Explain to your children, and the children next, the ones whom only know how to text.
When they ask about those metal lit metal boxes, filled with cobwebs, dust and maybe some fox piss, tell them how romantic it was.
Whilst texting's all very well and effective, there are miles of boxes just sitting. Disconnected.
Under these strange boxes that a seven year old wouldn't recognise. Sympathise, with the geriatrics who'll miss them.
Imagine the trillions of words sent all around the earth. Words of love and hate, fear and hurt.
The late night anonymous call from a mysterious woman, her voice snaking down a physical wire.
Perhaps she's enamoured.
Perhaps long lost family member, who's hoping you'll find her.
Or some girl from Swansea, pissed up on cider.
Now we have have Indian Call Centres. Now we have handsets, contracts and caller ID and I remember 30p that I found in that lucky phone booth slot.
That's probably why I'm nostalgic, to tell you the truth.
I miss finding money in all those phone booths.
