Waiting

This shot was taken in the moment without much thought, but on reviewing it I was taken back to college, and living in a concrete block of a hall of residence. My room was opposite a stair well, which housed a telephone for use by at least a hundred students. It often rang, a parent wanting to talk to their son or daughter, or perhaps a young man trying to keep the flame alive with a girlfriend who no longer often called him, now living a whole other kind of life. 

The trouble was, of course, that answering it meant becoming the messenger, trying to find the person being sought, who would never be in, necessitating the writing of a note. It became something to be avoided. That phone could ring for ages before someone, wanting to make their own call, would eventually pick it up. I always felt so guilty for ignoring it, thinking about the poor soul at the other end, waiting ... and waiting ... and waiting.

How times have changed.