Blonde's Eye View: Where portly men fall
Angela Clarke takes a trip down memory lane on ice
It's the most wonderful time of the year - Canada Park has been slathered with a slippery surface and once again Canary Wharf is on ice.
I love the ice rink. It's a giant white post-it note, visible from the towers, reminding us there's only 39 shopping days left till Christmas. It's also the only place you can openly laugh at bankers falling over. Schadenfreude on ice.
When I grow up I want to drive the ice smoothing truck. The person who comes out between sessions, ironing the scars and grooves off the rink, like a plastic surgeon plastering Mickey Rooney.
The mini ice truckers make the rink so smooth and shiny it looks like it's had Botox.
What a wonderful job: riding around on a souped-up lawnmower, restoring beauty and propulsion to a giant lawsuit waiting to happen.
One of the best bits about the ice rink remains the bar.
Mulled wine is important. In that one glass of happiness is combined two of my favourite things: alcohol and warmth. Perfect.
A Santa's Grotto for adults. All "shopping destinations" should have one.
It's also the perfect spot to, you know, watch people fall on their arse. Each year it's a close competition as to which I enjoy more: those who clearly took ice skating lessons in their youth and those who've only previously encountered ice in their drinks.
People who twirl and glide, and occasionally jump, are magnificent. But there is a certain amount of pleasure to be gained from watching a portly man in a suit and tie flailing around like Bambi.
Forget your office hierarchies; the ice is, literally, a leveller.
Find Angela on twitter: