“For you,” he said proudly, passing me the skates.

“Arghhhh! Are you serious?” I screamed, way beyond excited.

He laughed. “Yep, I can’t quite pull off animal print. Thought I would take you skating – you know, the kind that is appropriate for arctic conditions.”

“Har-bloody-har! But, one slight problem. I can’t ice skate,” I admitted.

His face contorted in shock.

Yes, yes, it possible that I can’t skate. Bloody Canadians! Not everyone lives on frozen water.

“Then that we shall remedy!” he replied in a terrible William Wallace accent. Our attention was suddenly caught by a loud ecstatic groan coming from Tink’s room.

I quickly looked to Tudor and winced. “I say we go, unless you want to listen to the explicit soundtrack that accompanies Tink in the throes of passion?”

He shuddered dramatically. “Let’s go.”

It was at that moment Tinks bedroom door flew open. We stood gaping at the buck-naked fairy standing, without shame, in his doorway.

“Tink? What’s up?” I asked, and realised that it was very evident exactly what was up.

“I thought I heard the door.” He peered around my shoulder. “Hey, Tudor.”

Tudor tipped his chin in greeting.

“Well, Tink, we are off out. I’ll catch you later.” I announced trying leave as quickly as possible to escape the more-than-awkward situation.

“Okay, porkie.” he sang as he turned towards his bedroom on a wave.

I pushed Tudor towards the exit. Just as we were shutting the door, Tink shouted. “Wil?”

“Yeah?”

“Just so you know, don’t come a knockin’, if the bedroom is a rockin, but I’ll try to put a sockin’, while my Tatey puts his cockin’,” and with that he slammed the door.

My hand stilled on the door knob and Tudor tripped in shock, righting himself on the doorframe. I grimaced and shrugged. It was typical Tink behaviour.

“Wow!” was Tudors only response to the peep show and inappropriate verbal diarrhoea. He looked at me and we both burst out laughing. I shut the door and locked up. Tudor handed me a Tim Horton’s caramel latte, and off we went to teach me how to skate.

After the millionth time of landing on my arse, I decided to throw a tantrum and retire from the sport of skating before I broke a bone. Tudor had spent the better half of two hours helping me back up off the ice and then showing off his hockey skills by speed-skating around me, manoeuvring in a hundred different directions with ease. It was slightly pissing me off that a six-foot three mountain of a man could look so graceful, while I looked like the uncoordinated mammoth version of Bambi.

We were a pond in the back of an old ranch that spread about one hundred acres. It was weird, in the few weeks that Tudor and I had been friends we had barely stepped out in public. I knew he was a private person, but I was actually beginning to believe he was a hermit or some kind of agoraphobe.

Watching him contently glide around the ice showed that he cherished being out in the open, but he kept himself so withdrawn and hidden. It was so sad. I couldn’t help but think he had completely chosen the wrong profession for himself if his days consisted of dodging people’s recognition of him and keeping all information about himself locked up tight.

Whilst I silently contemplated Tudor’s career choices, the man in question saw that I had slumped down on the verge of the rink – well, pond – again, and came gunning in my direction, spraying ice all over me when he skidded to a stop.

“You bastard!” I shrieked, brushing the ice-cold flecks from my face before they melted and left track marks in my bronzer.

Tudor sat down next to me and put on a ‘who me?’ expression.

“What you doing, Tash?” he trilled out in a sing-song voice.

“Giving up! I can’t bloody do this, in case it had escaped your notice. I have no co-ordination and suck on an epic scale!”

Tudor ignored my outburst and grabbed my hand. “Come on, you clumsy Geordie. I’ll hold on to you, there's no giving up on my watch.”

I sighed and let him pull me up. Tudor grabbed my hips from behind and pushed off, forcing us to glide along. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe, and then got all giggly at the fact that we had made it an entire lap without me falling arse-over-tit.

I felt his breath at my ear. “See, I told you you could do it.”

We were whipping around the ice with ease, and I felt a moment of pure elation. Overwhelmed, I decided to spread my arms and shout. "Jack, we’re flying, we're really flying!’"

I heard Tudor chuckle behind me and say, "You’re so weird, Tash."

I nodded. "I'll take that as a compliment, Mr. North."

He squeezed his hands on my hips and whispered in my ear. "You definitely should."

I shivered from top to toe. He then pushed away from me, forcing me to try on my own while he skated in front, turned backwards and instructed me from about two feet away.

“Keep straight and push through the ice, one foot at a time, okay?”

“I’m doing it! Argh! I’m actually skating! Go me!”

Tudor was beaming with pride. “Okay, now try to follow me.”

He turned, and I was trailing behind when he must have seen a branch or something blocking my path and bent down to pick it up.

Like a Fem-bot lusting after a gyrating Austin Powers, I short-circuited at the peach of an arse displayed proudly in his Diesel jeans, and lost all semblance of control. My feet slipped, my arms flailed like a windmill and I began to scream.