Not quite Torvill and Dean

The recent big freeze not only brought much to Britain to a standstill, it also turned Paul Carter into a reluctant comedy skater

Firstly, if you’re reading this, congratulations. You’ve obviously survived the onset of the second ice age. I’m not quite sure what the hell winter thinks it’s doing attacking us disableds at this time, it’s not like we don’t have enough to deal with already is it?

I’m about as effective on ice as an England World Cup bid delegation, so this time of year always leads to much more grumbling, whingeing and general mardy-arseness than usual.

It’s the constant unbalanced state that I struggle with the most, and I’m not only referring to my mental state. When I’m not falling over, I’m nearly falling over, which in some ways is worse. It’s like being permanently drunk but without the good bits.

I don’t like falling over, except when I see other people do it, so I’m taking extra precautions this year to outwit my icy nemesis. Firstly, I‘ve resorted to dressing like the Michelin man, by wearing as many layers as I can feasibly squeeze into. Not for temperature purposes you understand, but purely to provide extra padding for the inevitable crashes to the ground that will occur. I should probably think of investing in some sort of prosthetic spikes.

Anyone who follows my tracks from walking across the icy tundra that is the estate I live on would think I’ve been on the Special Brew. I have to follow the bits that look like they have already been walked or driven on, even if that means taking frankly preposterous detours around trees, bins, parked cars, or in one instance, an active dustcart. Kerbs pose a whole new challenge too, as they can’t be negotiated without something to lean on, as the poxy ice can’t be trusted, so my mental map ends up looking like something Columbus would have plotted on his journey to the Americas. Except I’m not going to the Americas, I’m going to the Happy Shopper for some bread.

I even did that thing the other day that you sometimes see in slapstick comedy films – you know, where someone’s legs are running but because they’re on a patch of ice they stay in the same place. That. It gets a bit exhausting after a while though. It was only the friction caused by my quite horrifying leg speed that caused the ice underneath to melt that saved me. At first I thought I was going to be there for days. Condemned to death by running, what a hideous way to go. On that note, merry Christmas.