What might it have been like to stand in one spot and witness the arrival, and the uncertainty, of plans for an urban motorway in West London?
It was the UK's only single-carriageway motorway, and twenty years ago it ceased to exist. This is the story of the strange fascination it held, and of my place in history.
What happens when there's a big accident on a trunk route? Who picks up the pieces, and why does it take so long?
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