By Fiona Tabastot
I had an interesting Christmas holiday.
I read books I would have never read, watch movies I would have never watched.
I did some some paintings, went to some exhibitions…
I called some old friends.
I told them to come for new years eve, argue with them, forgot why we were friends, remembered why and loved them even more than before.
Nothing so extraordinary and unusual.
But there was this thing I really meant to do but never had the courage to. Ice skating.
Nothing so extraordinary. Except that it scares me to death.
Few years ago I went skiing in the Alps with my ex-boyfriend and finished the romantic trip earlier than expected in an hospital.
2 torn ligaments -1 piece of menuscus -1 boyfriend. Too bad.
As a consolation, I got operated on by the sexiest doctor I could dream of and a splint for 8 months to remember him.
So for few years I have been really careful not to fall.
But can I spend my life being so careful?
So I decided to start 2015 on my bum and booked a ticket for the ice rink in South Kensington.
My first round was lamentable.
Not releasing the hand rail for a seconde.
The second was still terrible.
Grabbing my friend’s hand as if my life depended on it.
I remembered the day just before my bungee jump. I was a really nervous while staring at the water below me, still wondering if I should do it or not.
Then I saw a 7 years old boy jumping from the bridge without any hesitation. If a child can make, so can I.
I watched the ice rink full of fearless kids.
If a child can make it…
So I went on the ice.
And it was amazing.
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