It appears that Cow Lane bridge wasn't flooded for once
Once upon a flood, I stalled a standard powder bluey green (light grey roof?) Farina Austin A40* (the original split hatch, both ways) with modified matte black bonnet (which I thought was artistic as I painted it myself with my dad's distemper brush and blackboard paint - the texture was so pre awesome (for Didcot) and rather flaky - might also go some way to explaining why I wasn't cut out for a Graphic Design degree course and thrown out of Maidenhead Art College a year later, I digress?), subsequently wet the carpets and flooded the footwells, under Cow Lane bridge thus creating an embarrassing blockage. Fortunately the pig farmer in his Fordson or whatever tractors were called, who lived and farmed the solely agri smelly land north of the bridge (long pre the concrete brick effect Legoland housing "development"), mechanically "pushed" my motor back to the saftey of the Didcot side so he could carry on to the Station Hotel for his lunchtime pint.
*in those days every car had "personalised" number plates - it was PPA 119 - probably quite a sad example for which some dumb modernist person from anytown might now pay money for and treasure??
Have I told the story of the policeman on his bicycle chasing said car driven by moi with broken exhaust (ran over a brick that fell from Marsh Bridge whilst driving through/underneath (un/dis/non flooded) on way to very temporary (thankfully) job with Rupert Murdoch on Headington Hill in Oxford - but decided to return home cos the noise was VERY VERY loud - sweaty red faced navy serge silver button uniformed helmeted fat fuzz fuck with a worn out whistle tried to catch me all the way back to the end of Glebe Road, where I got nabbed and my mam lost it with him and no charges were brought?
Utterly OT, but I once drove my parents' Mini through a ford two feet deeper than the marker posts suggested. Well, halfway through a ford.
"Oh yes", said a passing cockwomble in a Range Rover, "those posts have been wrong for years!" He then buggered off, leaving Buttercup
1 and me stranded in three feet of water, much of it choosing to pour in under the doors and through of the heater.
I winched her out on the starter and a helpful passing dog-walker advised me on drying out the distributor. I limped home and then had about four hours to dry out the interior before picking up the folks from Airwick Gatport.
"Funny smell in here" says Ma.
"Huge puddle" quoth I, "and old Minis can be a bit leaky."
I think I got away with it
1 - she was
very yellow
