‘Any thoughts on today?’ Cat asked.

Any idea where your doctor is?

‘Well, Catriona,’ said Luca, most pleased with himself, ‘it’s a weird finish – you hit Plumelec and then have to do a 12 k circuit before an uphill home stretch. Not really sprinter’s domain – but if anyone wants to win it more than Delongue, whose birthday it is, it’ll be Sassetta – he’s out to kill, man, out to kill. You know what I mean, Catriona?’

‘Luca,’ Cat reprimanded the rider lightly, ‘you really can call me Cat. You take care today.’

And tell your bloody doctor I’m looking for him.

Luca tipped his head. ‘Thanks,’ he said. Cat’s ‘Take care’ was so much more humane than the perfunctory ‘Good luck’ from most journalists. ‘Come find me at the finish – I’ll give you the scoop of the day!’

‘That, Luca, would be an honour,’ said Cat. ‘Promise?’

Make sure your bloody doctor’s there.

‘Sure,’ Luca shrugged. He tipped his Oakleys on to his forehead, flashed excellent teeth, held out his hand and kissed Cat’s when she took it.

If I feel this floaty from Luca’s kiss to my hand, how am I going to feel when Ben takes my mouth?

With Stefano Sassetta, he of the spectacular thighs, on the war path for a Stage win, or the green jersey, potentially both, Cat and her fellow journalists took the itinéraire direct to the salle de presse in Plumelec to scrutinize the race from the bank of televisions there. On the way, they pooled notes about the buildings changing in colour from grey to beige, that the small town of Josselin with its stunning river-hugging château and sharp right-hand bend over a narrow bridge was worthy of mention, that rosebay willowherb and other meadow flowers were abundant and that the villages became increasingly bedecked with bunting and Breton flags.

In the salle de pressé, one of the technicians tested the microphone with a lengthy impression of an orgasm. While most of the 1,000 press men shared a titter, the dozen female journalistes bonded immediately by locating each other to share eyebrows raised in exasperation. Having grabbed and then bolted down baguette and pâté from the buffet, Cat sat and allowed the live pictures of the peloton to seduce her, to mesmerize her. Had Ben York appeared, bollock naked with a rose between his teeth, Cat would have given him but a cursory glance and requested that he return later.

The bravery of a breakaway, the beauty of the bunch streaming along to bring them back. I love watching the Tour aerially – a flock of geese, a shoal offish, a single arrow – the comparisons are poetic. When seen from above, the pack moves as one, surging along harmonious and unified. See them approach that roundabout?

Cat’s lips parted as she watched the bunch split and streak around either side of a flower-encrusted roundabout before fusing together again and streaming ahead. Like mercury.

And yet, an aerial view of the Tour, aesthetically moving as it is, is somewhat misleading. Looking down on the peloton from on high, it is easy to forget that this apparently single mass is in fact 189 riders – oh, down to 184 – jockeying for position, shouting and swearing, psyching each other out.