‘Keep away from fire” said the label on the T-shirt that I was putting on my one-year-old son. First one of the day and we aren’t even dressed yet. Today I’m counting the number of times that my family is told what to do and what not to do by the powers that be.

By “powers that be” I mean everyone who deems it appropriate to print signs or record messages giving orders to us about how to conduct our lives. Because we know Big Brother is watching us but it feels like he’s watching us more these days. I want to know how much more.

I’ve just walked 250 yards up the road to buy the paper: seven “Don’t let your dog foul”; one “Children must not play on this site”; one arrow indicating that you should drive around the skip (rather than into it); one “This bin is for litter only” (so it won’t do your laundry?); one “Please do not reverse into this space”; two “Driveways in 24-hour use” and 10 “No smoking” signs.

This is low-level bullying. Nothing serious but in those 250 yards I have been treated as if I don’t know how to control my dog, my children, my car or my urge to smoke in a dress shop.

The tally is already 17, not including no-smoking signs because, post-July 1, there are just too many to count.

Back home a shaver from John Lewis has arrived. The packaging reminds me not to suffocate myself and the instructions list numerous ways I might kill myself. I do a quick survey: nearly all the plastic bags in the house warn of suffocation and two raise the grim possibility of baby strangulation. One has no warning at all, which seems brazen. I could, after all, sue.

We put Freddie into the Bugaboo and set off for a day trip to London. There are six warnings stitched into the safety strap, one threatening death, one questioning the wisdom of jogging.

Sevenoaks station is splattered with signs: “Please use formal pedestrian crossing facilities”; “Cycle thieves operating in this area”; “Do not trespass”; “Danger of death”; “Mind your head”; “Have you paid?”; “Slippery when wet”.

It’s worse on the train: signs that sprang up after the 7/7 bombings are still there. Under the helpful title “Passenger information” (what else could a sign on a train be for?) comes a subtitle: “Increased threat to your security” (this is a permanent sign, so are we to assume that the threat is permanently increasing?). Then there’s a list of things only imbeciles wouldn’t do “to help” such as keeping your personal items with you at all times, reporting anything suspicious and suchlike.

There’s a four-step guide to using the passenger alarm, exclamation signs on the automatic door reading “Automatic door”, CCTV threats (they’re in operation and being monitored), patronising stickers pointing out that first-class accommodation is for first-class ticket holders only, and the most depressing sign of all: “Please give up these seats if required by disabled passengers”. As if we’re just going to stand by as a one-legged blind man looks on mournfully for a seat.

I’m not doing badly at Charing Cross either. In the six minutes that I stand open-mouthed at the electronic announcer’s impertinence, she makes seven different declarations on the subjects of CCTV, security patrols and exactly what might happen if I leave my bag lying around (explosives were involved). There are six do’s and don’ts for using the escalator (including “Hold handrail” and “Carry dog”) and one sign on a locked door advising “Danger of death, low voltage, danger 4,400 volts”.

We have been awake for two hours 17 minutes and the count is 123. That’s 123 warnings, ticking offs or clear and present threats. All we’ve done is take the train to London.

St James’s Park for lunch and another surge. “Don’t be distracted” (by all these signs?); “Please respect the park and other visitors” (by not telling them what to do?); “Please keep your dog on a leash” (who would be a dog?).

At lunch we negotiate feeding Freddie (“Check glass is not damaged in any way”/“Take care if using a microwave because hot food can burn”), then changing Freddie (“Misuse of changing mat can result in serious injury to baby if not used properly”).

Reading all these signs creates paranoia in the Rudd family. My wife Harriet looks at me mistrustfully. I look at Freddie suspiciously. He narrows his eyes at the pigeons.

The National Portrait Gallery does not have any annoying signs, however, and nor does the Haymarket hotel, which feels liberating. Throwing caution to the wind, we spend an hour in each, looking at pictures and drinking (hot) tea. There is no electrocution, no impromptu feeding of nonindigenous birds, no collapse with nut allergy. We even manage not to scald ourselves unaided. Amazing.

This is all undone by Starbucks, which is full of stupid signs such as “Careful: the beverage you are about to enjoy is extremely hot”. And “To protect the quality of the coffee, we ask you not to smoke”.

We go home, through the terrifying concourse of Charing Cross (“Stay alert!”), onto the train where we have to stand for disabled people and back to our house (not using the formal pedestrian crossing facilities).

The total is 289. Not counting the warning about drinking responsibly on the can of IPA I’ve well and truly earned. That’s one prompting from an inanimate object every 48 seconds of the time I was counting.

Bedtime beckons. At least I’ll be safe there. If only the mattress wasn’t flammable. Good night. Please dispose of this article sensibly. No, not like that.

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