We watched the final stage of the Tour de France last weekend, leading the Peloton up the Champs Elysee, knowing the Union Jack would be flapping on the top two podium places.

The balls you’d need to take on that race I can’t imagine.

But balls are also required for a summer break amidst this groundswell of sport showcasing nationally.

We’ve plunged into the holidays waving tennis racquets with post-Wimbledon vigour. It doesn’t happen to Federer, but at the end of week one we’re already reduced to Swingball because I can’t face explaining to the neighbours why I’m rooting like a trufflehound through their perennial borders.

Most of our balls are carpeting the garage roof and I guess I’ll have to pole-vault up to get them.

Hats off to the world-class athletes who have flocked to London 2012 but let’s not forget that parenthood is also a multi-sport activity requiring skill and endurance, and it lasts a lot longer than a heptathlon or two. We’re in the wrong neck of the woods for beach volleyball but my flip-flop hurdling is truly a sight to behold.

Just up the road, there’s a Maize Maze of Olympic proportions: four miles of navigation through eight acres of crop for a well-earned ice-pop. There are even torchlight evenings, powered I presume by battery rather than Olympic flame, but it’s frowned upon to send children in with sleeping bags and breakfast bars.

As we passed their field signage, with punnets we plucked fresh from strawberry plants, The Youngest read “Pick Your Own” in a “because I can’t be bothered” voice and guessed the farmer was too busy watching a widescreen TV.

There’s a marathon of viewing ahead and we’re considering the best diet for maximum performance. The Children were sure this must be McDonald’s, Coca-Cola and Cadbury’s as official sponsors, however, so I sent them outside to play in their Nike trainers instead...