We wandered down the street in the early hours of the morning, or
maybe the late hours of the previous night. My watch had too many
hands, and it was digital. The traffic cones at the bus stop were
meant to go on the roof of the bus shelter, right?
"Here, let me try."
John swings the cone mightily. It strikes the underside of the
shelter's roof and rebounds, striking him squarely on the head.
Giggles. Many giggles.
Further down the street,
the traffic cones are on
the road. A sign on the
first cone warns traffic
that you need to go
"Nice sign. White. Blue."
"Hey look. There's only a pair of rope loops holding it on."
"I'm taking this."
We continue, me with the sign under my arm. It's about two feet in diameter, so it's easy enough to carry once tucked into my armpit.
"Hey Ronan. Hold on. There's a bus depot up here. We can't walk past it with the sign, we might be seen."
. . .I got it. I'll put it UNDER my JACKET. See?"
I'm not in any way fat. The sign protrudes front and back quite obviously, albeit clothed in denim.
"Yeah, that's much better. Let's go."