It won’t be long until I’m home again, back in my little corner of the northern reaches of London, Burnt Oak. When I was back a couple of years ago I was going to draw this phone box on Orange Hill Road, on the corner of Littlefield, but ended up taking a picture and running down to the tube station. I saw the photo recently and thought I’d like to draw this now, so I pulled out the grey paper book and drew in brown pen. A proper London phone box you say, why isn’t it red and full of little windows? With a little man in a bowler hat and umbrella stepping out to read the Times with a cup of Early Grey? And a puddle of piss and escort service calling cards? Well it surely has at least one of the last two. I like that there was a little mini bottle of Chardonnay in there, Burnt Oak has really gone upmarket, a bottle of wine with your phone call sir? And some caviar truffles? Or will you stick with the Tennents Extra Strong? I grew up in Norwich Walk, just off Orange Hill, my dad lived until recently in Littlefield Road. When I was a kid my Godmother lived on the corner of Colchester Road right opposite this, and my brother and sister’s dad lived in the flats on Colchester until he died a few years ago. I used to bump into him for a chat right next to this spot when I’d be on my way to school or college. These were the phone boxes I grew up with, literally this one in fact. A lot of of the metal and glass ones had doors, this one did not, you were open to the elements. In the days before cellphones were everywhere, this is where I’d spend many an evening, if I could not use the phone at home (or didn’t want to). If this was occupied I’d have to walk down to the one outside the Library, and face yells of abuse from the yoofs hanging around there, all for my crime of having ginger hair. Invisibility was not an option. This one was closer to my house though. I remember being in here on a really frosty-cold night talking to my then-girlfriend, and you’d still get someone waiting outside asking, “how long you gonna be mate?” like there wasn’t another phone box just down the hill. Yeah, you remember the days of waiting for the phone to be free. Needing coins (remember coins? Cash? Ok grandad) to keep going. I mostly used phonecards by this point. Remember them, the green Phonecards you’d buy and place into the little Phonecard slot, not all the phones had those did they. I don’t mean the phonecards you’d get at those little shops up the Watling, where you for a fiver you could call Ghana for two hours, though I definitely got a lot of those in later years when I first met my future American wife. It’s ironic, I actually hate using the phone and will do almost anything to avoid it. Some people cannot get enough of the phone, and will spend hours on the bloody thing, walking around yelling. Now, it seems people have stopped understanding even how mobile phones are used. You see them walking around don’t you, not holding the phone to their ear like a normal person, but holding it up horizontally like it’s a slice of cake, speaking into what is probably the plug socket. And people go one further don’t they, walking around with the phone on speaker, so everyone can hear the person on the other end too. That happened recently and I felt like asking them, does the person you are talking to know their voice is being broadcast to everyone nearby? I realize I am fast on the Grumpy Old Man track, but some on kids, learn how to use the dog and bone.

But look at this thing. It’s like a piece of Roman Britain, standing for years after it’s served its purpose, with later civilizations not understanding what it was possibly for, marveling at the advanced technologies of these people from long ago. I’ll be back home soon, Orange Hill Road, and it might even be gone by now. It might even still be there, but converted into luxury flats. Wouldn’t surprise me.