Ice skating

So the logical thing in hot hot Brisbane at the moment is to take the girls ice skating. Which is what I did today, along with another four kids I was babysitting for the day. We had to find jumpers and beanies and imagine wearing them as we packed in the heat of our house.

We had a lovely time. I had to sit by the side of the rink and drink hot chocolate. I sacrifice as a mother sometimes. The girls played red rover and limbo on the ice, and they squealed when the disco ball came on.

But there was one thing that marred our trip.

The ice bogan.

The twenty year old guy in a cut off flannel with his own skates who zoomed around the ice and did donuts and handbrake turns in front of beginner four year olds. The testosterone loaded ice hog who won all the red rover games and made small people cry. The attention seeking ice hockey wanna be who used beginner skaters as witches hats for complicated backwards high speed weaving.

The mother tiger in me started to flex it's claws and twitch it's tail. This guy was rattling my cage. I stood at the edge of the rink. Then another bystander said, "that guy is ***** rude". I nodded and agreed.

Take THAT ice bogan.

Then he fell over in a big stack and left the ice. And my girls kept skating in the reverse direction.

The girls had a lovely time at ice skating thanks to my vigilance. No ice bogans get to my kids. Not on my watch.