• Vol. 07
  • Chapter 06


Danno’s the name. I’m a line painter. You know, white lane lines down the middle of the road. Yellow parking restriction lines at the edge of the road. Red lines for red routes. I’ve got a good eye, everyone says so, and I do a decent job but to tell you the truth, I think I’m a bit wasted on lines. What I wouldn’t mind doing is painting the bicycles on bike lanes. There’s art in that, all done free-hand you know but the geezer who does those won’t move over for anyone else to have a go at it.

I often paint at night. Sometimes, I have to tell you, I have a pint or so before I go on duty. One night I made a mistake, a big one actually. I painted red lines down the middle of the road. So, what did I do, I went over them with yellow and they turned orange. Idiot. I suppose I panicked a bit and I painted a white arrow to warn motorists of misleading information ahead. Then I ferreted around in the back of the van and found the grey paint we use to cover up old lines. I should have thought of that before. It could’ve got me out of a hole.

I opened the can and then something hit me. More of an impulse than a thought. This was my chance to make my mark. I fetched the can of red and, using my broom, filled in the space between the arrow as best I could. Then I mixed some of the yellow with blue—I’d never used the blue but it was something to do with residents’ parking—and I filled in a field of green in front of the arrow. I was well pleased with that. Then, just as I was packing up, I knocked over the grey paint. I was mad at myself but when I looked at it found I rather liked the odd grey shape it made, it added a touch of, what, freedom, I suppose. I reloaded the van then stood back to have a look at the end result. It was a new kind of something. A new kind of Banksy. Shame I couldn’t sign it.