On Trump and Cone Headwear
To the Editor,
I pen this letter with a mind as tangled as a plate of overcooked spaghetti, caught between the weighty questions of global politics and the far lighter (though no less puzzling) matter of my newfound fondness for wearing a traffic cone as a hat. On the one hand, the inauguration of President Trump has sparked concerns about a creeping return to fascism. On the other, I must admit that the cone — jauntily perched on my head as I write — has become a surprising yet oddly liberating addition to my wardrobe.
Let us first address the inauguration. I watched the ceremony with equal parts trepidation and curiosity, wondering if this second act of the Trump presidency would bring more drama, more division, or perhaps just a new collection of baseball caps. While commentators fret over the spectre of authoritarianism, I couldn’t help but notice the peculiar absence of humour. Surely even the most ominous of inaugurations could benefit from a touch of light relief—a brass band playing "Yakety Sax," perhaps, or a ceremonial oath administered while juggling flaming torches?
And then there’s the matter of my traffic cone. I discovered it quite by accident (literally—I tripped over it on my walk home last week), but it has since become an indispensable part of my daily life. Its bold orange hue demands attention, while its perfectly conical shape provides both shade and, I imagine, excellent aerodynamics in a strong wind. Admittedly, it has raised a few eyebrows — particularly at the post office, where the staff member asked if I’d been "redirecting traffic." But I like to think it makes a statement, even if that statement is simply, "This person is clearly having a midlife crisis."
Naturally, I can’t help but wonder if my cone and Trump’s inauguration are somehow connected. Could it be that my eccentric headwear is a subconscious protest against the creeping seriousness of global politics? Or perhaps the cone is a metaphor for the precarious balance of power—wide and stable at the base, but increasingly wobbly as you approach the top. (It’s also excellent for shouting through, should I ever feel the need to make an impromptu speech on the High Street.)
Some have suggested that my cone is a distraction, much like Trump himself. But I would argue that both serve an important purpose: to remind us that life, in all its absurdity, should never be taken entirely seriously. If a man can become president by turning every press conference into a stand-up routine, surely I can wear a traffic cone to Tesco without fear of judgment.
Yours, somewhere between the political and the ridiculous,
Nigel Coneworthy
(Self-appointed traffic tzar and reluctant observer of world affairs)