Today's most notable activity (apart from giving up on One Hundred Years of Solitude - I managed about fifty) was witnessing the Tour de France. This year it started in Leeds and travelled up Scott Hall Road - seven minutes walk away. Despite having little interest in cycling, it would have been churlish to miss it. We arrived at ten, stood at the roadside with many other people, watched the occasional car and motor bike go past, clapped if they honked horns or sounded sirens, and found the whole thing dull. Call this a parade? There was not a hint of a float or fancy dress.
|Not a hint of a float or fancy dress|
|Lots of cyclists|