Sledging

We lived in Sheffield until I was six. It seems that every winter we had
snow. Snow deep enough for snowmen, snowballs and especially sledging.
We lived on a small hill and the road was perfect for sledging. It went
down at just the right angle and bottomed out into an easy flat part.

I remember whizzing down over and over again. Exhilaration and speed -
followed by the happy trudge back up the hill. All day long.

That good red feeling of happy breathlessness. Warm inside and the cold
clamping on your face like a mask. The street alive with the bustle of
happy kids.

Until finally you realised it had gone dark. So you took one last slide and
went in. Back in the warm you found out how cold your cheeks were. You
would peel off the thick layers of clothing, now inexplicably damp, and be
wrapped in something clean, warm and dry - such things as only Mum's
know how to conjure. I would sit by the fire and Mum would bring a cup of
hot Oxo and life was good.