The world is a frightening place. To get away from it all for a few sweet hours, my partner and I slipped into the Rippon Lea gardens – part of the magnificent Victorian-era estate in inner Melbourne. I wasn’t expecting to be jolted out of my relaxation by one overblown warning after another.
On arrival, the ticket-seller warned us that part of the garden was taped off from the public while the Bunya trees were shedding their pinecones. These bastards (the cones) can grow up to 10 kilograms. They’re as big as a football but were one to plop on the head of, say, your favourite footballer, it’d be enough to wipe them out for the season. Or just wipe them out.
But then there was a sign near the entrance telling us to watch our step along the tracks due to the Ficus macrophylla, which grows tree roots like a dog’s hind leg. (My partner, a botanist, talks like this in the great outdoors.)
Another sign further along the track did nothing to lighten the vibe. Propped in front of a great big fig minding its own business. It read: “CAUTION. Bees are busy at work in these trees.” Whaat? Wouldn’t bees be busy at work right across this garden – let alone 15 metres up a tree? And what was the implication – they’re going to mistake us for sunflowers?
We walked on toward the lake. There was another sign bang in front of it. The message was shorter this time. It read: “! WARNING. WATER”.
Eek!
What in the name of Nanny State is going on with our public signage? It’s getting unbelievably silly. (Ever since I saw the sign banning “Crocs” on an escalator in Queensland (legit as it turns out), it’s had me snapping the most bizarre examples.) But seriously, these signs are an insult to our intelligence, patronising, alarmist and intrusive. Not to mention the expense. This garden could no doubt buy many dahlia seedlings for the cost of creating and installing signs that mean squat.
In these uneasy times, do we really need to add another layer of angst to the mix?
In line with our risk-averse, liability-conscious culture, organisations are cranking out signs for every imaginable hazard, no matter how unlikely. Along with the prohibition sign, danger sign, and emergency information sign, I’m seeing a lot of what could be described as the bleeding obvious sign and the kill-joy sign. In my experience, these are most likely to appear in national parks, recreation reserves, public gardens and anything run by a council.
The Shire of Broome in Western Australia is a strong contender for having created the greatest kill-joy sign. Under the heading “Welcome to Port Beach” it warns of stingers, strong currents, submerged objects, slippery rocks, and unstable cliffs, concluding that “swimming [is] not advised”. If this isn’t enough to put sand in your sunscreen, dogs, horses, unlicensed bikes, camping, lighting fires, littering and nudity are prohibited. Oh, and hold back on the fish cleaning, especially when starkers. “On the spot fines apply by order CEO”, the Shire advises ungrammatically.
OK, nobody wants anyone to drown or to unwittingly put themselves at risk. But aside from scaring the pants off us, the sign commits the unforgivable marketing sin of “visual crowding” – when too many messages or symbols are bundled together. This leads to “selective attention” or sign blindness. Professor Drew Rae et al have described this problem as “Safety Clutter” that actually makes a place less safe. Driven by worry and unusual events, it ends up giving people less ownership over potential problems, and makes them cynical about and less observant of warnings. “The need to ‘do more safety’ can become the dominant driver rather than the need to ‘improve safety’.” In other words, just watch out for the rip.
I know that many safety signs are vital. They aim to keep us healthy and alive on the road, at sea, in the air, at work, in industry and at play. And that makes it more important than ever that we don’t muddy the message with dumb stuff like killer tree roots and peevish bees up in the canopy.
Last week, the botanist and I went to a nature reserve for a fungi foray. I slipped on some loose rocks, face-planted into some feather moss, forgot to hydrate, left the sunscreen in the car and veered off track slightly to snap an exquisite coral fungus. We had a blast. I guess we just didn’t read the signs.
Jo Stubbings is a freelance writer and reviewer.
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