The school playground would be full of them. Lined up, each tendered with love, and strict rules of admission if it wasn't of your own making. A 'slide' was nurtured, created after the first snow and on a frosty morning you'd be out with a bucket of water sluicing it down. And if conditions were just right, those being things of which we knew nothing about, then at first break, a new glossy top coat of ice and 20 minutes of amazing skids would await. Length was King. And therefore approach speed was crucial. As fast as you could go.
"Be careful, you may fall" no one ever said to us. And this, I think, is why without any thought whatsoever that this particular 50 year old finds himself at 6.30am this frosty morning, spotting a shiny icy patch on an old farm lane, starts positively sprinting toward it, jumps up in the air and then jabs his feet hard into the ground. There's only two possible outcomes. The most monumental arse-over-elbow you've ever seen, or a majestic, effortless glide...or so it feels...a top skid. Either way, it's giggles and smiles...like the child we arguably still are.
