A Tale of two Bridges

This morning I had to drop my car off at the garage, for its pre MOT service.

This is one of the images I took on the walk home with the sun burning through the mist. Sadly, it seems the car will not pass without a significant amount of work - and money!

My car still bears some splodges of paint on the carpet from the motorway bridge exploit, the introduction to which can be read in yesterday's blip.

Careful preparation is important for any hair brained scheme, which is why I had done a recce, and bought the necessary materials beforehand. If you're going to paint a slogan on a motorway bridge it needs to be done well and it needs to last.
The majority of bridges are now built to be vandal proof, but some of the oldest ones still offer easy access and a suitably large surface for writing.

Marge and I set off on the planned evening to our first location, a white bridge, and completed a slogan on each side of the parapet, using floor paint. I fear some passing cars may have had the odd drip of red on their roofs.

We then drove to the second location which involved walking across a couple of fields from where we parked the car. It was now dark, but the motorway lighting afforded sufficient light to work by.

With a fine slogan completed on one side of the bridge, Marge started on the second, whilst I held onto her and kept lookout.

"There's a car pulling up on the hard shoulder." I told her.

"That's OK, I've nearly finished."

"It's got blue flashing lights on it."

"Oh shit!!"

We picked up the paint tin, roller and tray and started to run back across the bridge just as two policemen got out and started to climb the embankment. As we ran across the field, I looked at Marge next to me, and thought how slowly she was running, yet I couldn't run faster than her.

It was one of those slo-mo moments...

She looked back at me and started to giggle.

"What the hell are you laughing at?" I shouted

"The thought of the look on the policemen's faces when they catch two women of a certain age, carrying the evidence of their crime." She gasped.

They didn't.

We got back to the car, my hands were shaking as I tried to unlock it, partly through fear, partly from the exertion but mostly from laughing. We slung the tools of our trade in and roared off, in total hysterics, to her house, where we had a cup of tea to calm ourselves!

Still laughing, she said:
"We'll have to go back and finish it."

Off we set, to complete the mission, only to find a steamed up car in our parking place. We drove round for a short while and on returning the courting couple were just leaving.

"They didn't take long." Marge giggled.

We walked back, the coast was clear for us to complete our work, this time without being disturbed, before returning to her home again for something of a celebratory nature.

We didn't tell anyone what we had done for months, but then one day we met someone who commented on the fine quality and staying power of the writing on the bridges in question.

"I thought you might recognise the handwriting." said Marge, and so the story slowly spread.

Interestingly, it is the way in which it was done that flaws most people.
"Did you stand on the motorway and reach up?" They invariably ask.

"No!" Marge always responds. "Mandy held me by the ankles over the parapet, while I did the painting, and when she got too tired, we swapped."

And to this day people believe us!




In truth, with a small paint roller, the sort used for tricky corners, you can lean over and reach far enough down to write large upside down letters and be in no danger at all...


But please don't let on...