The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1421 by Angharad Copyright © 2011 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

“Can we try and get Cav’s autograph?” asked Danny.

“We can try, dunno if we’ll be able to get anywhere near him.” Danny Trish and I set off towards the team areas, and although the area was restricted, we spotted Mark Cavendish talking to someone.

I waved my programme at him and called, “Mark, could you do an autograph for my son?”

He gave me a thumbs up but continued talking for a moment, then wandered over and winked at Danny. “Enjoy the race?” he said.

“Yeah, that was so kewl, I’d like to try racing bikes,” Danny said totally in awe of the man in the green jersey.

“Well, best thing to do is join a club, see the British Cycling website for your nearest one.” He scribbled his name on my programme and as we walked away we met one or two other riders, including Tommy Voeckler who’d held the yellow jersey for so long. He signed our programme too, so did Geraint Thomas and Alberto Contador.

By now we were in quite a press with the crowd. I was pushed against the barrier and I felt my backpack being moved. I was most concerned for Trish and Danny being crushed against the barriers.

There was a squeal and then a scuffle, I managed to turn round and Danny was holding the arm of someone who had my purse and my passport in his hand. Some big bloke grabbed him–he turned out to be a plain clothes policeman.

He grabbed the thief and pushed him out through the crowd, asking me to accompany them, I grabbed Trish and Danny and we followed them.

In quite good English, he copper told me that they’d been watching the gang for sometime but they always managed to move the stolen purses or bags to an accomplice and they’d disappeared before the police could swoop. However, this time, Hawkeye Watts had seen the hand undoing my bag and when he grabbed my purse with one hand the other pushing me into the barrier, she’d grabbed him by something convenient at her height–his bollocks–no wonder he squealed. Then Danny got in on the act and grabbed his arm before he could move the goods to his accomplice and the police were watching and swooped–arresting him and taking him away.

I didn’t have that much money in my purse but the inconvenience of cancelling cards and of course the loss of my passport could have caused all sorts of problems. The man was Albanian and a gang of several eastern European nationalities had been operating in the city for some weeks.

Once we got clear of the crowd, I thanked my two game children for their swift action in saving the day. I did, however, caution Trish not to grab just any man by that part as it might be embarrassing, not to mention damaging. After all, when she’s older she may want them to have everything in working order under their kilts. “Nah,” she shook her head, “I’m probably gonna be a thespian.”

I nearly choked trying to stifle a snort, taking her literally, she was already one of the best little actresses I knew–if she meant something else–that was an area I couldn’t help in, but I knew a GP in Salisbury who probably could.

We got back to Simon, Mima, Livvie and Billie who wondered where we’d been. When I explained what had happened he shook his head. “I’ve been to Paris, Rome and Madrid and nothing has ever happened except having a good time–I bring you to Paris once and you get your bag dipped. Trouble follows you about the place, doesn’t it?”

“Huh, I didn’t ask the bloke to try and pinch my stuff, t was only the quick thinking of Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson here, that saved the day and my property.”

“I grabbed his goolies, Daddy.”

“I hope you washed your hands afterwards,” was Simon’s response.

“Not yet, but I will before we have tea.”

“Can we go back to the hotel, I’m starving?” I said to Simon, though it was difficult through all the noise.

“Just keep your purse where you can see it.”

We walked back to the hotel in the Paris sunshine. I should have been reflecting on the racing but instead I was contemplating all the inconvenience that would have been caused had that bloke managed to get pass my stuff on to his accomplice. Trish had seen him, the accomplice as he made off after giving her a filthy look. I was surprised she hadn’t managed to take a photo–unlike me, by the time I remember how to activate the camera part of my Blackberry, the subject would have been miles away.

Tea was nice, cakes and tea in the garden of the hotel before dinner at seven where I stuffed myself with salmon en croute and some of the most delicious profiteroles I’ve ever tasted.

Simon had steak and the kids a variety of smaller meals, I think Livvie had the French equivalent of fish and chips and Trish had sausages. Billie had a pasta bake and Danny steak a bit smaller than Simon’s.

The kids went to bed early and we sat and cuddled on the bed before falling asleep ourselves–all that fresh air and excitement.

The next day we took a stroll along the river for a short while before having our taxi take us back to the airport and by lunchtime we were back at Southampton and being collected by our minibus driver. The journey back was uneventful and I suppose everyone felt a bit down after the relatively exotic atmosphere in Paris.

My own recollection will be of the HTC team getting on with what they do so well, deliver Cavendish to the launch point and then let him get on with it. Once that happens, there are few sprinters who can live with him.

Back at home, Danny delighted in showing his programme to Henry, who presented Danny with a copy of Cavendish’s biography, Boy Racer. Danny set off to read it after lunch–we brought it back from the chip shop with us, although the minibus driver wasn’t too keen on the idea. Simon gave him a good tip and he shut up after that.

The babies, according to Monica, had been little angels although they had been amused by Puddin’s vocabulary and they reckoned they could spot several Cathy-isms amongst it. I denied all knowledge of such things which of course just made them argue even louder.

Stella seemed in good form having had her father there for the weekend, never quite sure what she thinks of Monica, whom she occasionally refers to as, ‘the nose’ despite Monica having had surgery on her schnozz some years before.

Catherine almost bounced out of Monica’s arms when she saw me and I got loads of lovely smiles and gurgles when I took her.

So ended my Paris weekend and I have no regrets whatsoever.