THE DAY FIFE STAYED AT HOME

Last night they closed the Forth Road Bridge - completely.  Someone had suddenly found a technical fault - presumably a piece of road hanging off, or a high tension cable gnawed through by some passing sea monster.  I hardly slept a wink, imagining the scenes of terror and panic that would greet me the following day as I attempted to cross the Forth to Edinburgh.  

Presumably the Kinkardine bridge - the alternative road crossing to the west - would simply be overwhelmed with traffic and topple over into the mudbanks.  The motorway to the North would be overrun with crazed reprobates ramming through the road cones and 'having a go’, or tearing through crash barriers and rampaging through the gardens of Dalmeny and Inverkeithing to find an alternative route.

And what about the people who simply didn’t know it was closed; who were camping in a remote glen in the Highlands or had given up TV and radio for advent?  There’d be thousands of them milling around stationary vehicles on the approach, lighting bonfires, eating children and pets, performing strange rituals to appease the road bridge Gods.  This was not going to be pretty. 

So I must admit to a certain amount of trepidation as I ventured out this morning - to evaluate the situation and beat a hasty retreat if required, with little actual hope of seeing the capital.  South towards the bridge I drove, knuckles gleaming white on the steering wheel, scanning the horizon for signs of bonfires, flashing blue lights, gangs of rabid Fifers brandishing car and body parts.  But nothing.  No cars, no marauders.  The road into Inverkeithing - quiet.  My usual parking space - vacant.  To the station - not even a queue at the ticket office.  The platform - no corpses, half a dozen equally spaced commuters standing quietly.  In came the train, only one minute late, with no one clinging to the roof.   I even got a seat next to the window.  

And as we crossed nonchalantly over the Forth Bridge I looked over to the empty road bridge and thanked God that the Dunkirk spirit was alive and well.  That collective instinct to do the right thing in times of crisis and avert disaster.  To tear up the rule book and focus on what is really important in life: survival, well being, social responsibility.  To question the meaningless rituals that govern us day in, day out, and ask: is there a better way?  Do we really need to go into the office?  Is staying at home and watching Homes Under the Hammer any less productive than another meeting about key performance indicators and balanced score cards?  Do we need a bridge at all? 

In fact, is it too late to have a quiet word with the Queensferry Crossing people and say we’ve decided on second thoughts not to bother?   Surely there are people in Edinburgh Council who specialise in difficult conversations with engineering companies.  And of course they can leave what they’ve already done - might come in as diving boards or something.  


@jesoverthinksit