Winter Wonderland

Would you be jealous if I told you that I went to Winter Wonderland on Saturday? Well, you might not be if I told you that they make you queue. One might think that pre-booked tickets and pre-arranged timeslots would negate the need for a lengthy waiting process and that magical places are designed to keep you enthralled all day. But if you have ever been to an amusement park, then I am sure that you have served your time in pleasure queuing and experienced the annoyance that it brings. Bah humbug, says I.

My dad always told me, in heady days gone by, when the Norfolk Broads froze over and the planet wasn’t well and truly fucked, that ankle support is the most important part of an ice skating boot. I may have borrowed skates from feet far more imposing than my own, but as soon as multiple layers of socks had given my ankle that ‘held in place feeling’, I knew that I was ready to take a fall. I may have nearly broken my back by landing heavily on my ‘not-quite-springy enough’ behind, which has gained more useful padding with time, but my ankles always came away unscathed.

Queuing for a pair of boots is fair enough; don’t get me wrong, I don’t expect miracles. People need skates and skates need people. It’s when the strap of your right boot pops open, every time that you move your foot, that you start to feel that all is not well in wonderland. Your dad’s words echo around your head, ‘Great Harm Come If Ankle Find Freedom’. The version of ‘dad’ that’s seated itself inside your troubled mind only adds to the anguish. Wasn’t this the man that regularly criticised your lazy grammar and your rebelliously slothful drawl?

The second pair of boots generate further delight. The left boot has a broken buckle, and the right boot still pops open. You want to skate and time is of the essence. ‘Fuck a duck, is this really happening?’ your own internal voice says; willing on the escalation of any disproportionate thoughts of unjust worlds and unnecessary distress, rather than soothing your inappropriately agitated condition.

Changing skates in Wonderland is slow process. When you need to change a singular skate you have to change both. The boot exchange centre is staffed by a team of resentful teenagers, for whom language is a mystery and time is an abstract. By the time that you are wearing the fourth pair of boots and there is twenty minutes left of your allocated hour, you don’t care anymore. The fourth right boot pops open, but less violently than its predecessors. No, it’s not offering the support that your imaginary Chinese Imposter Dad has diligently campaigned for, but it will encourage you not to fall. Girl With Ankle Freedom No Fall.

Twenty minutes later the ‘you that is really I’, had adjusted to the ice, and the substandard boots, and was gaining confidence. I’d adopted the position of a speed skater and glided swiftly around the rink. I’d played mock ice hockey with my patient companion, scored numerous mock goals, and then, at her bidding, risen to the challenge of holding one foot aloft whilst remaining upright. ‘Girl With Ankle Freedom No Fall’ indeed. Girl With Ankle Freedom Get Good. Girl With Ankle Freedom Want More. Girl With Ankle Freedom No Get More. With the complex feelings of somebody who has had a lovely time, but has been robbed of their full entitlement, the ‘you that is I’ and my companions left the rink when our allocated time ended. The resentful teenagers at the footwear exchange booth had changed their speed from slow to retardation. Thirty five minutes later, I retrieved the shoes that I had abandoned eons ago and placed my now soggy feet within.

It cost £12.50 for just twenty minutes on the ice, and the time spent queuing was well over an hour. Bah humbug, indeed.

In the darkness, we sat in the Winter Wonderland observation wheel, looking at nothing but the night, and pondered over the fact that we’d have no time to look at the other attractions and stalls. We had an engagement at the IMAX in just over an hour. As the capsule gently rocked and moved effortlessly from its upward rotation to a downward turn, the view abandoned the dark north and gave us south. To the right of us, the London Eye stood in majestic rebellion, with a bright ring of blue neon bulbs glowing in stark contrast to the heavy night sky. Just below us, lay the surreal image of an oversized plastic reindeer erratically bouncing small bemused children over the bare tarmac ground. There glistening beyond, lay the softly lit arena of the open-air ice rink. Brightly coloured people, in miniature form, glided in unity; some alone, some together and some hand in hand. It looked truly magical.

You might be jealous if I told you that I went to Winter Wonderland on Saturday.