Boothosaurus

Does anyone use phone booths any more? (Apart from weak-bladdered ne’er-do-wells, that is.)

I suppose it won’t be long before they become extinct altogether, and we’ll shake our heads at how old we must be to remember actually using them. Like electric typewriters. Or “please”.

Already in my mind they are taking on the warm glow of nostalgia. Burnished by memories of reverse charge conversations from the Boulevard St. Michel in my student days, shivering with cold and homesickness. Or, even further back, coded rings home to request a pick-up from the station after school, hanging up just in time to bring the coins clattering back. (Coins!)

I think they’ve always had a somewhat retro aura, haven’t they? Plush cabinets in old theatres. The groovy 60s capsules you used to see at airports. The opening credits of “Get Smart”. Then of course there’s the red, old-world charm of the local variety, only used these days as backdrops in tourist snaps.

Actually, I did see someone make a call from a phone booth this morning. He was on his mobile.

This England

Overheard on the 319 to Sloane Square.
Two silver-bobbed ladies:

“Jasper set me up with the Internet. Are you online?”

“Oh yes. Emma emails from Botswana.”

“Isn’t it extraordinary!”

“What?”

“The Net! My dear, the things you can find!”

“I know! Marvellous, isn’t it?”

“I found one site which tells you how to train goldfish.”

“Goldfish?”

“Yes. It’s the most extraordinary thing. You teach them how to swim in formation.”

“What, like synchronised swimming?”

“Exactly. It’s all about how you scatter the food. I’ve been practising with the carp. I’ve managed to get them to swim to one end of the pond. Eventually I’m hoping for a sort of arrow formation.”

“How marvellous! You’ll have to throw the most enormous drinks party!”