Dancing on Ice

Picture the scene. I leave the house at 9.30am on a blip safari, just in case the dawn blips I took at 8.15 don't cut muster. I have a shoulder sling on my right arm and a camera hanging round my neck.
I step out on to Middle Meadow Walk, and immediately feel unsafe. The path is icy, slippery and unsalted. I take small steps wondering what will happen if I fall. Will my compromised shoulder hit the deck first, or will it be my camera.

I stand still in the middle of the path and look about to see if any one else is having trouble. No, there are students in sandshoes, ladies in high heels and cyclists skimming past as though there is nothing untoward. I teeter to the far edge and reach a path, ice free, and walk normally, breathing a sigh of relief that I haven't made a fool of myself.

Now, what I want to know, apart from why the powers that be hadn't salted this path, a pedestrian and cycling highway from the southside of Edinburgh to the city centre, is why I find it so difficult to walk like everyone else on ice.

Is it because I'm predicting a fall and trying to protect arms and cameras, or is it my small feet and fear? I feel there should be an equation which involves foot size, weight, centre of gravity, age and balance.
I should theoretically be less frightened of falling with short legs and a low centre of gravity than a long limbed person.

To cap it all, I needn't have bothered with the slip sliding as I have gone for the blip of the spectacular sky out of the window just before the sun rose.
I know now that such a sky means nothing and that in a minute or two it will be gone to be replaced with grey cloud.
I suppose that makes it all the more special.