118. The Telephone

It has recently become a policy of mine to return to that old-fashioned practice of speaking to people on the telephone. Because we all send so many of them, it becomes too easy to send texts or emails when honest-to-goodness human contact is what is required. It's the work of a second to misread an email, or tap out a text which the reader will misinterpret.

The useful, separating qualities of both are not lost to me, I'm not being holier-than-thou. I'll happily hide behind an email, but increasingly I feel ashamed of myself when I do. If I can't make a meeting, I'll call. If I need to talk to somebody I'm fond of about one of the many ways in which I am deficient as a human-being, I will call. Or I'll try to. I love it when my phone rings. I don't love it when it beeps or burps.

Most of my day is spent communicating with a faceless, limitless outside world. If it weren't for Herself and the Hound I could easily go for days without having any meaningful interaction with another person face to face. It seems to me that the telephone is the best compromise possible. I can't be with the BF as she runs about South London going to an increasingly bizarre selection of 'how to be a Mummy' classes, but I can speak to her on the phone. I can't be with my Mum and Aunties as they come to terms with the world without their Mum, but I can speak to them on the phone. I speak to my Small Brother on the phone quite a lot. The sound and timbre of somebody's voice is as unique as their face, so why would I intentionally divorce myself from being so close to somebody I love when all I have to do is pick up the receiver and tap in a number? You don't even have to have an 'ology.

Anybody can write an email or send a text. But these days a phone call is something special.

I should work for BT.