Hannah Dines

SHE is there and I am there, howling with laughter, leaning against the track railings, unable to hold myself up.

THERE were no empty lanes in my final. Already a victory for women (there were double the number of competitors than in the men’s race) and for a significantly disabled cerebral palsy class. The feeling on that start line was the best in the world. So many had been supported so they could overcome so much.

HERE I am squeezing a tube of protein on to my tongue, smiling giddily, legs elevated on a plastic chair, prickly hotel carpet grazing the back of the cycling team logo which is shaved into my hair.

“To get medals ... all you’ve got to do is lie a little bit.” On Tuesday, three athletes and the BBC damned Paralympic classification like never before, with a Radio 4 programme investigating concerns about the system and whether some competitors have exaggerated their disabilities to boost their chance of winning.

I’M an international trike racer. When I compete, I race against two former undercover cops in their 50s; an east German, Jana, whose first language may have been Russian (and who I have never seen smile); and Marie-Eve, whose thighs are part-human, part-tree trunk, and whose use of words is similarly wooden – exclusively “good job” if she’s beating you or “f**k off” if she’s not. There’s another opponent: ex-army Monica, desert and diesel still running through her veins. There are more of us, but these are my target girls for Tokyo 2020.

VANDALS have targeted a Glasgow mosque with offensive graffiti

MY mum was legendary. She made the slide. I was on the top bunk; I was the oldest and I was the only one who was allowed to use it. It was my big sister privilege to pull myself up it with my arms and slide down and no one else’s. The fact I couldn’t use the ladder was never the thing. I got to slide down every morning, like the smug little sausage I was. What a great childhood.