Tour de France

As one that never watches sports or has any vague idea of who plays what, I was strangely excited about Tour de France. As the crowds lined the streets, the lines to cross the street grew; the available overpasses were more like an afterthought rather than a functional decision. It was a miracle that the sun was shining, and people were smiling like stepford wives as the cyclists warmed up. The French police were in attendance with their spiffy hats riding motorbikes ahead of the cyclists, whist the team car loaded with spare bikes yelled encouragement, (or insults, most of it was foreign and sounded a little demeaning, although Miriam informed us that the Spanish car was belting "move your ass") from behind like a Chinese torture camp. But as it was the time trials, it was a strange schizophrenic experience where you only cheered every 59 seconds as you caught a glimpse of pink, blue or white, and the rest of the time looked strangely placid.

By the time we made it home, pimms was on the cards, and a barbecue in the neighbours backyard. Mister Mister (the cat) was not too happy with the invasion! We discovered the disposable barbecue had legs and was in fact a good way to stop the underside catching on fire; there so much food that we could have fed all those incy wincy cyclists twice over!