Nice opening paragraph, Cat. But you’re reading it to yourself today. Wouldn’t Alex rather like your next sentence – ‘As Samson lost his strength when his hair was cut, so it appears the sprinters lose their memories once their legs are shorn’? Oh, Alex is sitting nowhere near you. Nor is Josh. You have a pungent Belgian journalist on one side and a hirsute Spaniard on the other. The salle de presse seems a little like the peloton itself as you describe it in your next paragraph, somewhat fresh and disorganized at this early stage. Where’s your Luca quote? Have you woven it in?

As in all wars, the innocent are frequently victims. Laurent Jalabert (O.N.C.E.), an elder statesman of the Tour peloton, and Luca Jones (Megapac), a virgin soldier, were amongst the casualties brought down when wheels touched ahead of them at the last sprint point. Jalabert recovered to finish with the main bunch, his fingers bloodied and his brow dark. Jones, whose major injury was dramatically ripped shorts, took time out prostrate on a spectator’s picnic table, much to the delight of the public. ‘One minute I’m sitting on the bike,’ he recalled, ‘the next I’m sitting on Jalabert.’

Good work, Cat.

The green jersey, worn by the rider with the most points accumulated en route and for finishing in the top 25, is on the broad shoulders of Mario Cipollini. The true contenders for overall victory were hardly seen today. Just as the villages along the route cluster around their omnipotent churches, so Vasily Jawlensky and Fabian Ducasse were flanked at all times by at least 3 devoted team-mates. Wisely, they kept well away from the broiling at the very front yet still finished with the same times as that group.

And so began the week-long campaign by the audacious pure sprinters to retain the top positions. Soon enough, the Pyrenees will rip the peloton apart.

<ENDS>

Right, Cat, it’s gone nine in the evening and you’re only just leaving the salle de presse. Alone. You’ve positively slunk out, hoping no one’s noticed. Why? Didn’t you bond further with your colleagues last night whilst toasting Boardman’s superb win? He’s in yellow again today – isn’t that carte blanche for a celebratory evening tonight?

There are no plans for tonight. The only toast last night, literally, was the tough bread roll I ate by myself in my room. That’s my phone.

‘Hullo?’

‘Cat?’

‘Hey, Fen.’

‘Cat?’ she said. ‘You OK?’

‘Tired.’

‘Where are you? George Hincapie is gorgeous! Did I pronounce that right?’

‘Spot on.’

Cat listened to her sister enthuse about the day’s Stage. She closed her eyes, wishing she was in Fen’s house, settling in for an evening of wine and wittering.

‘Pip and I watched it together at her flat this time. We spoke to Django during the adverts and then had a major three-way analysis when the programme ended. I love that nice smiley man from Channel 4 – Leggings.’

‘Liggett,’ said Cat with a little laugh.