Petticoat Junction / February 11 2007
I’m confused.
Audrey and I live very close to a major junction on the M1. A footpath we sometimes follow around the intersection on our afternoon walk takes us almost to the very edge of the motorway before leading us over the vast, thundering road system by means of a narrow footbridge which emerges on the other side amongst the recently built, redbrick homes of the new housing estate on the eastern side of the village. Generally, it affords us a pleasant little stroll, and the excitement and noise of the speeding traffic provides something of a twice-weekly antidote to the quiet, boxy lanes that we usually wander down after lunch.
It is a particularly generous, busy and breathtakingly noisy junction, and passing over the little bridge is like carbon monoxide hell. We both take deep breaths and then try with some determination to inhale the fug of dizzying fumes as infrequently as possible as we embark on our short journey from one side to the other. And you can forget about the global-warming effects that the heavy traffic may have, what is more exasperating is the constant and unrelenting high level of noise. I’m worried more, quite frankly, by the issue of global hearing-loss.
The bridge is always deserted, and the first time Audrey and I traversed our little pedestrian viaduct, I was glad no one was around to watch as we tentatively passed over the dense traffic that was zooming along in the ten or so lanes just twenty feet below us. It was scary up there for two motorway footbridge virgins like Audrey and me. We were shaking like a couple of French soldiers that first time as we nervously proceeded across, full of anxious trepidation, trying hard to ignore the enveloping, clamorous, mechanical roar that was trying to crush us in its brutal frenzy.
And something strange…
Once, whilst listening on my iPod to The (newly-reformed) Police - or Sting as they are now known - sing Roxanne, I was suddenly and bizarrely tempted to toss a small coin directly over the edge and into the path of an approaching juggernaut. Searching for a handle on the moment, I tugged gently on Audrey’s lead and brought us both to a stop. At that, she looked up at me with her big, beautiful brown eyes and seemed to gently say “Don’t – ”
So I didn’t. That would, of course, have been death-defyingly foolish.
But to get back to the point I was originally trying to make, what intrigues and fascinates me more than anything else about this forgotten little corner of the village, is the varied and surprising nature of the substantial roadside detritus – discarded and abandoned items that could only have arrived at this spot by way of determined and vigorous ejection from passing vehicles. A captivating assortment of faded, unwanted and grimy objects that lie like fallen militia in the soggy mud and patchy grass that borders the hard shoulder.
I have discovered, picked up, investigated, and otherwise just looked upon, amongst other things: odd shoes, gloves, trousers (usually black), hats (mostly woollen), denim skirts, sealed Tupperware containers of various sizes (with contents), leather belts, condoms (used, by and large), spectacles, a packet of pork chops, pantyhose (some complete, others in tatters), a hearing aid, t-shirts, a Simply Red CD (no explanation necessary), the ubiquitous Bic lighters (predictably), a silk cummerbund, socks, false dentures, a bra (large, black), ties, women’s knickers, babies’ pacifiers, a false rubber hand (I know, go figure!), underpants (soiled and unsoiled), a suspender belt, a pair of army boots, a stylish, white cotton blouse (Morgan – I looked at the label), a mobile phone, and once, a diaphanous black, lacy and very alluring underskirt.
But what confuses me mostly, is not the amount or nature of this sad but varied collection of sundry bits and bobs, but the reason for their being there in the first place.
As they approach this section of the motorway, do excited drivers and their passengers abruptly proclaim, “Quickly, open the window! Here comes Junction 28!”
And in the back, is little Jimmy awakened and rapidly animated? “Oh, bugger, I have nothing to throw,” does he declare, frustrated?
“Here, take my knickers, darling,” does his helpful mother offer in quick and practical response?
Just what is it that compels passing motorists to do this, to leave for me this puzzling stuff of a sometimes very personal nature? Is it a message? And why so many undergarments? Do people in transit suddenly realise exactly where they are, think oh-oh, and swiftly and predictably lose control of their bodily functions - namely, the workings of their bowels and bladders? Their actions certainly demonstrate some stimulating compulsions and some rather bracingly independent and original thinking.
More over, who am I to question this truly refreshing and subjective reasoning? I must admit, I do rather look forward to every other Wednesday, to see what novel and intriguing item has been left for me, and to try to figure out later what cryptic and innovative meaning the new addition will bring to the whole exercise.
I hope it will all make sense soon and that my self-indulgent confusion dissipates. I’ll venture perchance to the library on New Street presently and have a long-overdue rummage through some hefty tomes by Nostradamus – or several paperbacks of less obvious substance by Dan Brown – which I have noticed in there, gathering dust. Such literary heavyweights would surely be more than willing to offer solutions, and to provide for me learned and professional guidance in my curious quest.
As soon as I find answers, I promise to enlighten you all.
Filed under Bands / British Countryside / Conspiracy Theory / Dogs / Global Warming / Humour / Music / Nostradamus / Vandalism
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