There is nothing worse on your way home than miles upon miles of traffic cones. All standing to attention in line making your journey take more time. Flashing orange upon their head, the sight of queues we all dread.
Motorway signs flash in time to tell us all to get in line and we all sit and cuss and whine. A dance a movement a mass exodus tail lights blazing in red decadence. Behind the cones no man or woman goes but still the signs above still flash slow. The obedient line waiting to go like cars on the start line of a grand prix waiting for the signal for go to show.