Ye Olde Phone Box

There is something about a phone box which brings back memories of one's youth. They were a neccessary evil as only the poshest of houses had their own phone.

Queueing up to use one with everyone outside listening to your conversation through the often broken windows. The smell of urine, sweat, stale cigarette smoke, beer, vomit and worse in phone boxes which were seldom cleaned and much less often repaired. Grafitti on the walls and windows. London phone boxes had cards from eager prostitutes stuck in every crevice. Sometimes you had to try three or four phone boxes before you found one that worked. (A phone, not a prostitute...) The Good Old Days? I don't think so.

This example was one of the "modern" sort that offered neither warmth, privacy or shelter. You often had to poke a finger in the other ear to hear what the person on the other end of the phone was saying.

There are not many left in Stevenage now. This one is situated in a little time warp known as Burymead. There is a shady spot there in which I like to park and wait for a job, watching the world go by.