So the funny thing about growing up in the 20th century as opposed to those new young things growing up this century is that we dreamed of wonderful things like white ice skates and red shoes (oh sorry that was the movie that kind of took over the white ice skates idea but if you watch it you'll get the drift).
So a trip to Central Park and the Wollman Rink the night before Christmas Eve was a must. Sadly my dreams of the ubiquitous white skates - which I had imagined every New Yorker would be wearing, were completely wrecked when I realized that unless one spent more than 1 session a decade skating (and therefore owned ones own ice skating shoes), one would be thrown into that heap of no hopers who were destined to wear the sorry blue skates of rental city.
Oh how I had longed for those cute white skates that screamed White Christmas and perfect 1950's Americana - imagine my disappointment then when my grubby blue skates coupled with my lack of skill and proprioceptor confusion (ask my sister about that she's a Physical Therapist - all about wibbly wobbly muscles or something), meant that I only survived a mere 30 minutes on the rink.
But emboldened by my attempts and No. 2 child professing that skating lessons were the way forward - as well as my local chums telling me that you actually had to buy your own skates here if you were to go on to the ice more than once a year - I have a feeling those white skates are not that far out of reach....
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