Ice and Snow

The Winter Olympics are over for another four years. There was a little sigh from the New House of Stories and a great big cheer from Hamilton and his friends when a bear blew out the Olympic flame. I think Hamilton had something to do with that. I know somebody out there in Blogland, a great friend of Mistmantle, who must have loved all that flying snow.

I am, as I may have said before, a wuss. I've never been good at sports, and when it comes to ice I can do the falling over bit but I'd rather not have to. My idea of winter sports is to build a snowman, maybe have a bit of a snowball fight, then sit beside the fire drinking hot chocolate. Walking snow is fun, for a while. So is sliding downhill on a sledge. But did you watch Sochi?

Those bobsleighs were coming down the ice at speeds that are illegal on UK motorways. At least one snowboarder is in orbit and being tracked on radar. If the ski jumpers stayed up there any longer they'd evolve and come down with feathers. And I am left with goggle-eyed admiration and wonder. At one level I am struck by the amount of sacrifice, training and sheer years of their lives that the competitors put into something that might well land them in hospital. But I am even more astonished at the sheer breathtaking, heart-stopping courage it takes to do that.

Just don't ask about Mistmantle. I happened to say something about bobsleighs and poor Crackle hasn't a tea tray left in the kitchen.

But normal life must go on. Next blog, if I remember, I'll update you about The Archers. It's getting a bit fierce out there.