Signs. And how we interpret them.

Signs.    A few years ago, out walking, I came across a politcal sign for the Act Party, promising to lower the crime rate.   A graffiti artist had scrawled all over the sign.  Oh dear.

When in Las Vegas last American summer, I noticed a sign outside a restaurant that was inside the MGM complex stating that patrons were required to wear 'Seasonal Chic'.  This got me thinking.  No particular 'season' was stated.  In the height of a 42c heatwave, could I roll up in winter ski-woolly hooded anorak-and-Ugg boots chic?  Or if it truly was summer that was meant, what if I wore a jewelled bikini straight from the catwalk of Victoria's Secrets?.  On second thoughts, maybe I wouldn't turn up in a bikini;  I'd clear that restaurant out in a trice.

 One person's 'chic', surely is another person's poison?  Personally, my own personal summer 'seasonal chic' is shorts (most shorts are three-quarter pants, anyway, on me because I'm not that tall) crazy-patterned t-shirts, and rubber sandals.   In winter, it's dreary old black, black, and more black, along with  a smattering of brown  (hey, designers, why don't you let us wear colours in the winter?)

There is a sign at Brisbane Airport in Australia directing folk to the baby-changing room  (aside:  hey, how many parents out there would love to change - if only temporarily - their screaming babies for a quieter version?  Wouldn't a true baby-changing room be a hoot?) 

A couple of German young folk, laughing their heads off, and taking photos of the sign, explained to me that it looked as as if the depicted male was 'interfering'  (!) with the baby.     After that, I must admit, I did feel a trifle uncomfortable.  It just goes to show, again, that different people read different messages in signage.