The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1420 by Angharad Copyright © 2011 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

I couldn’t believe it, we were actually half way up the Eiffel tower, and none of the kids were complaining. We finally got to the viewing platform and the views were breathtaking. I was aware that while we were sauntering round the French capital, a group of cyclists were turning themselves inside out in the time trial races.

In another capital, not a million miles away, many people were in shock and mourning as it became obvious that over ninety people had died in a shooting spree and bomb attack. That and my experience of the morning had reinforced my dislike of guns.

I reflected on the fact that someone had damaged my car and tried to damage me. Part of me wanted to be angry, wanted to shove the gun down his throat and then I reflected on the tragedy in Norway and my anger left me. I looked over at Notre Dame and despite its beauty, I felt less and less inclined to believe in this loving God, who on one hand appears to be omnipotent and in the next minute is impotent. Strikes me as hogwash. Mind you, the appearance of some old biddy from the Old Testament in my dreams, has frightened me to death a couple of times–just as well that’s all it is–my imagination.

Meems, who’d been holding my hand moments ago had slipped my grasp and I looked round frantically for her among the crowds. Then my eye alighted on the cause of her separation from me. That woman, yeah, the nuisance from the aircraft, was standing about twenty feet from me and looking very pale. ‘Oh poo, I hope she’s not having a coronary.’ Meems was standing next to her comforting her and she was drawing energy through me.

As I walked over towards them, Trish seemed to be intent on proving gravity by dropping Livvie’s camera and a feather over the side of the tower. I grabbed the camera and gave it back to a relieved Livvie. “That experiment has already been done–no need to repeat it.” Trish pulled a face and pulled her hand back through the netting.

“Are you alright?” Probably the stupidest question in the English language, because we ask it of people who patently aren’t alright. We see someone fall down a flight of stairs–are you alright? Duh. Anyway, what else do you say to a stranger who is looking ill? Nice day? Nah, don’t think so.

“I am terrified of heights,” gasped the woman.

“So I noticed in the aircraft.”

“Oh, I thought you looked familiar.”

“C’mon, Meems, leave the lady alone, we’ve got to go.”

“That’s right, leave a fellow countrywoman alone in a place full of foreigners.”

“Half of the foreigners speak perfect English, and we’re actually the visitors here–it is France–not Battersea.”

“How did you know I came from Battersea–have you been spying on me?”

“Why would I spy on you? I don’t even know you–or didn’t before you made a fool of yourself on the aircraft, and again here–if you don’t like heights, what are you doing up here, if that isn’t a silly question.”

“My therapist said I needed to face my fears.”

“Yeah, well maybe they should be here with you then.”

“They are somewhere, they were on the plane too.”

“What that bloke who was sat next to you?”

“Yes, he’s a psychologist.”

“Really?”

“Yes, he’s got a PhD.”

“What in, collecting stamps?” I offered this Transactional Analysis joke, but she was oblivious to it.

“No, in psychology–it’s from an Ivy tree university in America.”

“I think you mean Ivy League, Harvard, Stamford and so on.”

“No–definitely Ivy Tree, I’ve seen the certificates.”

“Are you funding the trip?”

“Yes, of course I am.”

“Thought so.”

“Why d’you say that?”

“I suspect he’s a cowboy–check out his footwear next time.”

“But he was in Yellow Pages.”

“So is my plumber, but he doesn’t know anything about psychology either.”

“What?” she shrieked.

“You want to be cured?”

“Yes of course.”

“Sit up a chimney and rub salt on yourself.”

“I don’t understand.” She looked total bemused but her colour had improved and I was close to sorting her.

“You won’t, see this feather?” I took the feather Trish was holding.

“Yes, of course I can see it.”

“Close your eyes.”

“I certainly won’t.”

“You will–now stop arguing. Hold out your hand.” She did so and I placed the feather in her hand, which she closed upon it.

“What are you holding?”

“A bird’s feather.”

“That’s what you think–it’s actually an angel’s feather–feel its energy?”

“Goodness, yes–yes I can.”

“Your phobias are cured, safe journey home.” Before she could open her eyes I snaffled all the children into the lift and we descended back to terra firma.

“I thought you didn’t like heights?” Simon asked as we got to the bottom.

“I can’t stand them.”

“What were you talking about to that strange woman–she looked familiar–it was her wasn’t it?”

“Yes it was her, I was asking her if she fancied Cavendish for the green jersey?”

“Yeah, sure you were.”

“Why do you never believe me when I say anything?”

“Dunno, why do I never believe you?”

“C’mon, I’m starving,” I announced walking back to the hotel.

We had a delicious meal, each of us ordering our fancy from an extensive menu–I had fresh tuna steak and it was really good–tastes very different from the tinned stuff, which I also like. The kids all had pizza–which looked better than the stuff back in Pompey–but still resembled inflated cardboard with bits of cheese and meat on. Si had some sort of chicken dish–poussin boots?

The kids were put to bed and Si and I shared a bottle of wine in our room before going to bed, where much to his disgust, the combination of a poor night the day before, stress, fresh air and exercise plus the effect of two glasses of burgundy meant I zonked like a kitten. I think I may even have been purring when I went off.

The next day, Sunday, we had a mooch round the Louvre and saw the glass pyramid. Tom Hanks wasn’t there, however, so I had to make do with Simon. We also did Our Lady (Notre Dame) after the service had finished and then grabbing a baguette for lunch, we processed to our seats for the end of the race.

Much of Paris had been closed down for the event–which let’s face it, is the biggest sporting event in the city’s calendar. In fact Le Tour, is right up there on a par with the World Cup and Olympics, except it happens every year unlike the rest.

We took our seats and watched the large screen TV as the race drew closer. It was such a dawdle–until they got to the Champs Elysees, where after BMC, Cadel Evans’ team had led to this point, all hell broke lose and we watched the hundred and odd riders flashing past eight times before the final lap.

I was definitely there to cheer on Mark Cavendish, the most successful British rider to compete at the TdF, if he won this stage, he’d have twenty of them under his belt in four years–not bad for a twenty six year old.

There was a break away by Ben Swift, another Brit, riding for Team Sky, and suddenly it looked as if everything was going wrong for the sprinters as half a dozen others joined him and they got up to forty two seconds on the peloton.

It looked as if the Manx Missile (Cavendish) wouldn’t be launched until Lars Bak slowed things down in the breakaway group and Swift and the others ran out of steam. Then we wondered if team HTC-Highroad would run down their own rider. Bak pulled out as the main teams launched their sprinters, but it was no contest HTC’s well drilled team did what they’d done four times already this tour and at the end of the train was Cavendish. When Mark Renshaw completed the lead out, the Manx Missile fired and not even Sky’s Boasen Hagen could stay with him–Cavendish made it into the history books–the first Brit to win outright, the green jersey–the sprinter’s or points jersey. I was so excited, my throat was sore from shouting, and someone could have abducted all my kids, and Simon and I wouldn’t have noticed.

Finally, I looked down at Danny, “People were looking at you, Mummy, you were shouting so loud.”

I blushed, “Sorry, darling, I was so rapt in the race–did you enjoy it?”

“Yeah, course–I’d quite like to try bike racing.”

“Is this before or after winning the Ashes and the World Cup?”

“In between,” he said and sniggered.

Photo:Notre Dame de Paris, Wikimedia