17 July 2011

The loudspeakers woke us. Bleary-eyed, I looked at the clock.  8.00 already? As usual, all night our imbecile dog Bruno has been prancing around, panting away, wide awake, whilst all day he sleeps peacefully under the steps outside!  Great. But even I knew the noise wasn't Bruno this time. It seemed to be coming from the end of our chemin. That'll be the Tour de France, says Him indoors, for whom lack of sleep doesn't seem to have the same effect. So, we trawled up the road to find out what was going on.  The Gendarmes were out in force, looking ridiculously young. Promotion cars were whizzing past - Skoda Superb, VW Passat, Sky Jaguars, together with menacing, low-flying helicopters. And even commercialisation, of sorts - normally unheard of in France:  a caravan tried to sell us all things yellow, especially T-shirts emblazoned across the chest. Time was when I'd have liked one of those, but I no longer need anything to draw attention to my chest! At last, the riders whizzed past, with motorcycles and cars galore, inches from the spinning wheels, doing their utmost to crash into them.And Him indoors? He looked disappointed. None looked like his heroes of yesteryear: Tommy Godwin and Reg Harris.  Oh well, time's moved on.  Now I know why he's always saying I should get on my bike...