The awful cone-age continues



Can you spot the hexacone?

 The abuse and ritual humiliation of the hard-working traffic cone - a cause I have been passionately and, apparently futilely, espousing - continues unabated in New Zealand. My wife says I'm obsessed. I think of myself differently, like a knight in shining Armor All, Adrian of Conelot, perhaps.

There is a huge glut of cones in New Zealand - a fact that reflects both the Kiwi love of order and their need to defy it. After a couple of drinks, it seems, some anarchic switch flips inside some Kiwis - and cones need to be abused. I have explained where this obsession came from. I can't explain why it persists, but I find myself unable to pass by such tragic sights. Others hardly seem to notice. Oh, how I remember those simpler days.

Dracone-ian treatment

It appears not entirely coincidental that, now that Rugby season has begun, conal abuse is on the upswing. More people out and about after imbibing a bit too much and watching the footie; more cones in harm's way. Every weekend morning I spot lugubrious cones deposited up trees, on traffic lights, or whatever high spot can be reached. It makes me sad.



The abuse is discone-certing

It appears as if traffic cones are seen to be imbued with something close to magical powers. They appear at the drop of a hat. If someone is putting up a new billboard or repairing a verandah, there are the cones. At right, the cones were placed on a bar's glass floor to warn patrons that the glass had shattered, though it was still in place, however weakened. Most bars would have closed, or fixed the floor immediately or erected some other, more effective barrier to prevent patrons from plummeting into the cellar. Instead it was thought that the cones alone could do the job. No wonder cones end up in all sorts of comprising situations if they are so readily placed in among the enemy like this.



Total coneage


I wonder if I will get over this fixation - "I see dead cones" - when I get back to the states. I can't remember seeing a single cone before moving to New Zealand. Here it is as if I have the equivalent of night vision goggles: I can see the orange of cones from miles away. I am a cone empath, but hope that I can grow a thicker skin back home. I have too many cone pictures. I want to stop, I really do.


A conetractor's garage?

Only Cantabrians, it seems, know how to treat the cone with any kind of respect. Christchurch was the birthplace of the Christmas and Easter Cone decorations, as well as a phenomenon that had people all over the world placing flowers in traffic cones on the anniversary of the Feb. 22 earthquake. At the recent Ellerslie Flower Show in Hagley Park, these cones were front and center. Probably another reason I I love Christchurch so much. (Thanks for sending the photos, Claudia and Laura.)