Warning signs reveal how much we’ve lost our way

“Here, would you like to put this on?” A lady with a kindly face was extending a luminous yellowygreen tabard in my direction.

“No thanks. I hate them,” I replied, suddenly fearing that my curtness would be interpreted as rudeness.

After all, everyone else who was about to take part in the litterpick in the Kingsmead area of Canterbury on Saturday morning was wearing one.

But I couldn’t help it. I do hate the blasted things.

Where the litter-pick represents the very best of self-reliant hardworking Britain, the hi-vis tabard represents the worst.

At one end the tabard is the symbol of a risk averse culture where everything is measured against the against worst possible scenario.

Anything can be justified on the basis of safety or “if it saves just one life” – and thus a person clearing litter from a field or riverbank thoughtlessly puts on the tabard.

At the other end, the hi-vis has come to represent the worst of petty officialdom and government. While we can easily understand the need in this day and age for paramedics and police officers to wear luminous yellow, the hi-vis worn over the suit by a petty official has been adopted as a symbol of authority.

And then we have the appalling assault on the eyes that is the safety warnings on the hoardings around the student flats being built opposite the City Wall in Rhodaus Town.

All sorts of shapes and sizes of signs and all dedicated to one thing: Stating the bleedin’ obvious.

Over at Kingsmead, every litter pick is preceded by a five-minute safety seminar along similar lines. Five minutes doesn’t sound like long. It is. I lost interest after about 30 seconds and started practising cricket shots with my litter-picker.

Some of the insights offered include that sharp things are a bit dangerous, sticking your hand recklessly into a hedge to extract a hypodermic needle isn’t the most intelligent thing to do, go near the river and you might fall in, and if you go anywhere near a road, you must wear the tabard.

The organisers of the litterpick tell me that it boils down to insurance. They have to have shown that they’ve spelled out the risks to anyone picking up crisp packets in case they injure themselves and sue.

Ay, there’s the rub. It’s the compo culture, it’s “where there’s blame, there’s a claim” and ambulance-chasing lawyers.

We’ve somehow accepted that our own personal acts of stupidity can be laid at the feet of someone else.

The age of personal responsibility is disappearing under a sea of tabards, hard hats, safety advice signs and telly adverts for no win, no fee legal firms.