Cat decides on the rucksack and proceeds to lay out the contents of her entire wardrobe on her bed, sectioning the clothing into don’t-take, might-take and must-take.

Mistake? Is He thinking of me preparing? Is He impressed? Untouched? Is He ever coming back? Please let France enable me to let go, to move on. Please let the physical distance mean that I won’t have to think of Him as much as I do now, when we still share the same city and my home houses His ghost.

Alongside shorts, cotton T-shirts and cotton short skirts, Cat chooses a couple of frocks but then wonders if she is being a little too hopeful. She knows there are dinners hosted by the teams, and parties on the Sunday evening of the Champs-Elysées finale. She should be ambitious.

What the hell, they don’t take up much space and they won’t crumple.

Yes, but you’ll need a suitable pair of shoes – trainers and pumps are certainly practical, but somewhat spoil the line of a nice little slip dress. And remember, the Alps and Pyrenees are prone to suddenly clouding over and becoming very wet and cold. You’ll need a fleece or two, and something highly waterproof. You’d better pack your Timberland boots.

I hope Luca has a good Tour – he’s a great rider and so colourful. The Brits are as sceptical of him taking our nationality as they are about Greg Rusedski, but I think Luca could be a useful sidekick to Chris Boardman as a publicist for the sport in my country. Chris is the consummate champ – he is to cycling what Gary Lineker was to soccer. So Luca, with his trendy haircut and his haphazard speech and flamboyant losses and crashes and triumphs, could play a different role entirely. He’d be as useful to the profile of cycling in Britain, especially awareness amongst women, as the Hollioake brothers are to cricket. I want my girlfriends to say to me, ‘Cat, when’s the Vuelta? Will Luca be racing? He’s such a spunk – that photo Marie Claire published of him alongside your article – well!’

You and me, Luca my boy, we can do something good for cycling – and, of course, for ourselves.

Cat props the packed rucksack upright on her bed and shuffles herself within its straps. She meanders around her flat and kids herself that the pack on her back is really rather comfortable and not nearly as heavy as, well, as it is.

It’s loaded – and yes, all symbolism absolutely intended.

My God, France tomorrow. I hate ferries. I can’t believe I’m almost there, that I’m going, period, that I will indeed be there. Cat McCabe and the Tour de France. Please let it last for ever.

SETTING THE WHEELS IN MOTION

Wednesday. The English Channel. 10 a.m.

How strange. On the ferry’s deck, Cat McCabe, who has fantasized about following the Tour for years, who has recently acknowledged that a change of country – if only for three weeks – would be a sensible and constructive option, has found that she is wishing she’d stayed put, that she could be back at home. She is very nervous, convinced she’s bitten off more than she can chew and fears she might choke. Oughtn’t she just to watch the Tour on Channel 4, in privacy at home as she always has? She could be on her settee, with a nice cup of tea, proclaiming aloud that the presenters, Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen, should have their own TV series. Or run for Parliament. Or come over to her flat for coffee and a chat.