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Spectacular Job-Hunt. Of 18 bridges in the heart of London, the Mad Major had shot 15, missing Hungerford, Barnes and Kew because "the rising currents were tricky . . . and I didn't want to take any risks." Then he flew back to the Herts & Essex Airplane Club and stepped out on to the tarmac, a splendid, grey-haired figure (6 ft. 2 in.) in blue blazer and the wings of the Royal Aero Club. "I feel absolutely marvelous, marvelous," he said, ticking off the bridges as if they were fallen Fokkers.
An awed London bobby was waiting when the Mad Major got home to his Bloomsbury basement flat. So was the London press corps, as the major had intended. "I did it for the publicity," he confessed disarmingly. "For 14 months I have been out of a job, and I'm broke. I wanted to prove that I am still fit, useful and worth employing." There were four job offers in no time, but before accepting any, the police advised the major to drop in at the local station for a little chat. "They tell me I can be jailed [possibly for six months]," said the major, as if remembering that Napoleon, too, had written his memoirs in captivity. "It was my last-ever flight," he said. "I meant it as a spectacular swansong."