Graham entered the local museum in a dripping raincoat and saw a sign that said WET COATS IN THE CLOAKROOM.
He followed the arrow, found a counter, and handed his coat to a volunteer named Tess. She gave him a numbered token.
“Do I need to pay?”
“No. Just keep the token.”
Graham tucked it into his wallet beside a supermarket receipt and went to see the railway exhibition. Five minutes later, he noticed every other visitor still had a wet coat on. A woman shook rainwater from her umbrella directly onto a display of old luggage. Graham returned to Tess.
“Why am I the only person using the cloakroom?”
“Because you’re the only person who read the sign.”
“Could you put it somewhere more obvious?”
“It is on the front door.”
“That explains how I saw it,” Graham said. “Not how they missed it.”
Tess said she had asked the curator for a second sign. The curator believed more signs would spoil the historic entrance. Graham volunteered to stand by the door for ten minutes and remind people. Tess told him he was welcome to do so but the museum did not employ volunteer volunteers.
At the door, Graham said, “Wet coats in the cloakroom,” to the next arrival. The man asked whether Graham worked there. Graham said no. The man kept his coat on.
The next visitor took off her coat and draped it over a bench. Graham pointed to the arrow. She said she would only be five minutes. Twenty minutes later she was still in the gallery, and the bench was damp.
Graham returned to Tess with an idea. “Why not ask people whether they want a token? Then they’ll ask what it’s for.”
“That sounds like a very long sign,” Tess said.
The curator happened to pass. He listened to the complaint, looked at the wet floor, and announced that staff would handle it. He moved the sign from the door to a stand in the center of the entrance. A school group arrived, split around the stand, and passed it without looking.
Graham could not help himself. He explained the rule to the teacher. She gathered thirty coats and brought them to the counter. Tess ran out of hooks. The curator fetched a portable rack from storage. The children began trading tokens as if they were collectible cards. One small boy proudly announced that his coat was number seven, though his actual token said seventeen.
By closing time, the system had worked. The floor was dry. Graham went to reclaim his raincoat. He reached into his wallet and found the supermarket receipt. He checked every pocket. No token.
Tess said she remembered his coat, but the curator insisted on following the written procedure. Graham described it: green, with a loose button and a pocket full of train tickets. Tess produced it in seconds.
The curator folded his arms. “We really shouldn’t hand it over without the token.”
Graham showed him the soaked sleeve. “Fine. I’ll wait.”
“For what?”
“For it to dry,” Graham said. “Then it won’t be a wet coat, and according to your sign it won’t belong here.”