groups of Canadians in the same place at the same time? Quite good, actually.

The best thing about English ice skaters is that they aren't used to it. So you get lots of falls and near misses to entertain you, and they all tire quickly. After forty minutes I actually had room to take three full strides. I only took three because that was the length of the ice surface, basically. And, once I reached about 50% of my speed, the odds of being struck by a bobbly beginner increased significantly.

People would ooh and aah if you crossed over on the corners. They might just ask for an autograph if you do so while skating backwards.

If you're a Canadian abroad, I highly recommend an hour on English ice. Not only is it a little piece of home, it's a few minutes in an imaginary world where you can be better than everyone else.